BLOOD STEREO / KOMMISSAR HJULER / MAMA BÄR
Blutige Polize
(Chocolate Monk - CHOC213) CDR $7.50
This three-way split for audio vérité aficionados. Hjuler's down the pub with his mates, laughing, singing, listening to old Anal Probe comps. Baer plugs in her guitar and hollers long-ass hymns to hysteria. A bit of me-time and all is rosy. Blood Stereo unfolds the first part of their digestive tract concept triptych with the sounds of Nyoukis's bowels rumbling, moving along with stalker-friendly imported bird-calls, concluding with a post-prandial take on the opener.
The Trachelin Huntiegowk
(Chocolate Monk - CHOC228) LP $22.50 (Out-of-stock)
COMING SOON. Above us, blizzards of fecal snow ravage the sky, dehydrated flakes leftover from the expunged waste of civilization's folly. Below, spasms of subterranean dyspepsia crisscross the globe, stalking nomadic malignancies to devour. These tape- and glottis-manipulators conduct their business beneath this noxious shit-rain and elude randomly appearing gaia dentata with nary a scratch or impurity tainting their tartans. Composed at home, side one wrangles recordings of friends and family, old tape letters, a drunk Canadian arguing with Daniel Spicer about microphones (apparently, his grasp of spatial relationships leaves Her Vagesty wanting), fair lasses from clan Spicer doing the hand-clap song "Miss Mary Mack," tape cut-ups of Karen Constance singing, wee Elkka Nyoukis on drums, the old man on piano, and Giant Tank comrades Ali Robertson and Collette Martin participating in team-building exercises at a work picnic for a company staffed by ogres, insect-bodybuilder hybrids, and baboon-hearted psychos. On side two, recorded live at Moderna Museet in Stockholm as part of the Sten Hanson festival, Nyoukis and Constance unravel the constituent elements of the event's namesake, eventually oxidizing delivery of instructions to the assembled Pee Wee Hermans on how to finesse a poison arrow out of his impaled cheeks without causing undue shredding of the flesh. Accompanied by typing lessons conducted in a burn ward and the tinkle of contaminated plasma and hemoglobin squirting into buckets underneath a poxy heifer, The Trachelin Huntiegowk wrestles across a landscape ruled by an inversion of signs, where irrational complaining is drama; despair is triumph; the haunted is droll; torture is delight; the mechanical wheeze of outdated machines is a function not of dehumanization but of Arcadian nostalgia; profundity resides within the inarticulate; virtuosity can be attained when the random happens to repeat; and speech, decimated into fragmented phonemes -- whether from internal mental agents compromising the intellect, or from intentionally adopted constructions and impairments, faulty reproduction and obstructions to enunciation -- is lyrical. Soulful even. Edition of 50.