vintage segs: rfm on binnsclagg, dayglow exploding super infinite, dr:wr and katz mulk

July 30, 2017 at 6:16 am | Posted in new music, no audience underground | Leave a comment
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Binnsclagg arranged by THF Drenching – Bring Back Hanging (Chocolate Monk)

Dayglow Exploding Super Infinite – Weightless and Everywhere, Drizzled in Honey (

DR:WR – Our Shadow Days (Eps 1 – 3) (No label)

Katz Mulk – Husks (Singing Knives)


Binnsclagg arranged by THF Drenching – Bring Back Hanging (Chocolate Monk) CDr

Operatic junk-melt from two salty coves is stirred by a third with a runcible spoon.

Beard, Karl M V Waugh & non-beard, Verity Spott have cooked up a shot of pure Binnsclagg and injected straight into Drenno’s eyeball.  The last flickering spasms from the Council of Drent’s most celebrated son register on some sort of Beaufort scale (for skronk) and gets marked-up in felt tip ‘fresh gale – twigs break off trees, cluttered sounds smudge gravity.’

Clear enough yeah?

Sense-valves are squeezed firmly from the middle to let the chum squirm rudely out, forming foul brown pyramids:


rhythmic pulses throb like a sore thumb,

granulated ripping precedes a spoken word interlude,

old coins are rubbed on a vintage slate,


the TV chatter is tuned to the Mr T show,

lobbying voices blabber and honk,

synths are employed as security guards,


overloaded sections create vital grab-zones to ponder and chew bitter herb,

ghostly organs invoke the dark heart of Blackpool; pure shredding

six-handed – with a swingers firm grip


A mess?  Of course not.

Bring Back Hanging aches like the tight tangle of poetry.


Dayglow Exploding Super Infinite – Weightless and Everywhere, Drizzled in Honey ( cheap-o digital album

This accidental-static, fluff osmosis is exactly the kind of sound The Red Hot Chilli Peppers and their foul type have tried to scrub out of existence, stomp into history, for years

The exact moral opposite of Anthony, Flea (and the other two) this rotten, fluttering pop crackles in my ears like a dry cotton bud chasing a rogue insect for about 37 minutes.

There’s no funk or no punk in this energetic splutter; indeed there is no jazz or blues either.  But this is unmistakably rock n’ roll, the closing moments of ‘Collapsing Droplets’ as badazz as Link Wray’s low-down Rumble; greasy D.A. aloft and flick knife tucked into his waistband.

If all else is true the lengthy ‘Once we Considered Surrender’ is surely the ballad, a slow dance of chittering typewriter keys and radio interference.  Somehow wetter than its companions the spitting sonics play out more like a garden hose being repeatedly stepped on-off-on-off in a herky-jerky dance.

Uncomplicated, but of course vibrating with coded meanings only the in-crowd can decode.

A whop-bam-a-loo-bop-a-whop-bam-boo!


DR:WR – Our Shadow Days (Eps 1 – 3) (No label) gratis digital album

A tone-desert as barren as Catterick Lorry Park

Oily loops of reverb’ed somethings snake in sinister circles; a gentle rumble is the slowest drummer – like yeast picked up the brushes.  ‘Dream Pollutants’ feels like some Replicant code-patch to increase anxiety and paranoia – take it slow Skin Jobs.

Lazily shifting shapes tip on hidden hinges to reflect a sooty light on ‘an attempt at exhuming nowhere’.  The see-saw effect makes this a meditative piece suitable for a trek in Nepal or charity shopping. Those times when you need to make peace with your creator (whoever she is) and open yourself to the bounty of the universe.  The final five minutes introduce giant’s steps plodding through the bog; slow and steady.

A thoughtless ohm thrown down a dark corridor? ‘Prebranded Features’ invokes Danielewski’s ‘House of Leaves ‘ with its eerie voicing’s that seem to endlessly descend into some unknowable horror.  Compact and neat this piece never stalls or chokes.  The layered lines lay as thick and deep as velvet; both opulent and oddly cloying.

