Chepang
Chatta

Immigrindcore is the self-applied label, the wrapping on the New York Horse that in its belly harbored these street folks from Kathmandu; add to this the choice of a name with a strong ethno-socio-ideological connotation, Chepang, the subproletarians of Nepal, akin to the Pariahs: there's enough to satiate the exotic and perverse appetite of the genre listener, possibly ready to flaunt a new 12" from the Curiosità section of their buffet.

But with deception, Chepang respond to the cheap integration deception, without any throat singing (enough with the throat singing, for heaven’s sake) or goat bells, or any sort of ghettoizing temptation; just a black hoodie and the vision of Aaron Nichols to convey, in the dense and chaotic complexity of his style, the variety of lashes dealt in twenty minutes that we guarantee are among the most frantic on the scene.
Chatta synthesizes the internationalist vocation of those who find in subcultures the anchorage for their revenge, and in grind, Chepang find the chosen land for overflow, for the clattering, most guttural and dissonant expression of their strife. The scream/growl combination is exploded, impossible to bring it back to structure, and it allows space for old school declarations (in Samajik Suchana and in Murkha). There's a suspicion that even the linguistic material is multifaceted, that Hindi is contaminated. Mette Rasmussen's dissonant saxophone opens, insinuates, and closes in the deformed jam of Trishna (reminiscent of some SST amusements), without any geography being described, thus commodified.

The B-side dedicated to remixes, usually negligible, holds a pleasant surprise: by subtracting the force of the fills from Chepang's metrics, arranging them on a palette (from breakbeat to harsh noise) that in the electronic negative restores its eclecticism, it manages to isolate an unsuspected intelligibility, facilitating its consumption.

[One point less for production, with exaggerated compression that penalizes its impact. It’s the usual price to pay for the abyssal drops and the heavily effects-laden bass that gobbles everything. The previous Dadhelo, though crude and conceptually immature, perhaps was preferable].