Fuck me, there is a LOT of music out in the world.
Oh, hello. I didn’t see you come in. Why not sit down and stay for a spell? Or don’t. I’m clearly not your supervisor.
“Are there really eleven of these? Is it actually Friday? What smells like shoe polish?” are some of the questions you are almost certainly not asking yourself. But for all those unasked questions and more, Found Sounds and Sound Mounds and and Fuck You Freveryday is proud to be your nonanswer.
In this week’s episode we find ourselves in the same place as always: befuddled and overawed by music and trying to work our way out. We tell ourselves there is clarity on the other side, but we know this to be a false. We does not entry. The sounds we pick up along the way become an investiture of incoherence, but they make our steps lighter. I hope you might also find some lightness here.
Fuck you, why not go listen to some of THIS music?
Ectoplasmorphosis – Vortex of Possessable Flesh
Here at Fake Etymology & Fuck You Friday, our number one goal is to educate. That’s why we’re keen tell you that Ectoplasmorphosis’s name comes from:
– ‘Ecto’, from the Greek, meaning “from the outside”;
– ‘Plasmor’, from the subjunctive tense of “Plasma TV”;
– ‘Pho’, from the Vietnamese soup; and
– ‘Sis’, from the Sistine Chapel.
All of this combines to tell you, dear reader, that Ectoplasmorphosis means “vomiting up your neighbor’s television with such force that it dissolves into hot, frothy soup against the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”
Alright, fuck you, it doesn’t, but let us not quibble over minutiae, because the true point of order here is that Vortex of Possessable Flesh is a rampagingly fine debut album from Ectoplasmorphosis, a new slamming brutal death metal band from Mike Tyson Saying “Purse”, Australia.
On the gurgle-gore true faithful front, the vocals are sufficiently evocative of a busted sewer pipe and the snare drum pings higher than Miles Davis’s entire sunglasses wardrobe from the 80s, and yet Ectoplasmorphosis set themselves apart by – gasp! – focusing on razor-sharp, clearly articulated riffs and meticulous songwriting. Guitarists Ewan Lambert and Brad Wreford carve out slithering, sassy riffs that are mostly doubled (or I suppose trebled, or…eh,… bassed?) by Johan Hop’s bass, and the way that the band changes up from slicing speed to pit-churning slam grooves with breakneck intensity puts them squarely in the Suffocation and Defeated Sanity camp of “Hey, pal – nice neck you’ve got there. Be a shame if someone… utterly wrecked it.”
The icing on the proverbial ectoplasmicake is the ferociously tight drumming from brutal death wunderkind Nikhil Talwalkar (also of Anal Stabwound and FYF alums Drain of Impurity). If you need more convincing, I suspect your ears are made of damp cardboard, so kindly go take a hike. The rest of us are here to slam.
Celestial Annihilator – Annihilation for Esoteric Nascency
What do you suppose Pandemonius (the nom de riff of the sole proprietor of South Korea’s Celestial Annihilator) says when he leaves a party? I sure do hope it’s “See you annihilator.”
[Assistant principal at high school assembly]: Yo my peeps and fam are you rrrrrready to fuuuuuuumble for relevance?
Fuck you, none of this means anything. Annihilation for Esoteric Nascency is not, in fact, the title of an upcoming Matthew McConaughey TED talk about how Linklater’s Dazed and Confused secretly predicts an AI-designed bitcoin factory on the dark side of Saturn. Instead, it’s a solo album of cosmic black metal, all twirly tremolo riffs, satisfyingly clacky drum programming, puffed-up clouds of synth, and hoarse shouty mouth noises. Good, right?
You know how sometimes a one-person project sounds worse than a whole band, but in a way that is actually neat and good? That’s the vibe here. Celestial Annihilator sounds a little bit like how I imagine early Old Man’s Child would sound as a solo project, but then “Infinite Void” has these pulpy high synth strings and vocals that sound like the climax of a post-rocky emo band like Japan’s Envy? Friends, I barely know how I process sounds, so how should I know what you want? Pandemonius plays some really sweet guitar riffs all over this album, and if sometimes the sound is saccharine it is never pretentious. Keepers of old Kalessin, Purers of Progenie Terrestre, Cognitums of Mare, Borgirs of a Northern Silence-styled Dimmu, open up and take this sweet medicine.
Rotted Reanimation – Satan Worship
All I know about Rotted Reanimation is that Bandcamp says they are from Las Vegas, which is what Sinatra called his kind of town, right? Or, maybe he said if he could make it there, he’d make it anywhere. Or, hmm. Maybe I’m thinking of the town Nicolas Cage left after swapping faces with Johnny Depp’s loathing. Or, hang on, it goes like this: John Travolta and Frank Sinatra walk into a bar and then John Sinatra and Frank Travolta walk out of the bar each wearing fishnet stockings and a red latex dress and a black dinner napkin draped over their faces. …To get to the other side. Fuck you, we go together like rama lama lama ka dinga da dick dingdong.
Satan Worship skirts a line that I often find compelling, which is: intentional or unintentional? A ruder way to say that is, “Is it supposed to sound like this?” The seven songs on Satan Worship follow a pattern: first song is all creepy, atmosphere synth; second song is blistering lo-fi black metal that sounds like it was mixed all to one side of the speakers; third song is bulkier production and a bit thrasher black metal; repeat. Does the closing track boom out of the gate with hard Eurotrash rave/gabber vibes, though? You bet your sweet ass, Silas.
