All albums should consider beginning like ‘Hot Jone’ by Maurice’s Hotel Death: with buzzing insect night chatter, microphone fuzz, and the wet clicking mandibles of unthinkable things; the occasional bass rumble like something large and winged passing overhead. The whole track is like a field recording of a slanted and cracked version of reality, or an ultra zoomed-in portion of garden lawn, full of blown-up horror. Patiently horrific and creepy, it builds an atmosphere of alien oddness over its 8 minute duration that is difficult to shake after it finishes. Despite the involvement of synths, samples and obviously artificially derived sound, everything seems disturbingly organic, every flutter, scream, moan, and drone, emitted from a living pulsating, no-doubt be-fanged, creature.
The rest of the album carries on in a similarly frightening fashion. ‘Jone’ has a frequently malfunctiong rhythm interrupted by gusting solar winds, crunching noise and garbled aether-voices. ‘Beef Bird’ contains a percolating echo chamber of hiss and crumbling rust; a spindly nail tapping a dusty platter of melted vinyl, over watched by a computer leaking oddly hued viscera. ‘Pubs, Clubs, and Cruise Ships’ pans across several wobbling branes of audio, luridly coloured and fluctuating between deep grumbling tones and thin plastic rattles. ‘Not Enough Heat To Get Things Going’ sounds like a deconstructed Oneohtrix Point Never take on the Terminator soundtrack, the humming synth tones overlaid with a faltering but insistent beat, full of static and menace.
A fascinating stew of drone, noise, musique concrete, diseased tape howl, and field recordings from hell; ‘Hot Jone’ is deeply and vexingly surreal, a universe on tape, a universe that recalls Wolf Eyes with its creeping insidious construction, and Yellow Swans in their ‘Psychic Secession’ era with its sudden percussive bangs and rusted textures.
Something weird this way comes.
Buy it here.