Pumice
Puny

THE REVIEW

Behind the name Pumice lies Stefan Neville, an extravagant New Zealander who has made domestic lo-fi his Creed.

A run-down garage full of dilapidated instruments and electronic gadgets gathered who knows where is his world. A world shaped like an egg, certainly hard-boiled.

His universe is illuminated by shapeless low-fidelity hallucinations emanating from detuned guitars, electronic sound debris, junk dealer's rhythm, and a completely out-of-phase filtered voice.

But did good Stefan know that these creations of his might have a possible audience? He follows his warped inspiration completely indifferent to possible reactions.

An uncompromising artist or a cracked mind? Both!!!

A record you either despise and throw out the window or love and cherish dearly. It's not music for half-measures.

Folk, blues, played while peeling potatoes so askew and unbalanced, completely indifferent to any aesthetic ambition.

Spastic rock'n'roll that makes the Half Japanese seem like diligent schoolboys.

The first Beck after a lobotomy.

A drugged Beefheart of the bored generation, more hallucinated than usual who fiddles around recording his work on a walkman.

Nine pearls hidden in a trash-filled bin. You have to scrape through a lot of filth to grasp their shine.

His music has been defined as shit-fi.

If you're squeamish, steer clear. A record I don't feel like recommending to anyone.

Try it but don't blame me.