Fuuuuuuck! Private-press bonce-burner - one of the year’s best LPs, without a shadow of a doubt - from a subterranean NSW unit with Hour House / Castings connections. Five uneasy pieces, messed-up and wilfully antisocial yet INVITING almost in spite of themselves, culminating in the 17-minute, space-time-curdling scum-concrète epic ‘The Bird Ceased To Be Articulate’ (aye this one would win on track-titles alone). Humble and unassuming and unselfconscious, managing to sound anguished and blissy in the same breath: dub-cratered Terminator blooz meets quintessential NZ/Oz basement rust'n'clatter'n'wheeze, with solid helpings of high-lonesome post-rock brooding, hangdog city-limits hypnobeat (wuh?) and twitchy Mosquitoes-esque dream-machine-flicker added for good measure. Ugh, so hard to do this one justice with stupid WORDS. Suffice to say it’s reminding us a bit of LST, that Ian Elms record (!), Vincent Over The Sink, and some Dead Man’s Curve facehugger we can't quite put our finger on (face under?)...Edition of 250 copies, a total revelation + highest possible recommend... do not miss!
“These recordings are an exercise in the re-acquisition of time from the inertia of daily life. An attempt to adorn one’s personal world with some kind of meaning beyond the everyday. Semi-subdued introverted loops / improvisations / synths / concrete floors / broken drums / mistakes / …. failures of one subjective kind or another. ”