But is it as bleak as the famed garrison town?  Give me answers dear reader.

katz mulk husks

Katz Mulk – Husks (Singing Knives) laser cut and risoprint booklet of performance notes with digital album

Three fine brains (Kearney, Morris, Knight) take a bunch of recordings made in public and private and wrap them up in a galactic stew with extra lashings of arm and leg movement.

This really is an arresting listen.  Each element: processed sound, voice and dripping percussion exists in a separate timeframe that I have to punch through sideways.  Viewed this way, along three separate planes, an extra dimension is revealed – a swooping movement that is felt like warm breath on the cheek rather than simply being seen or heard.

Like a velvet glove inside an iron fist…or should that be the other way around?  Heck…either way this disc demands attention.  I’ll settle for the ‘kid’s rattle full of dead wasps’ analogy; a sting in reverse, a memory of potential discomfort.

‘Temperament’ spills like wet chrome.  Including a cheeky reference to the band rather than the metal a future face presents itself – handsome in profile.

A processed whispering infects ‘Yes like a Cheetah.’ Below the chanting it squats waiting for the echoing ‘clack’ balancing the freezer burn amp-huffing on Andrea Kearney’s perfectly timed Cuban finger clicks.  High on rum I feel gloriously wasted.

Slushy-sound, slow like a glacier with levels of engagement pinned between the gritty ice?  I’m picking up much, much more than ‘A Leaf, A Gourd, A Sack’ anyways.  The tap-dancing of Ben Morris (on vintage segs  if I’m not mistaken) chatters like joke teeth, running this track out into a leaky void.

Moving furniture around an electricity sub-station seems to be the basis of ‘Y Gang’.  Ben Knight’s voice is a hyena chorus – savannah cackling and bone-crushing moans.    The floor flexes making way for a living tarmacadam demon!

That secret lemonade drinker, Beyonce Knowles, is clearly heard on title track ‘Husks’ her high-tech and passionate R’n’B blunted via discarded garden chairs and blackened disposable barbecues.

The full twelve minute masterpiece ‘Meat Stories’ continues the dripping theme.  I’m stuck in a time cave!  My mind is an echo chamber.  A discomforting shift occurs, like a muscular tick you’re trying to suppress when the silken sound shimmer suddenly turns sickly.  Like an overdose of mustard you can’t get the yellow whiff out of your hair for days.

Katz Mulk revel in the uneasy space between healthy concern and full-blown paranoia.

Chocolate Monk

dr-wr bandcamp

Singing Knives Records



stress of speech: joe murray sings along to emblems of cosmic disorder, pascal nichols

September 4, 2014 at 2:56 pm | Posted in new music, no audience underground | Leave a comment
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Karl M V Waugh – 5 Alarm Systems / Songs About Choir Boys (CD-r and text prosody poems in document file, Emblems of Cosmic Disorder)

dogeeseseegod / The Zero Map – Split (tape, Emblems of Cosmic Disorder, unspecified limited edition)

Kosmos 954 – IX V IV (CD-r in hand made cover, Emblems of Cosmic Disorder)

Binnsclagg – 23 (CD-r, no label)

Pascal – Nihilist Chakai House (LP, Discombobulate, BOB003, edition of 250, ‘on frozen puddle coloured vinyl’ as Joe would have it)

Songs About Choir Boys-5 Alarm Systems 1Songs About Choir Boys-5 Alarm Systems 2

Karl M V Waugh – Songs About Choir Boys / 5 Alarm Systems

Like many folk I’m slightly aroused by office stationery [Editor’s note: too right – I’m still banned from Rymans].  There’s something about the clear usefulness of envelopes, pens, polyvinyl packets that’s so darn satisfying.  So it was with trembling hands I slice open the latest package from our esteemed editor; a selection of goods from new ‘boutique’ label Emblems of Cosmic Disorder.

A slim document file, the kind of thing you’d find in any dusty HR department, houses a neat CD-R in a clam case and several pages of closely typed text.

