Psudoku
Space Grind

Once upon a time, in Norway, there was a shack that everyone feared. It was like enclosed in a pretty little cage with bars of rage and a lock of anger, and diverse rumors surrounded its owner. Even the Christmas atmosphere was disturbed by it, and the cheerful voices of celebrating children were choked just by seeing it. There was a shroud of mystery and esotericism, and at the center of this shroud, bent over his table, was a man known as Papirmøllen. An excellent anarcho-communist intellectual, skilled in the trivium but not in the quadrivium, he was the soul and heart of the "Parlamentarisk Sodomi" project, with the mythical motto "fuck all the systems at the same time!", terror of the corrupt, the people of ice, and the well-meaning. He rarely left his shack, and only to hurl dildos at politicians (for the ladies) and Playboy pages at the gentlemen. This was a cause of shame and dishonor; several times they tried to exile him to Italy, where his "tributes", moreover, would have enjoyed much more success, but they never succeeded.

However, one unfortunate day, while he was in Trondheim to bombard a well-known local political figure with banana-shaped toys, the space-time fabric tore, and Papirmøllen was catapulted to the final frontier of Iron Maiden memory, A.D. 2015. He built another shack and began to compose the music of the future using new technologies, disguising himself under the name "Psudoku", indicating how his nature had become similar to a famous annoying puzzle reinterpreted in a psychotic key.

The result was– or rather, will be– "Space Grind", a disk that is entirely summarized in the title: Grindcore from a spatial hyperuranium. Do you want me to describe it better? More vividly? Try to imagine Atheist squeezed in Grind format with some sporadic Meshuggah-esque accents. 18 tracks in 29 minutes, following the best Napalm Death tradition, growls and screams of alien pigs slaughtered as mere punctuation, capital letters and numbers thrown into astroanomalous titles willy-nilly, but which will probably have a meaning in the near future that is now forbidden. A pulsar concentrate that, needless to say, is entirely inane if not blasted all at once and at maximum volume, before a finale worthy of a country fair on LSD. In short, if you're one of those who think "Grindcore is always the same", give it a listen. If you're not, lend it the other ear.

Now the Norwegian shack is empty, but the children gaze in awe at the aurora borealis that surrounds it. The aurora is actually the musical flow that Papirmøllen is sending, hoping to return one day.

(here)