TTW#44 – The Automatics Group featuring Amy Winedeath - Ammo A Mass A Mat
Cassette only – limited edition of 150 copies
SOLD OUT AT SOURCE
A: Mass Extinction Event
B: Event of Mass Distinction
She lay, naked, draped across the piano, her nipples still erect from her recent encounter. Globules dripped onto the keys, lying like translucent mercury pools, somewhere between solid and liquid, defying definition. She might be asleep; she might not. It’s a special private place which cannot be shared or revealed. Her right hand slowly stroked the keys, as if to play; but there is no need for music now. She has her own sounds playing breezily around her; no need for form. Her fingers hesitate slightly as they play across the keys, as if reminded of her guttural expressions which recently filled the room. Her breathing was calm, but shallow… a wave had passed through her, soaking her but now leaving her utterly changed but intact.
There is no sign nor sound of another player on this primordial stage.
Thanks to AMé for the cover art. Special thanks to a loud, short, fat, hairy-assed, umbrella-carrying American and Tony UPS (auto 73, actually).
Aquarius Records (US):
Of the four new Tapeworm tapes on this week’s list, this might just be the weirdest. The label describes this recording very graphically, as a post coital nude woman draped over a piano, languidly brushing her hands on the keys, but in reality, it sounds more like many hands pounding wildly on a wooden box, contact mic’ed and submerged in water. Woozy and percussive, wreathed in a thick cloud of tape hiss, and a super lo-fi production, it’s easier to imagine a strange assemblage of automatons, running on rubber bands and rusty springs, each set before a mysterious box, then wound and let loose, their flailing implements producing an erratic, but strangely mesmerizing tattoo of thumps and thwacks, ever one trailing a strange bit of FX drenched static behind it, sound at times like blunted, blurred, muted firecrackers, and at other like some primitive monochromatic drum circle.
The flipside is a whole ’nother thing altogether, but again about as far as you can get from the nude woman on the piano, instead, it’s a slow building swell of crumbling caustic noise, that builds to thick billowing blackened clouds, before sprawling out into a darkly hypnotic expanse of blunted blacknoise shimmer, still wrapped in a gauzy layer of crunch and buzz, but the near melodic thrum beneath transforming it into something haunting and hypnotic, but still plenty noisy and distorted.
The liner notes also offer a special thanks to “a loud, short, fat, hairy-assed, umbrella-carrying American”, which doesn't clear up any of the tape’s mystery, at all.