"I am my mother's bird and I have taught myself how to fly" - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #198

People wonder how abrasive and violent music can be meaningful and powerful, outside of the primal noise thrill, and to them I have the honour to present Street Sects and their mindblowing early 2014 drop, the Morning After the Night We Raped Death. For people who wished 16 Volt had kept making records and blended with Acid Bath, in between the dehumanising electronic squeals, the Mariana-deep drums or the drum machine that sounds like a vintage German MG42 cycling; outside of the vocal, buried and lethal like a Mongolian death worm. Their sound is mechanical, hermetically sealed, but wild and inhospitable, like the blasting clean of a sandstorm or a Gigeresque monster prowling empty spaceship corridors. It’s electronics meets grindcore, it moves at a million miles an hour and you Need It.


You Need It because it’s so hard, even in the realms of nominally ‘experimental’ music to find something you’ve never heard before, and whatever Street Sects make, I haven’t heard it before. Existing somewhere at the crossroads of electronica, black metal, grindcore, sludge, snatching up just enough of each genre to look familiar, but like an abrasive atonal Frankenstein’s Monster, the presence of familiarity lends the music a more disturbing air.


If One Direction had a collective face (instead of five interchangeable generic ones), Street Sects would kick it the fuck in. It’s hard to believe that the challenging, borderline sensory offence takes place in the same olfactory universe as some of the other things that slither out of a haunted mirror from a boring parallel dimension and into my inbox disguised as music. What I like best about The Morning After the Night We Raped Death is that it comes absolutely apropos of nothing. There isn’t any precedent I can detect, or contact point. Like an atom appearing inexplicably at a fixed point in space, Street Sects remain ever fascinating for storming onto the scene with a scintillating and baffling demo. It might shoot past as quick as an old F-111 with a smoky petrol tail trailing behind, but it’s just as loud.


Written under duress by Steven.

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