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CD ReviewPoochlatz - “Victims of Self Preservation”By Marcus Pan
Victims of Self Preservation, which is kind of a nice way of saying that unfortunately they’re still here, is a crapped out ten track dirge of noise and unlistenable boorishness in an effort to fail, again judging by the album’s title. There’s no way I can really describe what I’m listening to here without becoming at least a bit over the top, but hell most of you read my reviews just for that reason anyway so let’s start climbing I guess.
I Will Not Survive the Ravage on track two must have been a foreshadowing attempt to get you to turn the stereo off before the rape-style screaming begins. That’s pretty much all this one is – backdropped against more speaker feedback with some inundations of flutes or something played by a big ass after an all you can eat taco buffet. Then on Imitate-Meditate we scream some more in an attempt to not allow any form of meditation or concentration within a 50 mile radius. The assflute returns for Not Just a Conflict and I think someone recorded their attempts at forcing a microphone in there along with the flute. And not one of those slim sexy microphones…something that looks a bit like this. We Degrade is eight minutes of static and dial twisting with nowhere to go. I Got Mice on It is the same thing with more wind except Rani will yell at you on occasion about something that made him really mad – like his sore throat maybe. I’m wondering if the poor mice were sent in there to get the microphone. To close the brilliance of Victims of Preservation we have the over ten minute My Sister, with random vocals, more speaker static and other stuff I didn’t bother to finish listening to. Speaker feedback isn’t music, playing with dials isn’t being a musician and screaming shit isn’t singing. I really don’t know how many times I have to say that. Recording a bunch of chaotic noise is not being creative – you’re not creating anything, you’re recording unrelated chaotic noise. How is that a creative process? This sort of shit has got to stop. If you keep sending me this shit, I’m going to keep making fun of you. Contact Information: |
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This one is actually one of those chores to
listen to. From Israel, Poochlatz claims to create music that “rises up
against the almost obvious natural need for Self-Preservation.” To me that
means they make things that nobody really wants to listen to, therefore
defeating their own preservation as a band to begin with. I hope I got that
right. Headed by Maor Appelbaum with vocals and lyrics by Rani Zager, some
might remember that first name from a band called Sleepless. 
Allow me to preface the analysis of this CD by
qualifying to you that I am not reviewing music right now. I’m reviewing a
bunch of noise that someone for some unknown reason decided to record. Opening
with Black Milk, male vocals read what I want to say sounds Hebrew, but
not having any training in that particular language I can’t say for sure.
It’s nothing more than speaker feedback, windy backgrounds and a guy
saying things, picking up the pace and intensity of his readings as the four
and a half minute track moves along. It has a ritualistic quality, but it
certainly wasn’t appropriate to press as a “song.”
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