BLACK TOWER (INERYA)

  The sleeve art of Inerya portrays a gothic parchment—written in ink. It may pass for darkly permeating—but beyond such, any speculation prior to familiarity with Dark Tower is a chase collapsing on desolation, dreariness, ineptitude.

  Polish duo in the name of Dark Tower writes a condensed, dripping love letter to Electronic music in general. Polished with nuances and out research that rely on patience. The mainstay of the first half is EBM as Marivsz prevails to find vocal matches to the sound surges. Duch may resonate to anIndustrialist with its oral instrumentation, the adulterated throbs around the most part of the first into the second minute mark that pave way to tamed abrasions abstracting the higher second minute. Feniks nicely serves Aggrotech, preparing the grounds for palpitating, hard-hitting drums delivered in Czarna Wieza. An absolute ear-crawling inhabitant. It is so energetic the impact is felt once the lessly pitched intro to the progressing track incurs. A leisure permeating its shank to/fro energy releases and gains evenly around the record.

  Revelations of the letter compel further once Diabel w Nim tinctures in a truncation unprecedented by going the Wave way, including some songs on this section. Merging it with EBM as the vocals ribald-like some words and entrance others. Ending in a very Vangelis manner. Just as the pace starts to relay a relaxation that is Inny, which is Trance In essence—that permeated Czarna Wieza—with keystrokes, Kardio U-turns closure severely. Its placement is only a matter of preference. To end on an upbeat.

  Inerya is an album whose significance is not a mere breath or happenstance. The Mad Mane Machine can commend it for lack of weak tracks whatsoever, where familiarization and enjoyment are lineal. It is a formidable run, but listenable in a single sitting. Designed to create an impact that necessitates (a) return.

FANTASY AND PORTRAYAL: THE HUNTSMAN

  Reliance on limitless illustriousness makes Fantasy a genre easy to lend itself to abyssal descent. The key to success is a concept taken down to its least story carrying capacity. From then the abetments and enshrouds can take hold to manifest their imaginings and bestrews tailored to them. If jumbling of ideas to make intricate embellishments that effectively work, more power to the creators.

  An alternative is given to the Snow White(and the Seven Dwarves)'s tale. It still follows as a sequel to the previous film for what now seems to be the origin of a franchise. The previous onset had transfixed an admixture on Snow White, and a huntsman that aberrated by a spellbinding witch queen. The advantage of The Huntsman is a positional stand alone. Fantasy lends itself well to escapism and visual magnificence. Appeal increases with decrease in age. The Huntsman taps into such a reservoir unmitigated, given its concise revolve-around plot line. Portraying everything to appeal to the said audience.

  Setting provides preludes to en required relishes. The spate is tugged around emotions: Love conquers all; Evil never prevails in the face of its opposition, not until it's avenged. The norm. There has to be a well perpetrated affair—clinched on slants of malice and spite, against all bleakness to find the purity it portends to achieve.

  A mirror and magic; a warrior who's tragic ; spells and more compels. It really is everything a child could hope for, enchanted by and compelled to. Why should they be relegating happiness to inclinations, accruing meanings or society's portrayals? The metaphors, the mirrors, the cues, the . . . are reserved for the older viewers. Puns are enough common ground to convene execution. Costume-wise, I it's similar but a relieved leap from it's prequel, authoritatively graceful and halfly periodic as strength and teamwork required.

  Positionally, the last trinket is not a happy ever after, as the onset had laid its ground—since evil finds another way, like a (shortlived) triumphant laughter. This stands at par with The Dark Crystal.

DARK BLACK CORE (GATE OF DIMENSIONS)

  In all honesty, I could not complete listening to this release. For all the achromaticness it could adhere to, it is not justice to make it run for almost the better part of an hour. Is this Noise? Relativity applies, as well as as it's dis/praise.

  These are sounds or a structured and slightly ornamented sound from a howl. An indecisive fleet. A hell hole may have graced the cover art and all would work as fine as the portal. It is an instance of where the two or the closest fruit falls from the tree would only work.

