The extremist sect - Lost Cosmonauts blast off - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #153

I’ve always advocated the destruction of society as a whole. As wholesome rock and roll took a left turn at the Pretty Things into rebellion, and Blue Cheer and later Sabbath swung us further into the realms of dischord, it seemed only a matter of time until the meditations of the top dogs became so dense and introverted that they entirely collapse upon themselves like the folding mantle of a star. I expect this to happen sometime before 2020, probably on stage. When the distortion and feedback feed back emotionally and infinitely as the musicians of whatever Gnodlike entity of the moment collapse themselves, howling and screaming and clutching their abdomens for days. And every slightly hip kid turns up at the venue to see what all the fuss is about and all the collected cops and media hangers-on won’t be able to contain the raw outpouring of cold emotionless hate. And pretty soon all the kids kicking their heels and smoking butts will want in past the blue meanies and will get bricks and metal rods from the building site across the road and the windows will be gone, and pretty soon the real hairy handed mountain men will swoop down on the city astride absurdly powerful motorbikes and it will be on. A full scale riot.

There are countless luminaries of this school of infinitely compressed full-on heavy sonic trips. Another one drifts into orbit with the release of Lost Cosmonaut(s) first record, on the Glasgow Fastbuck grindcorelabel for absolutely nowt. The brainchild of David Forrest is a claustrophobic capsule full of electric worry. The sound of escape-velocity speed static is utterly crushing and it sloshes around throughout the record to teeth-rattling effect. Transmissions From Torre Bert is a stonker to start the year. Coming somewhere between a found-footage conceit about the very real lost cosmonaut tapes from the Italian Torre Bert station, and the much more fanciful fictional musings of the Kosmik Deed and others. The electric meditations, with muffled words, lost in the general sun-haze of distortion. It’s a very real refusenik anti-music, and in the age of meteorites plummeting to the ground, bringing fresh colour out of space into our grey world, and the ISON comet promising to be the most amazing astrological moment for many centuries; maybe it’s ‘bout time for that riot.

On similarly local grounds, an Edinburgh show by Homesick Aldo went off without a hitch on Saturday night at the hip new Marchmont Institute. The native Fifian blurted out his usual supersonic harmonica boogie to the astonishment of first timers and the full soul carbohydrate rejuvenation of all those already switched on to Aldo’s blues. Special props go out to his superbly excellent pointed two-tone shoes and the general atmosphere of japery in place at all times. You may have noticed a lack of new content recently on this blog. That’s because I’m horrifyingly busy trying not to fail my degree. I’m doing a dissertation on music criticism don’tcha know. Anyhoo, expect this shit to go on until May. I’ll try to update weekly but frankly, I hate you, especially you, Robert. I'm so sorry, that you don't have any free entertainment, that you don't have me loping through the jungles of shite music and untagged promo files looking for something to slightly improve the way you slouch on the sofa listening to someone else's hard work wishing you were dead. I'm so fucking sorry I can't completely satisfy some of you pricks.

Written under duress by Steven.

No comments:

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...