Elsewhere posted, but as it sounds sorta review-like, like,
Toanche Dwelling. This is a project that, aside from bandcamp, has managed to elude me. Remembering my first encounter (via Scream & Writhe, or Absurd Exposition or...look, y'all know whatsup) with the name. Hmmm, Toanche Dwelling. Appropriately enigmatic. [Check!] And the artwork, hmm, yes. More so. [Double check!] Then the sounds, okay, vellly inneresting, duly bookmarked. [Check, Check, and MotherFUCKING Check!] Will most assuredly be coming back to this in the vellly near future. When I get my act together (any day now). And, per the familiar narrative of these things, at the decisive moment, like, gone forever (when you are me, okay, quit judging). Perfect noise story, really, amiright?
But wait, there's more.
So uh. Now I've got few good goodies to play with, all via Vast Field Magnetism, the principle principal imprint that would appear to be issuing all goodies Toanche Dwelling adjacent. Today starting with this uh possibly untitled (?) thingy from Toanche Dwelling, catalog'd VFMK7-05. Looks rough, sounds rougher. Repetitive acoustic dis-clutter and dis-clamor dis-clamoring for non-attention, circling and cycling in upon itself in an enigmatic self-referential roughage that beckons and/or possibly halts the inquisitive. Zoviet France an immediate reference, favoring the rougher particulates and particles therefrom. The smudged and broken edges brought to the fore, as they always ought (amiright?). You can go deep here, and you do. Deep as a deep thing. Good no great enough that I am almost ready to stop kicking myself for failing to get the act together (re- above).
Dedicated reviews section. All writers welcome.
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There are those who will say they rust things and then there are those who will remain silent (comparatively speaking) and let things ride and work with whatever rusted detritus happens to have washed up on deck. Yet it is in the unwieldy middle that attention is unerringly drawn, dangerous sinkholes percolating amid bilge-curdled thickets of industrialized waste produkt (TM), faded auspicies of clamor bilged out the bilge-pipe, as though caught in drainologies of draining proportions, greyed out facial atrocities, stretched and lapsed musculatures piddling in the rather sad and slackened fossy jawed rictus, smiling for the camera with raw if deftly considered chunks blurring perspective. Drainology via the drainologists, in the true Suck Age uber alles, supreme suckage applied to the flightiest of souls, the inaspergiest-est of being, as deserved (by one or another state of being or half being), in slow nay sludge motions piddling upon the ivories, barely registered whispered raspberries breaking at each and every clink and/or clank, of which there are, like, more than a few. Smudged and winking, wrinkling, fatal flaws in time-space, cycled circling spiraling in upon the breaking nay broken point(s), where the points (hope to) forget they were there and (if capable of anything beyond the profound and edifying numb) were (or would otherwise have likely to have been) glad of it.
Smile for the camera!
Smile for the camera!