And the sun came up, of note only to the birds, and the rays creeping through the curtains. On an on whirled the infernal engine of this Ash Ra Tempel record, not letting me in, not at all; colour and time distortions from 36 hours without sleep were beginning to creep in with the first itching hives of a sweat attack but I wasn’t even beginning to get it. An imaginary deadline loomed with its false pressure and I wondered about what sort of twisted set of circumstances had brought on this decay.
All of Wormrot, from beginning to end.
|From Gareth Griffiths|
Listen to this record, loud. Your neighbours want to hear it, honest. Even if they say they don’t, they really, really do. Listen to it and imagine taking Nigel Farage’s face in your hands and smashing it off a solid oak desk until his teeth were splinters and his jaw so fractured it shudders across its length and blood wells up in his forehead. Listen to it and imagine a train crashing, the carriages tumbling end-over-end as they strike the ground like cabers, people inside being washing-machined until you can’t tell who is who. Listen to it and think about the last time you had to search for a job. Let it fill you with energy. Let it soak it’s impossible speed and iodine-sharpness into your bones like a scalding bath… burn with it.
If High on Fire were touring Ireland during the recent MDMA snafu that saw the euphoriant and entactogenic legalised for just long enough, they might have recorded Beast Market under the Relics moniker. It summarises their style with just enough self-indulgent stylistic flourishes and general merrymaking to separate it from their usual output. I can imagine Matt Pike and co piling into a studio; snapping the padlock off the gate and, Motorhead on van speakers still ringing in their ears, plateau on E long enough to wrap their hands round a selection of Sabbath covers so warped and overcranked they just give them names peeled off the bottom of second-rate kebab-joint menus and release the shit. Of course, such a thing is likely to ruin their straight-laced brow-beaten serious name so they’ll just release it under a pseudonym and nobody will ever know the time they were seduced by an Irish bog nymph, drugged up to their eyeballs on Mandy and recorded one of the greatest first-round EPs of recent memory…
Oh fine, it’s not really by Pike and Co., it’s by some mad Huddersfiddlian bastards who’re on their first run through this twisted circus, their debut is free and in a sea of self-serious squealing downtuned crap it’s a burp of fresh air. I hope they’re right out of the office scene with square haircuts and tat-free arms. They’ll probably play your party if you ask nicely and give them a case of Miller each. Probably.
Written under duress by Steven.