REVIEWS: noise (MSNP, Taint, Tropism, Aube, Malignant &c)
Jason Kushnir
I posted this batch of reviews over a week ago and my server
still has not picked it up. So, I'm resending. To those for
whom this is an extreme inconvenience, my sincerest apologies.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Signs of Infection - v/a C60 ltd 200 (Malignant)
This isn't noise by any stretch; not even a particulary long one.
Without a double dose of delightfully disease-ridden filth from the
Prince of Pestilence I'd be hard-pressed even to allow the words
'power electronic' pass my fingertips.
So, should we give a fuck? Let's put it this way: if you aren't going
to blow the ears out, you might at least have the decency to be a
little dark. And that's precisely what we get from Malignant: dark,
and lots of it. Signs is one of those beauts the adventurous
noisehead can only grow to love; AKA one of the more satisfying means
of restoring a shred or so of hearing before the next harsh overkill
session (invariably, about one comp later.)
Things start in a predictable fashion, slow and sedate, dark and
brooding... all the usual cliches you make use of when your
vocabulary hasn't developed the right depth and technique to sound
properly clever. Warm, oozing, plumes - of what, don't ask me to tell
you - shoot out of deep, breathy, cavernous abodes; the
characteristic caress of Blood Box. A mostly spacious offering, and
perhaps a bit too subtle for my taste. But, I suppose, that's why
people like Orphx were invited to contribute something.
Orphx contribute something that serves only to surprise - surprise
for those who expect concrete scrapings and open-mouthed, sputtering
electronics, and surprise for those who didn't know something this
good was beneath their respective noses all this time. Buried under
layers of undulating, alternating, frequently decomposing
tennis-match bass-tones, Orphx introduce us to their newer, rhythmic
direction. No it isn't noise, but let me level: 'Sepsis' is good for
you. For this track alone, you might just have open that noisehead a
crack or two. Maybe it's the oddly reduced, but danceable, rhythmic
element. Maybe it's that drainpipe-induced sense of sinking. Maybe
it's the fleeting, sinister atmospheres hovering around the edges.
Or maybe it's just coincidence.
No infection would be complete, of course, without a visit from your
friendly neighbourhood Bacillus. Everywhere there is disease to
spread, this guy turns up. It's getting a bit unnerving. For now, I
think I'll enjoy it: decayed radio carnage, hyper-active encyclopedia
salesmen, various bottom-end beer-can shards rumbling through
leftover meatgrinders, and your requisite contagion.
Which leads us to the closing part of the first half, Nihil's
'Bleed Like Glass.' To be honest, I didn't even think it possible
until I heard it with my own ears. Once again, Nihil thumbs his
nose at the laws of physics. Judging from the predominance of slow,
oscillating bass loops, I think Nihil may have been taking some
lessons from Orphx. Here the inverted disco jam takes a backseat to
some kind of 'foreboding' funeral march replete with paranoid
schizos, emergency ward numbers games and plenty of unidentifiable
migraine sufferers. But cheer up, friend! Before long, we've bled
into 'Phase 10.' Nihil's second attempt at pastoral regurgitation
takes it heavy, cranking up the bass amps, growing progressively
untethered until suddenly you're creaming your jeans and goodness
knows how that happened.
Side B opens with a Shloss Tegal guided tour of everyone's favourite
hole in the ground. Considering how bone bloody cold you feel after
exploring 'The Hot Spot,' the irony mostly grates. Even less
fortunately, the sound doesn't: wind rustles around abandoned wheat
fields, whirs through bankrupt subway tunnels, rushes among the
rafters of poorly built tool-sheds, before snuffing it outright deep
in the bowels of a newly built catacomb whose future screams B-movie
theatre.
And what better feature presentation than the cheesily-titled
'Punishment from God'? I suppose I should be fair. After all, noise
sets unusually high standards for p-word invokers, especially when
they have the audacity to put the word 'Mega' in their name.
Whatever the intent, the kind of God Megaptera have in mind would
clearly prefer to free little butterflies from the nets of sadistic,
pin-wielding collectors than hang the evil winged bastards upside-
down in vats of boiling marmalade by insectile testicles whilst
telling dead caterpillar jokes. Yes, a bit of a pansy, as Gods go,
but fans of doomy darkambient should appreciate Megaptera's
ploddingly dramatic manipulations all the same.