I check out the disc (‘songs about choir boys’) first.  This 20 minute piece has three distinct sections:

  • Cluttered junk noise collage – echoed pings, guitar scratch knitting itself tighter and tighter.  Balloon squeak adds a slivery ripple.
  • Domestic vocal psychedelic – “What valley?” Bus-travel-noise, digital avalanche, granular fractals etc. “I’m gonna go out now.”
  • Electric Balalaika heard through the fog of war, Austrian glitch and heavy pastries.

The editing is sharp, each distinctive piece flows nicely like egg yolk through new copper pipes.  Not a leak in sight!

I take out the poems (‘5 alarm systems’) and give them a bash.  On a first reading these short pieces come across like some fractured stream-of-consciousness narrative…

“Diamond scratching on the inside of my scalp.”


Duncan Harrison refuses to fight Johnny Liron and everyone’s oxygen supply is depleted.”

Pretty heady stuff, ya dig?  Like reading old Bananafish magazines through a gin hangover or something.  But closer inspection of the handy press release states these are prosody poems; a term I have never come across before.  A quick google search tells me…

Prosody is the rhythm, stress, and intonation of speech. Prosody may reflect various features of the speaker or the utterance: the emotional state of the speaker; the form of the utterance (statement, question, or command); the presence of irony or sarcasm; emphasis, contrast, and focus; or other elements of language that may not be encoded by grammar or by choice of vocabulary.

OK…I get it.  It’s all about how the poem is read.  So I heave myself from the comfortable armchair and gracelessly unfold to my full (and rarely realised) six foot three and read these darn things loud and proud.

The neighbours curtains twitch, the kids giggle, Mrs Posset asks if I am feeling well.  The answer is a boisterous ‘YES’.  In fact I feel better than ever.  The act of reading is a tonic, a shot in the arm, just the very thing.  And I read on; in trembling baritone.  The intensity and vigour leaves me glowing like a Victorian lady.

I wonder if these excellent poems are to be read along with the music?  There are no instructions in the envelope to the contrary so I take matters into my own hands and rig up the gramophone to record and play and hawk out money scam intake collection [Editor’s note: click to hear a one minute rendition – self-embedding journalism, that] for kicks.

Even if this was never K.M.V. Waugh’s intention the interactive nature of abstract sound and spoken word is a great one: ham & eggs, strawberries & cream.

I urge you to check this one out and popularise as a parlour game for all the family.

dogeeseseegod zero map frontdogeeseseegod zero map back

dogeeseseegod / The Zero Map – Split Tape

There’s some real right brain/left brain stuff going on here on this pocket guide to cosmic disorder.

dogeeseseegod take the knotted tangled path with raw ganglions swaying.  Junked up domestic field recordings get clotted and rubbed up rough with the sound of water (a unifying fixture with dripping tapes, gushing pipes and the steady trickle of piss) running through this whole piece, ‘Tappin ‘Ard O Phiernahe On Rye’.  As I settle in my listening chair I’m picturing some Futurist Opera, the men of dogeeseseegod wrapped in itchy suits as they arrange scrap metal structures to a newspaper score.  Occasionally there’s the rare fizz of melody.  A guitar or keyboard makes a dash out the door with a tune stashed up a tight cuff.  But mainly the sounds are free to roam within the strict structure of the edit.  You’ve seen One Man and his Dog right?  Sort of like that but with sheep being replaced with rude tape blarts and hawking tremors.   Thankfully the electronic effects are kept to a minimum so the pure mung rises to the top of the beaker, ready to be scooped off and fermented; brewed into zingy espresso.

This kinda porridge pot can be hit or miss but I am delighted to say this is breakfast gets a Goldilocks ‘just right’ from me.

The Zero Map set their dune buggy down a smoother, less hectic, route.  The modestly titled ‘Z’ is a meditation.  Pale blue tones float out my cheap-o hi-fi clearly.  They arrange themselves in regular symmetrical patterns that turn in on themselves, forever folding and unfolding across a hidden axis to reveal a thousand-leaved Chrysanthemum glowing with an inner light.  The sound warms up to a pinky-red hue and the slight ‘tap, tok, tap’ of a recurring theme (the decaying ring of a bell with all the attack digitally snipped off perhaps?) rubs my shoulders as I settle deeper into the Chesterfield.   My eyelids droop and I find my 14 year old self perched in front of the TV trying to keep up with Horizon or something.  I’m scrunching my brow over some really complex but beautifully original maths, the slight chemical tang of lemon squash leaving a bright yellow smile on my lips.  The almost spiritual neatness of a Venn diagram, intersecting arcs creating enclosed spaces calms my teenage self into a Zen stillness that rockets through the years anointing my old-guy bristles with Nag Champa.

