G&P Review: Maruta

And thus, through the serene tranquilities of the tropical sea, among waves whose hand-clappings were suspended by exceeding rapture, Moby Dick moved on, still withholding from sight the full terrors of his submerged truck, entirely hiding the wrenched hideousness of his jaw. But soon the fore part of him slowly rose from the water; for an instant his whole marbleized body formed a high arch, like Virginia’s Natural Bridge, and warningly waving his bannered flukes in the air, the grand god revealed himself, sounded, and went out of sight. Hoveringly halting, and dipping on the wing, the white sea-fowls longingly lingered over the agitated pool that he left.

Herman Melville
Moby-Dick or, The Whale
1851


Maruta
Forward Into Regression
Willowtip
Forward Into Regression has been my white whale for the better part of the year. The travails of my futile hunt for Maruta’s latest effort are probably only of interest to myself, but I have stalked the land like Ahab in his mad quest for Moby Dick until Mitchell Luna kindly relieved my suffering.
The Floridian’s sophomore power violence-mauling-grind in a drunken party brawl effort is a stronger, more confident distillation of everything that made In Narcosis awesome. There’s a definite upward swing to their growth. The signature slouching guitars have a 3D depth and the new rhythm section (complete with bass!) doesn’t alter their wonted sound. Instead, much like GridLink’s lineup shuffle pre-Orphan, it gives the band a larger platform from which to stage their assault. In Narcosis has been run through a rigorous bootcamp the last few years and Forward Into Regression has come out more toned and muscular as a result.
Both “Stagnation Routine” and “Salient” boast are a more focused deployment of Maruta’s penchant for slow parts without stalling the album’s momentum. The knuckle draggers now feel purposeful and pointed, like a knife twisted in your ribs to prolong the pain. If there’s only one misstep on Forward Into Regression, it’s that “Failure King” rides a single musical notion too hard for an interminable three minutes. However, that’s easily overlooked considering the closing body blows of “Gaiares” and “Blood of the Luddite” quickly right the ship.
Once I landed this white whale I immediately trucked it over to the local taxidermist so it could be stuffed and mounted on the mantle among my other trophies. As of today my 2011 top 10 list has a mathematically improbable 13 albums on it. Somebody’s about to get bumped to make room for Maruta.

[Full disclosure: The band provided me with a review copy.]

Demo-lition Derby: Rogyapa

Rogyapa
Ghettoblaster Sessions
New Jersey sky burial functionaries Rogyapa don’t telegraph their punch as much as send you a fax, a text and possibly shell out for a billboard to advertise their Discordance Axis aspirations with an opening cover of “Castration Rite.”
Eschewing a bassist, the band shoots for that same sleek, technical vibe that pervaded Jouhou and The Inalienable Dreamless, but they haven’t unlocked Rob Marton’s flair for hacking memorable tunes out of blasting chaos. The 15 and 20 second splinters of shrapnel they call songs lack the varied facets and sharp edges that elevated Discordance Axis over their peers. Instead, Rogyapa build each song around a single musical notion, following it to its logical conclusion. While that means the band never overextends their ideas, the songs also lack movement or growth. The obligatory downtrodden number “STD” (not the last song for a change!) gets in and out in 90 seconds and isn’t too much of a disruption.
The name Ghettoblaster Sessions isn’t just an affectation; the band tells me it’s a literal description of how they recorded their seven song demo. So expect a tinny, smushed live recording that’s festooned with keening guitar feedback. That also works against the band because the guitars often get swallowed in the noise, devouring any subtlety.
With some maturity and an actual studio, I could see Rogyapa flourishing in the increasingly crowded post-DxAx field. You can download Ghettoblaster Sessions here.

G&P Review: Sandokhan/Krupskaya

Sandokhan/Krupskaya
Split
7 Degrees
I’m sure we all had the same argument with our friends as kids: Who would win in a fight, Batman or Superman. While I’m aware of arguments in favor of that Kryptonian fuck, those people are filthy liars and they’re not really your friends. Tell them to go read Hush and The Dark Knight Returns and then kindly shut the fuck up and never tax your brain cells with their stupidity ever again.
This split, available on a 12-inch from 7 Degrees Records, makes you ponder who would win in another fight: legendary Jamaican gangster Sandokhan, who was eventually gunned down by the cops, or Lenin’s wife Krupskaya, a scrappy political infighter whose turn-ons include libraries and education and whose turn-offs include Trotsky.
Let me spare you the trouble: it’s Sandokhan, whose 13 songs are far more poised and composed than Krupskaya’s 11 reedy offerings.
Sandokhan are guttural and grisly; the songs have a movement and flow like sharks queuing up for a feeding frenzy. Think Phobia’s more recent, better offerings; it’s not that strong but the focus is there. The drums are nice and natural, riding comfortably in the mix and the inexorable blasting is aimed squarely at your forehead, a burrowing brain worm of screaming rage and exploding energy.
Krupskaya are a good band undone by a bad mix. The sharp, pinging snare drum and distracting bass drum dominate the mix to the detriment of the songs. Additionally, the screeching vocals – think Dani Filth gone grind – can also be a bit grating. But if you’re into acceleration for its own sake, Krupskaya won’t disappoint.
Meanwhile, I’m wondering who would win in a Mother Theresa meets Gandhi smackdown.

