Fight Test EP
Oddball leftovers collection from Yoshimi...

Review: Ed Howard
Black Cherry
Electronic duo dumb it down for album two...

Review: Tyler Martin
lowercase-sound 2002
The finest compilation of its kind...

Review: Michael Heumann
Shot of Love
Never was such ridiculous cover art so completely appropriate...

Review: Gavin Mueller

May 2, 2003

Sonic Youth

May 1, 2003

Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Soft Pink Truth
The Wind-Up Bird

April 30, 2003

Pale Horse and Rider
Stephan Mathieu and Ekkehard Ehlers

April 29, 2003

Set Fire to Flames
Various Artists

Thomas Dimuzio
Reviewed by: tobias c. van Veen

. . . .. . .. . . .. . . .. . . .. –drifting signal arrival- . .. . ... . .. .. . . .. . .. .

Disc 1


" Police say Montgomery County is normally a safe area -- 15 to 20 murders a year." ---------noise.line----------Futurists equated noise with war, destruction, armanents flying, * At 6:05 p.m. Wednesday, the first killing took place when 55-year-old James D. Martin was shot in the parking lot of Shoppers Food Warehouse in Wheaton with high projectiles across the atmospheres to plunge with destructive intensity mashing human organ skin into splinters and entrails * At 7:41 a.m. Thursday, police were called to a crime scene that was cool and not unlike those found in popular video games, only later after searching had they found James L. Buchanan, a 39-year-old landscaper who had been shot while mowing a lawn at a commercial establishment near Rockville. Buchanan was identified as the son of a retired Montgomery County police officer—hallelujah—play the conquering angel—SPEED SPEED SPEED* At 8:12 a.m. Thursday, a caller reported the shooting death of Prenkumar Walekar, 54, a taxi driver from Olney, Maryland, the caller was enthusiastic about being on-air and begged to be considered for Survivor if not at least Law & Order. He was killed while filling his minivan with gas at a Mobil station in Aspen Hill. " the dark night that is America, I write to you, not from now, never could be, never has been, but from the noise, from the noise, from the milieu of breakdown, where every message destroys its messenger with eyes wide shut * At 8:37 a.m. Thursday, Sarah Ramos, 34, of Silver Spring was killed at a post office attempting to mail suspicious non-certified writing. It was near Leisure World, a retirement community where the old people live in segregrated camps. Immediately after the shooting, a witness reporting seeing a white van or truck speed from the post office parking lot—just like the A-Team! [Thomas, are you listening, did you hear it Thomas, after the squelching noise they began the pointing, in all directions for culprits, where the thoughts had landed like bullets, did you remember, revolution must come from the barrel of a gun, * At 9:58 a.m. Thursday, Lori Ann Lewis-Rivera, 25, of Silver Spring was reported shot at a Shell gas station in Kensington where she was vacuuming her van. "It wasn't clean enough," said respectable neighbours who lived nearby but had never seen nor spoken to her despite describing her as a "nice girl who never bothered anybody." * At about 9:15 p.m. Thursday, in the only killing in Washington and the only one to occur at night, which prompted police to consider the culprit being linked with a black underground Ecstasy drug dealing rave scene, Pascal Charlot, 72, was shot in the chest as he walked along Georgia Avenue. He was taken to a hospital, where he died less than an hour later after wishing he had done much more in life than collect artery juices.


But it's here isn't it at the point where the high white note sings in through an ear that we feel the knife edge so close, the industrial danger of a thin needle plunging too far into leg vein past muscle and skewering the body, needle-pin,

But it's here isn't it at the hybrid nexus of pere-version, where Freud watches goulfink from the Wolfman's eyes wanting his daughter, Anna—with his eyes closed do we see the analyst rubbing his palimpsest

But it's always here isn't , this razor line the danger in the line the speeding danger of losing control to the death spiral of an entire fattening culture clutching obese fantasies of control of shooting I mean sitting sitting day after day in front of television and State bullshit a worthless life and our animal instinct it rages attack fucking the entire nihilist culture

And it's here that Thomas Dimuzio situates his sound piercing melancholic and angry oppressive and relentless waves that lull into a meditative deep listening even the sun turns becomes evil dark and menacing while the night takes on the most beautiful quality in contrast when finally the people are gone

* Today, in Montreal, beauty erupted from speakers, love was made in the Fall streets despite temperature, pavement was ripped up, barricades sent motorists to dead-end intersections where they were forced to walk, give up appointments, and enjoy the sun in one of many street-cafes

* Today in the United States the government was found absent and presumed MIA, and without fanfare the nation took a day off, all plans to attack Iraq halted, soon after major corporations dissipated as there was no structure to bribe and neighbours turned to each other in fear without the silent hand of capital to keep them glued to a TV where CNN had nothing to report as there were no experts and no one to give propaganda bullshit to questions - & after moments of rampant bloodshed communities began trading things real valuable things like food grown without chemicals ; eventually the large flags were removed and people began thinking

* Today a high white note sounded from Fitzgerald's grave

Disc 2

NNN [...] deconstructed this report in several strands of hallucinogenic and swimming barracuda who refused to let go of the man's legs

Now come, fire! Now come, others, to re-read your dreams into the noise, to interject cut-and-paste beats and sharp angles of sound as Zipperspy, to synthesize the clouds and pavements into the tone of a skipped voice as Anna Homler, to rewind consciousness and pop radio through my ears and tongue as Solid Eye, to crash symbol/cymbalic slivers through this empty room devoid of mouths and musicians, to calmly contemplate the spatial reaches of the stars, deep space orbits and pulsing quasars of Chris Cutler, to reduce all phenomenolgical purity microsound down to white nothingness a pit stretched across the heavens as Illusions of Safety, to drill a core sample through noise a fine lead sample of the breathing maelstrom as Scott Arford, to grind and grate underneath an impossible oppressive history deep inside the decomposing machine of Nick Didkovsky, to come out an-other side into mismatched Beethoven organ symphonies and clowns on acid like Wobbly Yasuhiro Otani, to consider hand contamination in the creation of music and the length of the organs of the Jet Black Hair People, to slide in obtuse-like interrupting a conversation of impeccably dressed midgets as DJ QBert, to round up visions into collapsing waves of fiery towers as Atau Tanaka, to summarise lines of lines of text as speeding subway train catching Kadet Kuhne

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