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Rating:
To death?
To death only two things: fake metal and redundancies.
I was reading in the magazine Il Venerdì di Repubblica an interview with Raffaele Alberto Ventura, a philosopher, author of one of the crudest sociology essays I've ever read (Teoria della classe disagiata, Minimum Fax, 7.99£). The interview was all good, smooth, but at one point Ventura decided to come out with a sensational outburst, one of those with an effect. He states, in passing: «Internet gives us access to a huge amount of information».
«Wow!» I think, in the waiting room for the urethral swab while for some reason everyone around me is talking about flowers. Having done the task, I rush home. I open the pc, connect. «Now I really want to see».
So I go back to digging, try out the medium a bit more, because Ventura's statement does not convince me.
And I have done so much digging all these years, perhaps decades, away from Debaser. I dug. Books, films, music, everything. Cultivated various interests.
«A huge amount of information»: nonsense. There isn't much on the internet after all. It's a shame for the many who use this redundancy to appear accommodating with the interlocutor, who evidently think they were cryogenized in '95 in a bunker under a nuraghe.
There are things, of course. Only Debaser now counts dozens and dozens of reviews. Yet the images of those anthropomorphic beasts that in the late 80s Mickey Mouse ads would eat meat bars are missing. The Chuck Treece album with Feel is missing. A downloadable version of Serengeti's graphic novel, Kenny vs. The Dark Web. The loop of the finale of Cinnamon Girl (but there is a nice cover by Loop). These are the first missing things that come to mind.
Even the digital version of the library of Babel is not complete, otherwise I would be sure to find these words in the right order.
No one has thought of writing a few lines in Italian about Machine Girl, existing since 2015.
A more interesting thing on the internet, for those who didn't realize, is its sound potential. It's a structural fact: the amount of bumpers, notification sounds; the ability to play tracks simultaneously on the browser and media playback software, process them in real-time, speed them up, slow them down; record everything as it happens.
Episodes see musicians recognize these potentials as a cultural fact; exploit them (the ways are varied) and describe them at the same time.
It's the sound of the meta-internet, the fortune of the most famous in the research line, the Death Grips of (basically) Zach Hill of Hella.
From the work of Death Grips of Money Store the Machine Girl from NYC certainly take momentum, in partnership with their fellow citizens Show Me The Body.
After some attempts still too indebted to the tutelary deities, we hear them here at full maturity, with a sound that finally replicates the physical deeds of their live performances.
The configuration is now recognized as most suited to the purpose: acoustic drum with pads, machines, and screams.
The result is uncommon ferocity and heterogeneity, and precisely in the boldness of the rhythmic blends, I find the most interesting reasons. Take This Is Your Face On Dogs, which launches a d-beat at hardcore techno bpm emphasizing on the snare, then turns it into a big beat already hybridized to dub, on reverberated screams, synths now eurodance, now notification samples, now hisses and laser clusters, which on Kill Screen - an unmanageable mix between Underworld and Chemical Brothers - becomes piano arpeggios, tangible waveforms, and plunderphonics.
Simplification makes you say math, the metric is brazenly MC Ride.
Necro Culture Vulture still launches d-beat with a white weapon, but the bass is old-school drum & bass and the riff has a strange pitch or tremolo that makes it dissonant (it's a recurring motif).
In Psycho Signal Jammer they reach the peak of the tangle between blast beats in stop and go that are never really stops, in the constant fury of voices and telematic suggestions, carrying themselves through the yacht advertisement eurodance of Loop Version and the pseudo-ambient of Where Were You to the sweat of the final ten minutes of A Decent Man, admirable because it's a complete essay of possibilities and for the endurance of the arms.
It's curious, and I can't explain, that all this already sounds old.
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