  A question would be if pretentiousness would be cape enough to let the listener apply their own philosophy to justify a listen. Heck, had the artist brought about their own, would it still justify? Would it matter if it's a deviant work of an actual musician or just another shot of random? Would Jackson Pollock have mattered if he was no trained artist beforehand?

A GAGGLE OF PANELOUXX (ANTS)

  Where Harsh Noise offers bleaker and even terminating permeations, a different spectrum broods liquefied chapters seething forth to project a charismatic storyline. 

  Acromyrmex reanimates the scenario of Simon in The Double. Fitfully quite, the album's sleeve renders the same uncolourful hues of gloom as he mundanely cogs his way regularly in the machine. It is in a certain consistency with the tapering tensions similar to a workplace typewriter, only to shift out excruciatingly as time ticks away. 

  These subterranean wavelengths take a jab at the upper world incomprehensibly. To ponder on the frequencies of Hive Mind Transmissions may offer a sequential explanation to the unity and hardwired leanings on which disgusting humanity is a slave to. James happens to transform from Simon. The mutualism sets in from a one sided symbiosis, down to James' replication of Kleptoparasites.

  Simon's dismantling never gets undone. A semblance relating to the zombie ants, fungi infected with infested brains, starting with bunged up community, ending with individual explosion. The sad suddenness captured in an iota of Anti-Fungus Mutualism. One must pave way for the other. Exit Simon.

ANTS (ANTS)

  Alternative can be a place to hide bad musicianship, justified by tag. Or to imply one is different when basically it's nothing compelling or incorporating very left-hand shit to a genre. It can be a place to be pretentious and get away with it. Mostly. Ants' release Ants for ant lovers and their ant lovers. The Mad Mane Machine came here for the mandibles. Goddamn it this could well be another garage band. In that light, this could grant a half regarded return. Is it called antrock . . .

ANTS

  Description: A physicist and a mathematician doing nothing special—not to insinuate its more than one person. What follows is a discography of experimental, Electronic and Noise emanations. Very well wrought out instrumental stuff regardless of bio. Ants is a one man unit. Applicable to endless scenarios other than the final christenings rendered. Noise up and hail the fucking ants.

—The Antcamp—

 

TOMORROWLAND

 Continuous encounters with authors who think negatively of readers—and people—whose imagination, not fancy, is wanting and limited has  a serious implication than the mere joy of condescension, disregard for exertion amongst others. To demonstrate the significance of this scenario, a mightily compelling situation is unveiled. The more gratulating the better.

  It is not a secret that the future is shit. But what future when is already here—a linear timeline based on the drone attack to the NASA premises. The vanguard of routine are started by insinuations that explain an externality in a harmonious world. Confirmation of such advancements at the expense of all upheld as unconfoundable rights is met with articulated fate. Today it is in various forms—the biggest, bureaucracy. There are others, but the impactful of future-world books detailing—mostly society's failures—the unfolding predicaments have been aligned with an optimist idea of the innings around fixing.

  Not much will rely on the version of existence one wants to dwell on; feeding the dark descent or propelling the hindsightfully hopeful—in a time when the rules of robotics have since been long surpassed. Perhaps the fourth rule would have fallen in place to account for omnidirection—morally, compassly, all else. We may want to think of anything alien as what exists beyond this world, technically rending other dimensions thus to the current world. A world less in harmony with itself is far more unhinged to idealize with a different envisioning of itself. Engagingly, almost paradoxically—nullified by countless timelines—manipulating a future to change the past offers the film's closure and glimpses of redemption.

  Meager is when a few of the best suited converge to create a better world. There may have been Arcadias, but Utopia is only a human idealization. It can never be realized. Every approach has its failings, with nothing but to follow the most convenient. Tommorrowland will only always be a tachyon, the vehicle by which to see either side—past and future—as the basis for manufacturing destiny. Not a specific future.