Michael Ellingford ‎– A Tangled Web

[Joie de la Blumpy]

In anticipation of the man the myth live and IN THE ASS I repost this, which I couldn't actually find on the forum to which it was originally posted. Actually not the original post, probably one of the drafts, but anyhoos.

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This was my personal revelation for 2017. Possibly my vote for album of the year. Fake digest version at the end of this post.

Michael Ellingford ‎– A Tangled Web
Those seeking no bullshit no holds barred harsh are advised to seek elsewhere. As says in big letters, “Musique Concrete / Noise from South Australia”. That’s Noise second, big bearded first to Musique Concrete–hot steaming piles of it (bovine and otherwise). The principal party responsible has already impressed, with a handful of memorables under the naeme Deafault, most notably Nikita Division (2016)–the main of which is radically reworked and redeployed as but two parts of this six pronged project. Project does seem the appropriate term. Project proper, with phases for definition, planning, design, development. And, of course, the EXECUTION. This shit cold murders. It is so well put together it would probably be the first thing I’d throw on to convert the most stubborn of noise skeptics. (After, that is, dismembering and pissing on the corpse. Stupid fuck. (Aaaaynd, conceded, after accepting that much of the sound materials on offer would only skirt into the Noise Proper(™) designation by deafault.))

Nikita Division is the first point of reference, but not before we’re already three tracks deep. Opener “Irukandji Springs” is another rework, this time from the Hard Panning comp. Among luminaries like Jaako Vanhala, TEF and Lettera 22, the original comp submission (also courtesy Deafault) was a standout: taut, detailed, precise, but exploding with compact tight-fisted blasts of full-spectrum-ripping harsh. Here, wound in and about A Tangled Web, a completely different mood: dark, complex, rich in drama, tension, skillfully conjuring scenes of forest-draped mystery, far from human trespass, deep and beguiling pools beckoning the weary traveler. And, completely divested of harsh. Panpipes float over lower-pitched winds as inhuman snuffling growls ignite a foreboding cinematic palate washed with cold bell-like drones, skittish metallic riffles n scrapes, tentacled appendages writhing betwixt the tangled depths, latching on, dragging listener down, deep (per the requisite narrative). For the prototypical noisedonkey(™), satisfaction may lie at some distance from guaranteed, but neither would it surprise me to learn that a major Hollywood production company or two came calling. Coming to a theater near you.

“Jericho Trumpet” triumphantly announces the first gestures toward harsh. And they are, if not brass balled, then certainly persuasive. Fat flatulent distorrto bilge-balls, rearing back, slammming down, harrd, in looped percussive regularity. Cantankerous engine motors lurch and sputter, slow-like, to proto half-life. Or so it might be gathered. As stubborn motors continue their protest, snifters report the subtlest golden hued tinklings upon the ivories, gilded piano keys occasionally discernible amid ceaseless rigors of bilge balls methodically pounding their way around the channel pan. In fact, that goddamn machine never gets going, confining proceedings to frustrating fits of continuous revving as glassy-eyed pianistic dirge chambers start to echo in vaguely anthemic commiseration.

Anticlimax folds into the melodic piano dirge-ings of “Stone Banister”, whining sirens rising and falling to more close-mic’d fingernail-on-ye-olde-chalkboard scrapes, clouded undertones gathering on the horizon, floating in baited whispery anticipation before, without so much as a fetchez la vache, “Jesus Chri-” BELCH! BLURGH! BLECH! CHUGGA-BleeaAAARGH! This is it. The real, fat, flatulent, deal. The harsh. It comes, in intense sporadic blurts. Belches. Sphinctal bursts of noxious joy. Principally lower-register wind breakage, but not infrequently seething into piercing upper extremes, flossing amongst metal-tinged sheets of searing glass. So like, totally obliterating the dirge harmonics, if only for the duration of each flatal eruption. Call it the most traditional in harshnoise scope, rectal rippage delivered more on the fly, more or less “live” in presentation. Compelled here in harshed configuration for three solid minutes, but never dimmed by anything less than wide open three dimensional acoustic space. Each individual excretal excursion might in itself rep a fully flushed piece of harsh purity, albeit momentary, fleeting, until the closing forty-five seconds of full out blurt-till-it-hurt sphinct-bludgeoning spasmation.

