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Rating:
A deteriorated box of Play-Doh. Take a portion of psyco garage soaked in Valium, industrial ghosts, the absolute refusal of a semblance of a song, vomited harmonies, free-form sound fluctuations, and monotonous declaiming.
Work it all well, make it into a ball and squeeze it tightly in your fist. Squeeze this undefinable mass with more force, and from the fist will spring out splashes of New York subway with cadaverous Velvet with their faces down in overdose, indifferent indistinct free noise passersby tossing them coins. Helios Creed in full end-of-the-world paranoia finds himself playing free jazz with the Magic Band in an industrial slaughterhouse. Crawling terminal Stooges barely manage to move with a semblance of rhythm. Sonic Youth sprouts catapulted into post-atomic 60s. A post-industrial San Francisco 60s with psycho freak Throbbing Gristle t-shirts. Terminal Cheesecake comes to mind, but that's my problem.
A banquet with expired, soured dishes, they don't want to be liked but if I'm not mistaken we like them ugly, dirty, and bad.
If I'm wrong, steer clear.
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