T.D. - Nothing New Under The Sun

[Joie de la Blumpy]

The first order of business is the donning of the surgical gloves to ensure the ritual proceed accordingly (and that the fingers not keep sticking to the keyboard really mom it's not what you think). Dutifully snap a pic and the phone reads the tape cover as barcode for what turns out to be a weird metal implement used in the manufacturing process—appropriate perhaps for the enigmatic proto-industrial-ish-cum-wtf-grade syntheses on tap. They, as I call them, the syntheses, may not be tapping anything new under the sun, granted, but (they) are unambiguous in their nicely assembled assemblage-ness. Cobbled togethered-ness. Foraged found implements forged into the forefront whilst turdburgled dissemblage engages demagnetized static gristle. A concantenation of accumulated events worming to the fore. Or as they say in France, accumulation. Stuff accumulates, attracts itself to a recording medium, and is then to be projected, under less than pristine circumstances, against a softly smeared gray-walled reflection of what may be termed uh smudge. Is uh smudge a genre? It could be, though glints of very sharp very piercing metal-whanging-metal-grade metallic invocation quickly disabuse such assignments. I'm catching whiffs of...lesse... yes, Jerman, in the rougher margins, and some wonderfully, yes, smudged traces of WTF, buried metal-implement-deep in the bruised and battered nooks and crannies (really mom it is not at all what you think). By no stretch of no sphinct-amperages would I call these an easy ingestion but in comparison to, say, Standing Water, the previous T.D. offering, NNUTS is practically radio friendly. Remove surgical gloves,

levitate.