“Ursula’s Shield” is the first major rework from Nikita Division. Once again, the differences are striking. Shorter in duration, more densely layered–but never to the point where individual elements are crowded out. Where the original is much readier with the harsh blasting electronics, the rework drives the harsh to comparatively blunted acoustic sphinct-pastures, carefully composed arrangements of metal junk more hinting at harshness than ever really slipping the noisehead in there. Sweetly seductive vocal fragments repeat over fast panning horde o’ collapsible scrap-heap clambering, edgings of string and reverb duly lending the dramatic flair the title demands. As vocal fragments fade, the clambering scrap-heaps grow restless, coming in cresting waves, militant marching, the background an ominous glowering down-pitched brood. A sense here of striving for something epic, or revelatory, threatening to shatter the dense overarching orchestral tapestry. But pressures never defuse, tensions never release, so to set up the singular-

“Occam’s Razor”. One word: explosive. Better: explosives, plural. Continuous slow-rolling hard panned explosions, combustions, detonations… lotsa stuff blowin’ up aiight. Alternately scribbled: junkyard demolition orgy in big ol’ trash compactor. Like, sounds be massive, mon. The sources seem principally of the junkmetal varietal, but rippling with hefty bottomed-out dis-tortions. Densely saturated con-tortions but never at the expense of detail, a studied precision and care taken to maximizing the potential weight of impact. In the concussed wake, string-laden swells sound out an almost mournful backdrop, deeply reverberant tones filling out the unexploded spaces. Harsh? Well, harsh more as texture for the velveteen un-harsh, inviting long languid repose amid sumptuous ambrosial pools of pliant voluptuous luxuriance. Flying shards of gut-sluicing shrapnel never hurt this goooood.

“Larry’s Scrotum” is (or at least should be!) the title of the closing ditty (see below), the second Nikita Division rework. As with the other reworks, all the original harsh is gently if firmly teased out, quartered, extracted, and, with hushed and ceremonial reverence, battened down with mellower collections of exotic jades, tinkling keys, somber fugue-like strings. The first half of this piece is practically classical chamber music, albeit repeatedly badgered with sufficiently bilge-encrusted burgeonings of distilled crunch as to leave your average Bachmeister spinning in his grave. Halfway point and an intermission of slow-drawn cello, and then. The drama. The drama, well, it is good. Good n dramatic. It’d have to be (with or without the scrotal particulates). Muscled testicular mass of deeply percussive thunder, TNTs, crunching in a pernickety panned series of full-bodied fireworks, strange loop of sweet voiced Ursulas wafting through progressively heightened pitch, low-sunk bunkers bombarded, pummeled–yes you fuck this means war–incessant raspy scrapes scouring strings in increasingly intemperate disturbance, abrasions forming, chalkboard fingernailing, Mr Quine, are you listening to me?, the murderous glint, un-asking, surging peaks, dense concatenation of diverse and divergent elements, elemental, sound, the sound, listen, listen, you, hole, your holes, yes but no, but never once is control to be sacrificed for the musical offering, The Eternal Golden Braid.

Fake digest version. In a more digestible span of words, I can’t say for sure if this edges into one or another category of noise(™ optional). Without question a superior composition which showcases the potential for so much more within the genre of (say it) music. When I’m forced, simultaneously, to applaud both the gestures toward and away from harsh (and raw, for that matter), I can’t help but reflect that I am applauding some weird new mutation that could very well suggest certain strains are edging toward the epic. Or not. Maybe I just need to listen to more Hum Of The Druid.

[TYHJP]

Need this tape!