[Full disclosure: The 7 Degrees sent me a download.]

G&P Review: Keitzer

You see, I’m no good as a clergyman. I put my faith in an improbable and private image of a fatherly god. One who loved mankind, of course, but me most of all. Do you see, Jonas, what a monstrous mistake I made. An ignorant, spoiled and anxious wretch makes a rotten clergyman. Picture my prayers to an echo-god who gave benign answers and reassuring blessings. Every time I confronted God with the realities I witnessed he turned into something ugly and revolting. A spider god, a monster.

Winter Light
Dir. Ingmar Bergman
1963

Keitzer
Descend into Heresy
Yellow Dog FDA Rekotz
Keitzer do not “descend” into heresy on their latest death-grind smartbomb. That’s far too demure and passive of a verb for the German (and Portuguese) band’s terminal velocity body slam into the depths of religious negation on the follow up to 2008’s impressive As the World Burns. If you think of that prior album as the launching pad of a musical intercontinental ballistic missile, then Descent into Heresy is the concussive end of the trajectory, submitting to the lethal tug of gravity’s rainbow as Pynchon would put it.
Keitzer continue to churn out the complete, devastating album experience that seems to elude Misery Index. Grind and hardcore sensibilities get welded to a tank chassis carjacked from Bolt Thrower’s military surplus auction. It chugs and rumbles, feasting on a sulfurous diet of pure petroleum, belching noxious, toxic rage clouds as it burns across the countryside. Album superlative “Wrath” whirls like a death-spitting gatling gun. “Your Last Days” flattens the landscape with a cluster bomb barrage of devastating bass wastage. Then there’s "Chains," which probably typifies Descend into Heresy’s slavering maw: The song swarms like a kicked hornet’s nest until it all gets devoured by an iron-plated, Mothra-sized monster sporting an antique Pickelhaube and a Teutonic passion for precision-dealt death.
As the World Burns was just as pyrotechnic as its title suggested, but Descend into Heresy feels far meaner. There’s an abrasive, aggressive nihilism at work that crushes their competitors. This is the benchmark for death-grind in 2011.

[Full disclosure: The band sent me a download.]

Blast(beat) from the Past: Insane Assholes

Insane Assholes
Grindzilla
Subordinate
2005
If Fallout: New Vegas has taught me nothing else, and I have no cause to doubt the veracity of its prophecy, I know the post-apocalyptic West will be overrun by gangs whose dedication to a costume theme would do The Warriors proud. Among the uniformed thugs will be a bunch of Elvis-worshipping hoodlums running around dressed as Jailhouse Rock extras, and I’m guessing they may trace their genesis to Insane Asshole’s Grindzilla.
I have the anonymous commenter on the Letter G mixtape to thank for turning me on to Italy’s not-Cripple-Bastards grindcore exports Insane Assholes, a playful amalgam of expected grind and unexpected straight up old timey rock.
The lip curling Elvis attitude and pelvic gyrations bring a welcome flair, but don’t let that fool you into thinking Insane Assholes wander too far off the grindcore nature preserve. This is an album that manages to violate both the Grindcore for Dummies and Sound the Alarm rules before you crack the introduction, but when they hit that sweet spot, Insane Assholes are a joking blending of bad Evil Dead references and other B movie detritus that justifies their retarded name. “You Make Me a Monster” and “L’Infero Di Ash” rock a delicious burr to their guitars, liked a six stringed Scottish brogue run through a screaming tube amp, divebombing around Dino with rabies screeching.
Insane Assholes are not afraid to allot two or three minutes to a song, letting it expand and stretch out like my lazy ass cat on the white velvet couch I just spent an hour de-furring. But sometimes that indulgence conspires against Grindzilla. In fact, at 29 songs and 42 minutes, a little Insane Assholes goes a really, really long way. Especially the six minute plod of “La Fine,” which fakes a bad Black Sabbath groove and rides it to death.
While the rock 'n' roll swing is a surprise treat, there is not going to be much else that will catch a cagey grind aficionado unawares. However, taken in small doses, Grindzilla can be a thrill.

