DOPPELGANGERS XXIX

  Not long ago, the Scrawler featured a revivalist band, which is a case covered on the previous post. Horror Vacui assert so for the Post-Punk lay of the music 'scape—and competently. When HK8 starts disheveling with their Electonic miscreations, it comes off as ambience tinged efforts to less perplex an all-out Noise seeker. So much for an ironic title. The droning wars par!

—Horror Vacui
—HK8

K21 (ANTS)

  A(n un)certain entity looks like Leonard Nimmoy—clutching hyper to its instrument of Electronic perversion. This is undeniably a serious business. Beautifully crafted to befit dance music with coruscating breaks and corresponding hollowness in dimension.

  The man's craft supersedes deification. K21 is an expulse to intelligent dance where his frets and devotions are exhilarating occupations of preceptive drums and perfusions that simulate the effects of—if amid samples—annihilating the organic reach of vocals. The present vocal samples are as alien and fiendish as a morose Klingon—with blood-thirst and war-lust. Rune prevents the music from engraving and etching the auditory preference with inadequately descriptive pounding. The airy ride shuttles from concoction to decantation. Hurtling forth into battle of cymeks.

  As a rhythm of articulation, it freights convening formulations. Preamble openings that play along sotto voce. This is grand and mighty. It is not enough trouble preventing other activities getting in its way. Every sound delicacy  is birthed in a bleeding permeation. Holy shit!—the death march—the storm—the Ajax. Where art thou Industrial freaks. Discretion hath now faced unearthing. Inundated by a linear finish—punish and taper. Inferior ants got no indemnity against the militial—nullify and eschew. This cover art is freaking superb. Close-up and blur. Ajax run the world.

  Confined to a Synthpop furnish is closure Voicesback, and it's not much of a stretch. Parallaxed by echoing overwolds of sounds. An Industrial rafting appraise that whiffs into synth corruscations. Into submission thou shalt descend. No smarmy.

KnK—DEAD BODY MUSIC

  As an—Industrial—album dedicated to fear, it isn't serendipitous to have Dead Body Music II have such an ominously terrific and imposing cover. It is fucking Charlie Chaplin and his fears about the film industry—his famous self depiction arrayed to the grinding gears. The same is now humourously birthing the earliest stage of an EBM band ravaging humans to create DBM. Fucking hell. Fuckin' right. Let's not get caught up in the music industry's premonitions lest it will be generationally traced to pussyfooting 21st Century lost causes.

  Vocally, K2 sings and speaks—confronting topics revolving around existence. The band's aesthetics are a fervent extension and the Empty Future video epitomizes the rigid aura. Industrial by principle and ajar to non scripting. That is the shit. Fuck what you heard. It is only on reel where high and low values permeate. But unlike that or Chaplin's, The Mad Mane Machine needs a lot of noise. Some kinds.

  Sans romance playing advocacy to gothic tragedy,—Dead Ophelia is death. With its noise effects and sense of auditory attraction, DBM propels KnK's ground beyond Industrial. Sure, K1 and K2 proclaim to metal listenership, but it is more of a creative coincidence on the Industrial-wise Dead Body Music because—what C21 lost causes?—Gardens of Gehenna was crafting such words that saw the light at the millennial turn—and this was meant as a play for aggressiveness and EBM—especially on the non EBM side of things. Kill!

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

  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—

 

AUX MEMORY (BLOOD IS FLOWER)

 

  No extra space is needed to jut in the spirited aural vehemence of quasi-static tensions that have been energized enough to echo across the landscape of the auditory.

  Arise droning and draging feedback worship and propulsion by the sons of the Muse. Give drums or pounding, smouldering discretion but don't forgive when rasping out grunge chunks at screeching levels.

  Tribal occupations are a strike-out of hunga munga affair. A knifethrowing diversion would appreciate drums of such palpitating throbs around an arena amid long-drawn rhythms which are nothing close to distracting them.

  When the blood blooms from slipped hits on the target and blooms, let the tribute begin with dirgy vocalizations to a waning sunset. Into a night of tribal fires and more chants backed with hand sticks.

DOPPELGANGERS XVII

  Fuck yeah Noise freaks. How about the closest resemblances an experimental Rap album could have to grimy, doomy, Swedeath? Perish by that shit. The curt angles of cassette reel and leaf mosaic. Only death is real. 

—Clipping
—Fange