The Dead C
Tusk

Filth, deformed creatures crawling within the belly of the earth, a putrid clattering mass immersed in liters of acid, taking psychedelia and stripping it of every vital color/warmth and any chromaticity even remotely attributable to something alive, taking noise and letting it flow, letting it twist and contort upon itself in violent spasms. The world of Dead C is not one of color; repugnant monstrosities hide in every crevice of their dark and unhealthy world, rotten, filthy sounds, low-fi to the nth degree. Every track of "Tusk," each of these six formless mutants, is chilling, catatonic, the negation of any alert and conscious state, narcotic immobility made music, delirious states and painfully noisy discharges cover everything, from ingeniously free rhythms to the voice, which is little more than a distant apathetic moan, ramshackle, anxiety-inducing, and aberrant noise vortices. Magmatic, droning voids of ultrasound, a bare, unadorned, exasperated music, primordial in its disturbing chaos, terrifying and imposing in its free and deformed progress, tension is brought to the extreme and never truly released or vented, but rather made to accumulate minute by minute, layer of noise upon layer of noise, track after track, always suspended between anxious states and narcotic immobility and fearfully elevated in the void and the dark.