In a mostly successful effort to save face, Ilheus return us to the
principle at hand. 'Leprous' piles snow-shovelling seminars over
misguided ski-instructees over stalled chair-lift episodes; then
stylishly rogers them to death amid the thunderous clunk of
over-anxious beginner-types whamming into trees with deadly
regularity.
Yet this all gets pushed to one side by Atrax Morgue and something
suitably titled 'Negation.' Corbelli turns in his favourite
impression - that of some poor bugger choking to death on an oversize
bubble pipe. In the rush to maintain quota, meatwagon runs headlong
into hotdog stand, siren gets dipped in sauerkraut, Manuel
substitutes Oscar Meyer for Shopsies. The moral: never write reviews
on an empty stomach.
Finally, in a fitting end to Malignant's first wave of infection,
Bacillus gets the final word. This time the Prince highlights the
mortality rate of narcissistic virologists whose vacillations between
denial and outright refusal to pack earplugs on the eve of the
helter-skelter leave plenty room for that lovable sick-puppy to glut
his scabbacious spew in predictably abscessive fashion. Decades of
plague-snorting have taken their toll: dry hacking fits accompany a
quality assortment of smothered chokes and gasps, furnishing the
overstimulated capacities of the 'been there, done that' crowd with
the novel experience of drowning in one's own phlegm. (Limit two per
customer.)
Tropism - The Portable Tropism C60 (Tropism)
Tropism have the unique distinction of being the most productive, and
possibly least visible, noise unit on the face of the planet. The
Portable is not an 'official' release - none of them really are, this
one less so - but rather represents a taste of some 50-odd tapes
worth of self-effacement; a mere quarter of their total output.
Tropism make noise for the sake of making noise, though it's hard to
say whether they enjoy themselves.
Not that it matters, Tropism don't like people to hear their work -
self described as 'garbage, mostly' - anyway. Tropism operate on the
premise that noise need not go out of its way to entertain the
listener. If you require cut-ups, dynamics and textures, you probably
don't like noise. Pure, overloaded electronics is the only way to go.
At least, in theory.
In actuality, The Portable spans the gamut of electrified hell;
from studiously 'tedious' junk rock dirges spewing drudge to trippy
psychedelic oscillators upsetting stomachs to hollowed out ambient
power electronics spooking mutts to pure overloaded hell overloading
hell.
Inevitably, and perhaps necessarily, some of it does indeed qualify
as trash. More often than not, however, signs of subtle genius
emerge. Sure, anyone can make noise, but to actually have the balls
to completely master the various discarded husks left by more
'serious' noisicians - and otherwise - is an accomplishment in and
of itself. There's some genuinely superb shit here, friends.
To those seeking a masterful mixture of garbage and genius, I would
recommend contacting the esteemed Tr himself and trying to get on his
good side. Because Tropism don't accept cash - at least, in theory -
you may have to apply certain external pressures. (An unusually large
supply of cash, for instance.) Note also that delays are considered
an integral part of the Tropism Experience. Eventually, you may well
be rewarded for your efforts. Just don't say I didn't warn you.
Skin Crime - Whorebutcher C60 (MSNP)
At last: the much-anticipated manifesto! Skin Crime should long ago
have gained recognition the world over for their sheer brutality and
commitment to the pure stuff. If only Mr. S. Abuse devoted a fraction
of the time to his harshhead pseudonym as he does to the rest of
noisedom, the world would be a noisier place. Much noisier.
That should change with the release of some truly masterful work on
Mother Savage (and another cassette on Bloodlust! to be reviewed
later). Skin Crime has been steadily improving since day one. Now,
finally, the real shit is starting to fly.
The first thing that promises to throttle the customer is a box full
of murderous artifacts. Just from the packaging - 'butchered' whore
bespecked with obviously fake blood, various used undergarments and
some passages excerpted from the writings of one of America's
darlings in debauched death - Whorebutcher comes across as a
thoroughly cohesive enterprise. Even customs liked it.
[A note here: the overzealous folk at jolly old Canada Customs have a
penchant for 'bondage/sexual assault' imagery. Confiscations of the
more 'creative' artworks found on new Killer Bug and Japanoise v/a
cassettes - courtesy of MSNP - attest to this. Apparently, customs
subscribes to the Gwar philosophy, re- "It's not rape, if they're
already dead." You gotta admire that consistency.]
As always, from where I sit, the provision of a rat's hindquarters is
sadly lacking with respect to issues of packaging and their
relationship to my personal taste. Without the harshedness to match,
the edge dulls to the point of uselessness. Even bludgeoning is out.
