This recording was put together by a
roaming mob of unemployable crusty deviants with an unhealthy interest in the
cinematic works of Dario Argento. The sounds were fashioned with whatever bits
of bicycle, dead television, redundant computer or hand-crank sampler they
found scattered in the hedgerows and middens as they journeyed the byways of
England. Sometimes they fed one of their wool-haired and be-combat-trousered
chums enough mushrooms and cheap cider that its eyes start to go round and
round in opposite directions. Then they recorded the victim's paranoid ravings
(or whimperings) and called them lyrics. Probably. At least that's what it
sounds like to me.
Some of the tracks bring to mind a film set in a reality that strove to invent minimalist techno, but didn't bother shooting the sort of people who'd wear velvet flares. And now look at them - cutting each other up, throwing limbs through windows and getting bloodstains on the previously off-white shag-pile carpet while a toddler possessed by uneasy spirits plays records backwards and mumbles in Latin to itself.
Another track - Punkid
- sounds a lot like an angry mob of teenage metallers trying to lever a guitar
out of a cow's arse while a remarkably complex set of mechanical devices play
some warped clockwork-techno in the background. If that makes it sound like the
album was nailgunned together under intense pressure and will fly apart if you
prod it carelessly, then that is indeed what the first half is like. A right
lash-up that could be the soundtrack to several different films playing at
once. Acting as half-time oranges and a stern talking-to by an irate manager we
find a (probably highly illegal) recording of one of the perpetrators' Restart
interview. Maybe they really are workshy crusties.
Anyway, the second half settles down into a fairly strange horrorshow-techno groove which, though still all gothic organ samples and screaming bits being chased down shadowy hallways by angry chainsaws with too many metal legs, seems slightly less likely to charge off at a tangent in a threatening and unlikely manner. One could probably even make a reasonable stab at dancing to some of it, were one untroubled by the thought of serious knee injury. Or follow the example that is the Freudstein live experience and roll around on the floor as if grappling large, invisible demons, while repeatedly punching a sampler in the gonads.
Contact Information:
Post: Wasp Factory Recordings, PO Box 270, Cheltenham GLOS, GL51
9YE, United Kingdom
Web:
http://www.freudstein.co.uk
