(Distillery)

It’s a cold, limpid November afternoon; while I’m writing the sunset is doing its slow course and Douglas Ferguson’s bewitching loops of guitar-and-who-knows-what-else have already thrown yours truly in what Frank Zappa would call a “semi-catatonic state”. Spirals of powerful dronegames mix with metal caresses, appearances of vocal subway ghosts, remote memories from deserted aircraft hangars. I should close the window, restore some order on my couch – but I’m nailed right here, like if an invisible body forced me in an uncomfortable sitting posture. Every once in a while, screaming masses of overdriven electric winds last five-minute eternities, in a whirling-flanging-reverberating celebration of six stringed disembodiment. Elsewhere, clouds of harmonic blasphemousness spell the death of consonance, sounding like a depressed church organ with a perforated lung. The CD timer becomes a useless option; this music wants your jugular like a seducing vampire. Fans of static deformation and solid-body illusion melting – you’ve all been warned.

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