Thus, one can appreciate it that much more when death-obsessive types
deliver:
Microscopic, ecstatically feverish assaults on the quantum cavities
are fed, granule by goddamn granule, through a series of fragmented
drive-by crank-kills, strung out across the stratosphere via
crumbling layers of alien interference, then ground into a fine
powder that smoulders as nice as it snorts. Abuse really bides his
time, as if to ensure that nothing get lost in the shuffle. With
meticulous precision, armloads of pre-shrunk amway salesmen are set
upon one another, mercilessly preaching like so many demons possessed
until the message of love's driven home and the messenger gets beat
to a bloody pulp.
This prepares the way for side B. Several notches up the harsh end,
Abuse utilizes a more potent blend of seasoned steamhorns, fanatical
anti-exorcism strikers, and crossbred halitolic yetis attempting the
self-extraction of recently-rammed pineapples. Impenetrable, numbing
freeze-grind electronics slowly acclimate and decelerate into masses
of hideously delicious high end salivations, all set to a nightmarish
background of ongoing butcherings and beatings a la Taint.
Taint - Victimology C60 (Taint)
If ever a word should spring to mind when I think Taint,
'Victimology' is it. Could it be? Another manifesto? Anything's
possible. For now, and with some exercise of caution, we will dub
this simply The Quintessential Taint. Quite the carefully-composed
research project from America's most studious victimologist, and
probably his most powerful work yet.
Taint's approach is consistent with his recent submissions: instead
of layering tremulous soundscrapes overtop mostly indecipherable, but
most assuredly libertinous goings-on, as has been the Taint
tradition, each speech fragment - or collection of fragments - serves
as a prologue to unusually short bursts of brutality. And my, how
there are a lot of them! Taint reminds us, as only Taint can, that
victimization may assume many faces, even if none of them are
anything to write home about. There are almost as many interview
clips here as there are noises. "Why, why?" a mother repeatedly sobs
before the noise rips a hole in the ensuing silence, answering her
tearful bescreeching in the worst way.
Again, the commitment to harshitude makes it all worthwhile. Here a
wide variety of deep, thundering bludgery renders full the familiar
stock of American sexploitation and abuse. Sick, twisted exercises
in excess speaker-mutilation spell satisfaction for hedonistic,
punishment-seeking noiseheads bent on permanent ear-damage: avalanche
upon avalanche of improperly-assembled scaffolding meets its own
level; another victim recounts her tale of abuse; the tell-tale
shriek of rollercoaster mishap; more parental bewilderment;
anti-armament parades gone sour; an innocent child communicates the
extent of her ignorance; bloody circus trainer frantically searching
for contact lens lost in a stampede for the exit; irrepressible
victimizers on the prowl for more; ex-nam crop duster kamikaze-types
douse cornroast revellers in more ways than two; know-it-all
researches with all the answers; three highway patrolman, a bottle of
tequila and a case of mistaken identity. The list is endless.
What else is new? Nothing. But then, nobody does it quite like Taint.
Victomology comes wrapped, like most noise does, in barbed wire, and
in this instance, a missing child's poster. On the flip-side, a
smattering of edited textual tastes, including this worrying reminder
from Mr. Brewer's favourite publication: "someday, someone's going
to kill a woman that doesn't deserve it" (Parasite #17, 95).
Those seeking sexual exploitation are encouraged to write Taint
direct. I'm sure he'll be only too happy to oblige.
Dead Body Love - Tumours C60 (MSNP)
- Metal-Induced Orgasm (SAR)
Move over Merzbow. Step aside Masonna. Hello Dead Body Love! By far
and away the strongest Italian noise since Mauthausan Orchestra - and
then some. Idle comparisons to the old masters alone fail to do the
genius that is Gabriele Giuliani credit. This is some of the best
shit I've ever heard. Period. Giuliani is right up there with the big
boys - and occasionally dancing above their lofty pates.
Tumours comes in a small, zip-lock baggie containing a few
stimulating snaps of various strategically-grown bodily bonuses.
The noise itself should serve as an ideal introduction to the Dead
Body Love style: pure, carcinogenic overload, screeching metallic
protestations, and some truly devastating bleachbath asphyxiation.