So yes, Rotted Reanimation’s debut is devoutly weird, yet alluring. “Sacrifice to Belphegor,” in particular, is a trip, with seemingly programmed drums blasting and careening away while the guitar hovers like a shoegaze fog and the vocals and keys echo and meander. The fact that the rest of the album sounds next to nothing like that is the cherry on top of a very odd sundae.
Sexmob – The Hard Way
The cool thing here is, the words work in nearly any order. Sexmob – The Hard Way. Hardmob – The Sex Way. Mobsex – The Way Hard. Hardsex – The Mob Way. The Waymob – Sex Hard. That’s called the transitive property, you sexmobbed try(way)hards.
Fuck you, it’s rude to demand that I have a point, but here it is: Sexmob’s latest album is a dank, sweaty, electronic-leaning jazz album that flirts with humid funk, industrial twang, and licentious looseness. Steven Bernstein’s slide trumpet sometimes sounds like if Miles Davis’s On the Corner hijacked his In a Silent Way album after taking several fistfuls of downers, but the shimmering, percussive racket from bass, acoustic drums, and electronic beats and loops are like a heat mirage of Tom Waits’s Real Gone.
Is it metal? No. Is it jazz? Probably. Is it excellent? Yes. Is it my goddamned job to sit here all day long and answer shit-stupid questions from some imaginary mealymouth on the internet? APPARENTLY IT FUCKING IS.
Endless Exam – Voice of Passion and Agony
Compared to, say, Perpetual Test or Ongoing Assessment or Infinite Quiz, Endless Exam has the benefit of alliteration, which is convenient, given that this Finnish four-piece flies fiercely with a frightfully full font of fantastic… fheavy fmetal?
Fuck you, I already know I need to cut the shit. Although the picture of Endless Exam on Bandcamp might lead to believe that this is some kind of circus metal, Voice of Passion and Agony is, at its core, a crunchy, high-sheen modern metal album with touches of a slightly avant-garde take on symphonic power metal. These songs are filled with huge hooks and rich atmosphere, all of it driven deep into the brainpan by the massively charismatic vocals of Nina Kuronen. Jukka Saarinen’s guitar sometimes steps out with flashy, melodic leads and solos (as on the excellent “Consealed Truth”), but more often leans back with the bass and traces out a rock-solid structure for Kuronen’s voice and some synthy textures to paint more vividly.
The band’s heavy modern crunch that flirts with prog means that one of the best points of comparison might be Norway’s Madder Mortem, but there’s also a bit more of the Nightwish or Epica school of grandiosity. “Diversity of Mind” sounds like modern Amorphis with Marianne Faithful on vocals, while “I Ain’t Your Toy” is more like a modern Devin Townsend tune. Despite the vocal fire and instrumental acrobatics, though, the main selling point of Endless Exam’s staggeringly accomplished debut is its rich emotional depth, which comes through particularly strongly on the late-album pair of “Mother of Mercy” (with its crazy hard-hitting chorus) and the thoroughly engrossing ballad “Too Old to Find God.”
If you allow yourself to be “fuck you’d” by just one album in this article, let it fuck you be this one.
Toxigen – Epílogo
Friends, I do not think that is supposed to be a thin penis waggling around in the cover art here, but reasonable people can disagree agreeably. Or unreasonable people can agree disagreeably, I suppose.
For all the information available about Toxigen (which is to say… none), I nevertheless feel confident describing this as a Spanish one-person project mucking around in a sandbox whose edges are roughly defined by thrash, death, and hardcore, although the overall affect of Epílogo sometimes leans into industrial.
First impressions can be hard to shake, so the idea I keep coming back to on this one is that it’s the metal equivalent of a beat tape. If you imagine a DJ or hip-hop producer putting together a set of lo-fi experiments, grooves and samples that represent a particular flavor of their style, those tapes can work as self-contained listening experiences, or they can be an invitation for someone to write some lyrics over. Toxigen’s debut works in a similar way, because even though these are fully built-out songs with vocals, the patent focus of its creation is on working out riffs and counterpoint drums.
You might find the sound thin, but fuck you, do better. These riffs are so upfront and tactile as to work almost like a map of the creator’s writing process. I hear a lot of Sepultura and Ministry in these thrashy, sassy, rollicking twists and turns, and although the drums are programmed, they are really smartly done. In someone else’s hands, an effort like Epílogo could come out feeling brittle, austere, unfinished. Instead, this is like shadowing someone with a highly technical job who knows exactly what the hell they’re doing.
DJ Fuckoff – Fucktopia
Look, y’all, I’ve already tweaked you this week with the decidedly non-metal Sexmob, but here I go again on my own, going down the fuck you road I’ve ever known. Literally the only thing I can think to do when presented with an album as gloriously Fuck You Friday-ready as DJ Fuckoff’s FUCKTOPIA is to proceed calmly, quietly, politely; there is nothing to fear, nothing to doubt.
Fucktopia is a swell little album of decadent, cosmic techno. The title track runs on a fast, thumping kick, but it’s buried in a sleeve of burbles and gurgles. The sound is good for either dancing or sitting. “Home” leans on acid breaks, but the vibe is still calm, inviting you to vibrate with pleasure and travel without moving.
The song entitled “The Cum Track” likely invokes some murky ritual of interpersonal congress, but this is a family website. DJ Fuckoff adds coquettish vocals frequently, as on the explosive gabber/drill & bass workout “$ugar money/dreamstate” and the lurid “Fuckn on the Bass,” which dabbles in grimy dubstep but eventually opens out into high-speed trance.
Fucktopia is perfect for any squares or prudes in your life. Play it for your grandmother. Ask your elected officials if Fucktopia is right for you.
