radio free midwich

bellowing becomes bronze: joe murray trips on ludo mich and associates

Ludo Mich/Roman Nose/Blue Yodel/Ross Parfitt /Jennifer Iker – The Clurichaun’s Naked Cheat with Sour Wine & The Leprechaun’s Coins Numismatist (C40 cassette in gargoyle shaped holder, No Basement is Deep Enough).

Deep explorations of rancid mind-space beyond the outer limits from the truly radical No Basement is Deep Enough cassette library.

I have to admit it, I’d never come across this label before until gently nudged by the Roman Nose.  A quick Google search transported me to a day-glo negative zone that refreshed like a hot lemon-scented towel.

This Belgian/Serbian label is strapping on high-level, raw weirdness and pumping out load after load of creamy oddballs: Preggy Peggy and the Lazy Baby Makers, Hjuler & Frau and Cactus Truck (to name but a few).  It’s not all teenage slop and skronk though…they scratch both ass-cheeks by releasing some proper ‘old-gent sound art legends’ like, Valeri Scherstjanoi and Sigtryggur Berg Sigmarsson.   Sheesh….that’s one hell of a demographic basement-heads.

So far you can see I’m impressed yeah?  But get a load of the packaging on display here.  I know there’s always that risk of making excuses for the mundane if it scrubs up all shiny but this is another level of presentation.   We’ve all got used to boxes, bags and inserts.  But this innocent little cassette comes in a hand-crafted gargoyle effigy.  A what you say?  I said gargoyle dear reader; or an imp or a gnome or something horrible, small and creepy that defies classification.

It’s evil little face is peering at me now.  Gulp.

And now a few words about Ludo Mich.  Ludo is one of them ‘old-gent sound art legends’ I was on about before.  His bristling roar and gummy leer has been mixing it up since Fluxus was a boy.  But no lichen grows on his cheesy soles…the Blood Stereos, Ultra Eczemas and Singing Knives of this world are queuing up to down a bottle of cheap red vino with him and enter the steamy gorgon zone to play.

For me Ludo is more in touch with his ‘inner shaman’ than any of any of his grey-beard peers.  His rites are funny for sure but seem to delve the deepest, and uncover the most uncomfortable truths with the pacing and rhythm of a natural born story teller in that classic Northern European tradition.  Basically…Ludo’s got the chops man.  All groovy…but what does this spectacularly packaged tape sound like?

Side one: THE CLURICHAUN’S NAKED CHEAT WITH SOUR WINE

Lord Bacchus brushes his beard thoughtfully and wipes his grape-stained mouth with the back of a gnarled hand.  Mumps overlay mumps with a ‘bath-too-hotness’ of fevered screams (reflected back into your ears via beautifully inlaid Moroccan tiles).   Low-throated groans are a bed of healthy spinach on which Ludo relaxes, slowly disrobing, cup overflowing.

As an accompaniment a wooden pinball machine plays on, flippers blurring with speed.  Dull thuds ‘ping’ as the machine lights up ‘TILT’ with cracked bells; cats fight under the floorboards in this dream-like vocabulary of interruption.

The mist clears to reveal a boy.  Rum-sodden, ruined and collapsed in Marseille.  The grim hoteliers and bird-like pimps look on, beaks as sharp as whips.  I rise.  The wind is scented with the harsh tang of opium and degenerate accordion music wafts from the brothel window.  A face appears from behind a filthy rag of curtain and speaks with two, four, six voices.  I can’t understand a word but follow the voice into the nearest bar.  “Absinthe?” the moustachioed waiter asks.  I nod, corrupted.

For fans of the Welshman Johnny Morris and his disturbing anthropomorphism.

(Production note – side one was born in postal pieces were sent from Ludo Mich to the antique dub-controller, Roman Nose, for full manipulation and foley-frottage then whipped creamy by squalls from ensemble Yodel, Parfitt and Iker.  Like Joe Meek right?)

Side Two: THE LEPRECHAUN’S COINS NUMISMATIST

More loam from the crypt recorded in a Hermit Crab shell (or Antwerp).  A coven of drunks (Ludo Mich, Jon Marshall, Fiona Kennedy, Ross Parfitt) leap willingly down the well of possessed souls.

There’s a powerful vocal shunting that forces them further down the moss-lined brickwork with increasing speed.  But the impact never arrives.  Descent becomes all and molasses heavy.  Sparks fly as friction makes the air bristle with violent electricity.

Floating in space the resulting bellowing becomes bronze, buffed to golden shine.  A Greek breastplate and helmet smash together producing clouds of hideous clashing and bilious fume.

The smell of hot metal wraps itself around your tongue, teeth and tonsils; coiling through the ear, nose and throat superhighway.   And then you know you are in trouble.  Your senses become confused; you see the sound of the foreign holler, you hear the circular rose-tint above your head.  Snakes plunge down your throat and cling to your feebly beating heart.

You might be choking but you’ve never felt so alive!

How do you find this Halfling?  I can’t see a ‘proper’ website so I suggest you search for this filthy beast on that discogs site or direct from ignacedb@hotmail.com.