Rarely has the word 'overkill' been more appropriate. Suffocating,
collapsible igloos peppered with piercing percussive dynamism give
way to the inevitable shriekfest special: splintered clockwork meets
ill-informed subcontractors half-consciously slipping through
whirring cogs and spring-loaded bolts. A spattering of applause from
a crowd of unwilling boycotters encourages stunning displays of
coprophilic steroidmania, showcasing the tongue-lashing talents of
world-class, holocaust-inspired olympians as they make their way
around the globe.
Metal-Induced Orgasm, a more focused lowbrow exercise, takes us to
the next level. Better mastering, together with tin foil track-
listing designed to keep the point razor sharp, do the necro
community proud. Brutal, churning metals clatter and rattle their
way beneath a smoke-filled landscape of stampeding rhino, only
occasionally rising above the rustle and bustle of industrial-
strength blowout to take a few playful jabs at perforated eardrums.
'Skin/Iron/Skin' severity gradually intensifies, exceeding the
'Boiling Point' before winding up with iron-clad 'Elements of an
Orgasm.' Subdued headcrush returns to dominate on side B, driving and
drilling the sadisto-sweet scrape of 'Pleasure Thru Steel' straight
into bleeding earholes and out the other side. Lest the listener
forget what he came here for, DBL close out with a crackling
steelboned sanity-sodder suggestively titled 'Screaming for More.'
A.M.B./Abfall - Kill Stimulant C60 (MSNP)
Shoot it up, kids. This is the shit: deadly, smothering harshhead
injections from the incestuous Tokyo/New Jersey power electronics
brotherhood. Considering how short a time these guys have had to
establish themselves on the scene, Kill presents a surprisingly
competent effort. Part of this is due, I suspect, to some additional
accredited soundwork courtesy of MSNP. Woven into the Autotoxic
Mental Bizarrerie/Abfall blisterfest, Mother Savage combine an
enhanced breed of crushing, gut-churning dimensions with noise that
could probably have stood on its own anyway. As it is, the results
are superb. Perhaps this isn't the best gauge of any one artist's
talents, but while not exactly representative, Kill makes for a very
satisfying listen.
Mother Savage has also taken this opportunity to introduce the world
to their more 'abstract' imagery, and it looks good: a much more
suggestive blend of the classic concrete thing and other visions of
disrepair. (Which, as I've established, means jack. But the thought
always counts for something. One must never forget that.)
T.Toki starts us off on the right track with an Autotoxic series of
backhoe-aided group-therapy sessions for the breathing-impaired. As
snorkels suck in endless clouds of mucous laden tear-gas, ginsu
blades operated by sympathetic partners cut out the middle man by
manually exposing the lungs to oxygen. The good bit is where the
chairman, a chainsmoking Hittite with a bad case of parallax, grabs
his spear and pole-vaults screaming through the plate-glass window in
the hotel lobby; either that, or a retinic rhino getting keel-hauled
by a Sherman tank crowded full of disaffected interior design
consultants. Whatever turns you on. Settling down into more
electrophilic blistery, Toki follows up with the suspiciously-titled
'Subliminal Damage.' This one should have whipped right over my head.
Instead, it makes so much sense it hurts: deforestation treatise
hoodwinked by bizarre woop-chanting lumberjacks who sneak into the
marked treeline wearing women's clothing and odd-size
life-preservers. Did they really make a sound? That's for you to
decide. Last, an 'Avalanche Electric' which is exactly that:
gyrating analog spools pitch and twirl among the mangled ruins of
Mother-fucking good savagery. Take it from me, toxicity testing will
never be the same.
Afball turn in an industrial eulogy of epic proportions. T.Spann's
tear-jerking tribute to the demise of mechanical progress registers
quite a bit higher on the over-capacitated frequency-response scale,
occasionally getting devoured by ferocious Mothers going medieval.
The end result is a roiling inferno that promises to take you to hell
and back, albeit not without great personal risk and the inevitable
sacrifice of one's ability to hear. What you get out of this is what
you put in (re- Incapcitants' 'Quietus'). If repeated showings on
nightly television of missiles going straight through chimneys are
getting you down, don't come crying to these guys.
Killer Bug - Vaginal Disco C60 (MSNP)
Long awaited full-length domestic release from one of the bestest
new noisers on the scene. I understand that Mr. Endo's satisfaction
with his cassettes has been won only grudgingly. I put it to you:
with a name like Killer Bug, where can he possibly go wrong? Endo
still has most of the swarming mass of Noisedom shooting-up back at
the warm-up track, even after he's already gone in for the urine
test. Satisfaction is 100% guaranteed.
