Following Bug Incision’s summer ’09 release from Hamilton’s Fossils comes a related duo called Slut Mouth. To start off the introductory SM and BI release comes an almost light-hearted and playful number that doesn’t lack foreboding characteristics. It doesn’t take long before this album descends into a more minimal, dark and chaotic apocalypse that starts with predominantly pure recorded sounds from percussive instruments – cymbals, drums, maybe some pots or pans. The sounds are vaguely recognizable and placed cacophonously amongst clatters and unyielding strikes upon the aforementioned sorts of sound-making tools.
Before too long a gentle buzz creeps in. Amplified objects play a key role in a number of the tracks. It’s scary the sounds that come out. At times repetitive and trance-like patterns are born from the hospitalized amps and this percussive-soup while unstructured raucous comes crying out at other moments. The result is a re-writing of what one may consider rock. These jangly guitars only slightly resembling the noise-rock era and the teasingly in-time percussion erasing thoughts of head-bopping leftist psychedelia.
While each track offers a gem worth listening to it’s not until around track 10 that things get really intense. A heavy cavalcade of whirrs and pure static anger builds up from almost nothing. It’s a climax to the album that just ends with absolutely no denouement. The next and final track returns with cheeky minimalism and a steady hiss of white noise pervading the silence.
Altogether it’s astounding to consider that these 13 tracks totalling a 30-minute collection of sound came from an hour-long session. Each track shows its own uniqueness and distinct characteristics. Nothing is dwelled over too long although some tracks do seem to cut abruptly short leaving proceedings to the imagination or the cutting room floor.Kat Dornian
Why disjointedness and recklessness and lazy abandon and confusion and ridiculously ramshackle, noisy, spitfire nothingness appeals to me so much, I’ll never understand. It is the de-threaded back patch of the canvas that tangles about in my mind; that I revel in. It’s burst-weird lung-crashing strewn about and then de-strewn and set aflame: Amateur Hour. What? Whatever.
Don’t get me wrong – clatter clatter clatter clatter – and some soft-fisted punch, partially missed, though directed squarely at the stretch of hide wide-framed right there in front of it (the fist) – clatter clatter clatter clatter strum (limp wristedly). Clatter, as a word has always felt percussive to me (is percussive), though, works best in terms of guitar, which is of course a symptom of Amateur Hour. Am I right? Am I right?
“What are you doing?”
“Do you realize what rock n’ roll has done to us as a society?”
“No, seriously. Stop. What the hell are you doing?”
“Ok, ok, but as a member of society I am entitled…”
(And then, slowly, like a dream, something resembling, faintly as it does, melody, cohesion, early-’90s indie-punk, begins to propel itself and propel itself. It’s still going. A…song!?)
And so the story goes of these two men, titans of industrial deconstrucional metaphysics, so says them and theirs, and their desire to reduce the principals of our modern landscape (the guitar! the drums!), maim the features of coherence – the verse, the chorus, the bridge, the tuning, the build-up, the rocking, the slashing, the burning, the weeping – in order to, of themselves, revel in their complicit ho-hum with ingenuity, and then to leave it out in the snow. Out in the damn-hell snow!
One of the brightest, laziest, most decomposed pieces of free-rock mind tunneling I’ve loved. And apparently it’s a Fossils side-project? Whoever they are (apparently they are awesome). Limited run of 45 CDrs, sold out at the source, still some copies floating around. WORTH YR TIME!