Kosmos 954 – IX V IV

Kosmos 954 –IX V IV

What’s this?  A live in the studio jam all cut up with a monkey claw?  Yeah man yeah.  It starts with odd honks and the sort of space echo Joe Meek would have pawned his Ouija board for.  And then a scissor cuts and Kosmos 954 draw us into the gloom for some heeds down pub-kraut-rock.  Zoinks!  The edits keep on coming: a rhythmically blocky soundtrack to 80’s handheld game ‘Scramble’ (Kink, kink, kink!) slides into slurring crabs leaving tracks in the sand of mystic Hebrew script ending the ritual with a heaviness worthy of Haikai No Ku. I love to be confused by a record and Kosmos 954 are cheeky mystic monks Ra-Ra-ing like a funky Rasputin.

Binnsclagg – 23

Binnsclagg – 23

More poetry and ‘natural malfunction’ from the South coast.  I’ve been told this is not an emblems release but it bears all the hallmarks; handmade sleeve, ambitious scope and grievous cluttered sound etc.   The lazy blogger would drop names like Graham Lambkin but this is a far more robust beast.  Sure enough, there are browned-off words that melt like dripping but some of the accompanying sound is sharp and glitchy enough to share self space with those Editions Mego jokers.

Things get pretty dark about 14 mins in.  The crystal plumage noise is replaced with matter-of-fact reportage and amplified gibber/gong workshop.  The natural energy of a live improvisation takes over and an end of the pier sample wraps things up nicely in under 25 minutes.

Pascal - Nihilist Chakai House

Pascal – Nihilist Chakai House

Whooosh.  I’m on my way to mighty Manchester with an earbud full of Mancunian musicians making the Megabus the most happening bus on the M62.

Rob has beat me to it, covering the excellent, Getting Nothing to Appear on the Developed Film by The Piss Superstition already.  So, all that I can add to the no-audience dialogue is a breathless “CHECK OUT THE SUICIDEFUZZOUTLIVEATTHEBUDOKANMIGRANE ON THIS SHIT MAN!” to the poor bloke sitting next to me.  He snores on…

The next record in my brace of Manc offerings comes from Pascal Nichols, one half of the wonderful Part Wild Horses Mane On Both Sides (often abbreviated to tongue-straining acronym PWHMOBS) who are stealthily playing their way into the hearts of the underground.

Here Pascal wallops hollow gourds until they clank and click like a Moondog army marching menacingly through a dark Mardi Gras.

And then…a bagatelle?  Rubber marbles?  The sound of impact folded inward.

In my cloth ears a theme reveals itself.  Cacophony is introduced then tamed…the gradual removal of syncopation reveals the human heartbeat within.  ACTION POINT: A Grandfather Clock is taken apart piece-by-piece – a military ‘tick / tok’ resolutely strict and stiff-upper-lipped morphs seamlessly into an allotment shuffle; muddy tools being hung in racks by knotted hands.

A dry ‘thwock’ repeats.  Micro spaces click sticks.  Did I just hear a sneaky ‘Moonlight on Vermont’ snare ripple?  The stick clicks continue and seem to say ‘hatchback’ in the language of the trees.  Bees are waxed for sure…you can smell the yellow howl of varnish all over the ba-da-boom, ba-da-bing.

Soon a knitting machine of Patrick Woodroffe proportions rattles pennies in a jar.  Each bronze disc placed with a trajectory planned by a master’s hands.

This is a glorious and life-affirming record.  The joy of playing is evident in every snare swish and cymbal brush.  Share the spirit of adventure…let the love in!


Emblems of Cosmic Disorder


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