I'd love to tell you about the artwork, which I'm sure is very nice,
but unfortunately, all I can say is that customs, ever on the lookout
for conversation pieces, confiscated it due to 'bondage' imagery - a
Bug staple.
Continuing in the tradition of previous cassette-work, Endo more than
satisfies the MSNP criterion for ironclad powerload-fixation. Side A
features energetic, zig-zagging aural cavity-search: hyperventillated
dipsomaniacal pill-popping, electronic razor burn, and a treasure
trove of wriggling faecal ringworm. Neurotic lizard hiss competes a
bit too enthusiastically with abusive fire-hydrant crankshaft and
overworked bilge-pump, shifting the focus from subsurface corrosion
to underpaid, practical-joking, city works employees trying to
relieve the boredom of another routine dryout by setting the septic
pressure on overdrive and switching the sewage pipes with enema hose.
Could well be the closest you'll ever get to a perfect vacuum, if
only someone had the foresight to mount a cervix servo onto the
suction valve instead of haphazardly shoving rubber tubing halfway up
the Komodo's hole and poking it with a two-pronged stungun. That's
bureaucracy for you.
Vaginal gets a little closer to the mark on side B. Processed surges
of looping feedback characterize a shorter live recording most
likely taken from the recent US 'tour.' Disagreeable scratch and
grumble progressively overloads to the max, eliminating all
possibility of diffusive dialogue. We are left with Endo's paroxysmic
ejaculations, rarely breaking the freeze - and then only to be
immediately swallowed whole again.
666 Volt Battery Noise - Blunt Objects vs. Sharp Things C60 (MSNP)
Prophetic clash of commodities from one of America's rising
stars. 666V don't cover any new territory, but by now, I hope you
realize, noiseheads don't give a fuck about that. All we want is a
good, hard, noise. And on this count New York rep D. Brownstead more
than delivers.
From the get-go, you'd think Blunt Objects would have the sense to
plead no-contest. It's Sharp Things all the way on 'free Scorpion'
as penetrating waves of nerve-kneading electrostatics shred the air
into bits of atomic particles bent on self-destruction. Sarcastic
knife-sharpeners with predictably sociopathic disposition get plenty
of work-out: cynical high end scathe bleeds a background bludgeon
grate for all its worth, leaving the poor bleeder to entertain
overstaffed street urchins with hopscotch pogo impersonations of
war-amputees trying unsuccessfully to go AWOL.
But don't count out the crunchables just yet. The title track is
where the real story is at. Pile-driving turbines content themselves
with a quietly submerged background spectatorship while assaultive,
feeding-back decontamination procedures crown the surface. Slowly,
inexorably, the sleeping beast wakes, rising like so many angry
goatherders to trample the living piss out of oversimplified
whistles and coughs. It's all the sad little scalpelmongers can do
to keep buffeted heads above raging storm as ceaseless pummelling
renders their pathetic, if abrasive, efforts useless.
As seems to be the custom, side B delves further into the harshland.
'head removal machine' juxtaposes epileptic stabbing pincers with
furnace-friendly exhaust hazards. Old slasher film vets stalk the
retreating silhouettes of fornicating baboons shipwrecked on a desert
isle - apart from the cannibalistic telemarketers, of course. Sound
advice. Carving knives can go a long way in the hands of the right
kind of psycho, but the well-trained pest can talk your head off and
eat you for lunch before you manage to get a word - or more pointed
utensil - in edgewise. Keep a whistle handy. 'sand in my veins'
scopes out a more knurled digital field of constantly grilling
destabilization - with little apparent regard for decorum. Should a
bug-eyed religio come to your door looking for souls astray, tell
'em you've already got the big Guy on tape and proceed to play this.
Yea, they'll be falling to their knees with many-a praised-be's that
night, my boys.
Dave Gilden - Texas Chainsaw Dopefiend (MSNP)
Visionary case-study from ex-Black Leather Jesus collaborator Dave.