Blast(beat) from the Past: Mumakil

Mumakil
The Stop Whining EP
Blastbeat Mailmurder
2006
Ponder the following analogy, if you will:

The Stop Whining EP: Customized Warfare :: Obscured By Clouds: Dark Side of the Moon.

Not only is Mumakil’s awesomely titled debut slab o’wax, The Stop Whining EP, one of the best named releases ever conceived, it is a near-perfect dry run of the subsequent grindcore smartbomb, Customized Warfare. Plus song titles (for the most part)! Early on it bears all the hallmarks of the band’s later development into a Euro-grind powerhouse.
This artifact from the Swiss Misters’ Neolithic past is carved from 12 giant blocks of super-dense granite grind that lacks the rounded edges of niceties of some of their later efforts. In fact, it sounds a tad like Circle of Dead Children’s pigsquealed death/grind brawl in spots. From the very first, Mumakil were compositionally gifted. “Tavernik Growl” bucks a groove like a pony that’s never been broken to the saddle. It paces and lopes with a rush of exhilaration and combative attitude.
However, Mumakil were still a young band and there was the occasional misstep. “Breu Breu,” which kicks off the second side is a thudding dud that threatens to bring the whole EP to a dead stop. It’s a poorly thought out doorstop of a tune that mopes in place without going anywhere in particular. But those are exactly the kind of growing pains to be expected before a band hits it stride. They got all of that out of their system before hitting the studio for Customized Warfare. So, if Behold the Failure wasn’t your thing, stop yer damn whining and give Mumakil’s earliest efforts a spin.

[Full disclosure: Blastbeat Mailmurder sent me a review copy.]

G&P Review: Noise vs. Subversive Computing

He closed his eyes.
Found the ridged face of the power stud.
And in the bloodlit dark behind his eyes, silver phosphenes boiling in from the edge of space, hypnagogic images jerking past like film compiled from random frames. Symbols, figures, faces, a blurred, fragmented mandala of visual information.
Please, he prayed, now—
A gray disk, the color of Chiba sky.
Now—
Disk beginning to rotate, faster, becoming a sphere of paler gray. Expanding—
And flowed, flowered for him, fluid neon origami trick, the unfolding of his distanceless home, his country, transparent 3D chessboard extending to infinity.

William Gibson
Neuromancer
1984

Various Artists
Noise vs. Subversive Computing
Computationally Infeasible Records
To attempt to review Noise vs. Subversive Computing in any sort of traditional context is an exercise is Sisyphean futility that would make Albert Camus nod in stoically absurd appreciation. What you get out of this power electronics/computer programming/performance art circus on a jump drive is ultimately going to be so subjective as to render any sort of critical discussion moot if not utterly pointless.
Pascal Cretain, who some of you may know from his comments here, has wrangled together 10 noise musicians with 10 “subversive technologists,” asking them to provide him with something that represents their interpretation of the modern internetted world. It is the logical outgrowth of the musical hactivist skullduggery advocated by Creation is Crucifixion years ago but never fully realized.
While all the music contributions are noisey in the way you’d normally expect, it’s the multimedia projects that at least attempt to bring something new to the table - or keyboard. Contributor Gorrrgar serves the bit map image “My Kind of Shithole” that alternates photos of buildings in Bucharest with the insane coils of cable that are “omnipresent,strangulating the city aesthetically, but connecting three millions of brains.” It’s one of the more fascinating observations involved. Cretain, himself, chips in the video “Information Pollution,” which strobes a stream of random images at epilepsy-triggering rates against steadily building layers of vocal samples and eventually outright power electronics noise in an effort to make tactile the sensation of our modern information overloaded society. While it certainly builds to a claustrophobic finale, it is a bit of a one trick cyber pony.
As with any projects of this type, the danger of pretention is ever present and plenty of the contributors belly flop right over that line with abandon. Contributor E’s “Sifting Through the Noise” is a bad attempt at a postmodern/deconstructed narrative of Reagan and the internet that ultimately collapses under the weight of its own smug self satisfaction and faux postmodern fractured, recursive narrative.
Unfortunately, other web-based contributions are already down, shortening the promised experience. Which ought to teach me to start moving faster in the future. Also, since all of the projects are contained within their own folder on a jump drive, navigating between one application and the next is a bit clunky and awkward, which can mitigate your enjoyment a tad. If this sounds like your thing, give Pascal a holler and immerse yourself in his Wonderland world of the web.

[Full disclosure: Pascal sent me a review copy.]