Dopefiend is the least pure of the recent crop of Mother Savage
noises, but features some truly massive, concrete sound. Instead of
constant, beatific, overkilling, Dave employs a sophisticated, if
degenerate, blend of back-from-the-junkyard-grave greasemonkeyshine
and layered, cut-up, powerelectronics. Pounding, hollering and
pressured dynamism - it's all there on 'Fucked,' Dave's tribute to
psychopathia and mass-slaughter. Spirited supermarket demolition
derby gets pitted against psychocop shoot-em-up bloodbath:
shopping-carts powered by blind, raging, pepper-sprayed patrons run
straight through chicken-noodle pyramids while puffing pigs powerup
their tear-gas bazookas and lazer-rifles. A brief psychedelic
intermission - presumably, the Dopefiend himself - and then the real
fun begins. Fake Luccan olive oil triggers grease-fire, enkindling
the assembled squeals of patron and pre-fried bacon alike. Gritty,
scorching electronics amass as the exhilarating wank of harshhead
noisefest kicks into gear. Unfortunately, that lasts all of about a
few minutes before we run out of tape.
On to 'Devil Worship,' a second sides' worth of highly dramatic,
aggression-releasing, asshole-thumpery. Without so much as a "Get
Thee behind me, Satan!" the thumping does its dirty work. Here
Dave's extensive hoard of scrap metal is freed a little more from the
greedy clutches of stifling, fractured electronics. Industrial-
strength motorization, factory death-spasms, teetering analog
feedback, and a few discernable words of wisdom complement crashing,
clashing bouts of impressionable aluminum siding and rusted,
trash-bin steel.
Aube - Infinitely Orbit cd (Alchemy)
Alchemy finally cashes in on the Aube craze with this latest
Good Alchemy instalment. How they can justify putting someone like
Aube out on a series allegedly reserved for 'pure noise' is beyond
me. Especially something like 'Infinitely Orbit.' This is more a kind
of extremely high-end ambience than it is oversaturated,
earhole-incapacitizing noisehead.
Why the review? What can I say - I dig them squealing sonics. Thanks
to blessedly obsessive use of exceedingly high frequencies, what
Infinitely lacks for pure blowout potential it gains in overall
intensity. Sure, I would have preferred if Alchemy picked up someone
with a little more kick - say, Thirdorgan or Pain Jerk - but, as long
as they're willing to hawk the bigger names, the future of the Kings
remains a bright one indeed. [The horizon fairly glimmers with
tantalizing new offerings from a full spectrum of Good-guys.]
As the title suggests, Nakajima has immersed himself in psychedelia
absolute. Serene, wet-whistling analog reverberations oscillate
among the maximals of uppers, and, more rarely, downers, in a style
faintly evocative of Whitehouse. Aube goes much further, however.
Blissful, 21 kHz tweeter-testing tonage precipitates the title track
as it slowly expands and extends into the lofty, crystalline
austerity of sweet, shimmering resonance: scintillating squeak
transcends rickety rumble like so many dysfunctional transistors
going haywire. Following is a condensed edition of Purification to
Numbness (RRR) - buzzsaw warbling through air-raid bombshell - that
retains, as an added bonus dimension, the ongoing background tweak
of euthanaisic birdsong impressionists. Then, a return to psychedelic
permutations with the self-explanatory 'Damper Range': knob-turning
exploration of so many Equipments that one is soon obliged to
surrender all self-awareness and quietly drift through lazy,
cannibalistic spermatozoa. Settling down for the long-haul,
'Enveloped' permits a precarious altercation of scree and wail:
scraggly old beaver tease overshadows flippant noodling and niggling
that develops, quite naturally, into massive walls of warped glass
and shattered crystal. Predictable as post-op anxiety, the inevitable
epiloguic resurrection of Purification(RRR): static fields
interfere and overexpose, jettisoning all squeamishness and
scattering any semblance of out-and-out emaciation to the vast
clutches of eternity. I hate when that happens.
MALIGNANT
PO Box 5666
Baltimore, MD 21210
USA
e-mail: mlg...@earthlink.net
TROPISM
Tchon
14 Portal Court
Dundas, ON L9H 6A4
Canada
e-mail: ar...@emerald.flexnet.com
MOTHER SAVAGE NOISE PRODUCTIONS
c/o Joseph Roemer
1180 Colgate Drive
Monroeville, PA 15146 USA
e-mail: lf...@andrew.cmu.edu
TAINT
PO Box 7150
Waco, TX 76714
USA
SELF ABUSE RECORDS
26 S. Main St. #277
Concord, NH 03301
USA
e-mail: self...@selfabuse.mv.com
ALCHEMY RECORDS
1-15-9-507 Nishi-Shinsaibashi
Chuo-ku
Osaka
542 JAPAN
enjoy!
Jason
---
"I will be under control of The Mikawa,
Anybody helps me, now!"
-- T.Mikawa (T.Sakaguchi)