Non Monk Gunk From Our Friends At Butte County & Beyond


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SOFT - #6 A6 zine £5

Butte County Free Music Society

Images and text by and/or about Lenore, Doug Roberts, Cody Brant, The Viper, Veronica Lovejoy, The Marques, Fenwick Addison, Joan of Art, Genki Teddy, Maria Estevez, S. Glass, Lymphoma, Ace Farren Ford, Cruel Duane, Aldo Chob, Stormycedar, Dylan Nyoukis. Full color throughout, 32 pages


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - Stop Yelling At Me In Neon Braille  CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

The first Bren’t Lewiis album of the New Year arrives on Inauguration Day, on purpose, even though there are no illusions that it will have any more of an impact on the nature of the nation’s venomous collective consciousness than the event it commemorates. Still, as part send-off, part retrospective obstacle to wound management, this screeching, undulating psychocosm is dominated by four shrill, seemingly interminable portraits of noxious invisibility. Dissonant synth pulsations; loops of unpleasant contact mic scrape; atmospheres that resonate less than the aftermath of a collapsed parking garage; incessant electric guitar fractures; keeko-bleeko theremin scribbles; lost transmissions of PBS documentaries that resurfaced in a desert trailer park; unnatural congress with the inanimate populace of that rich musical wonderland, the suburban garage — screamin’ babeh jazus, what building blocks!

Accompanied by production values that are both supportive and antagonistic, Lucian Tielens reads an account of a husband and wife forced to slaughter a sea turtle as published in their autobiographical 117 Days Adrift. The group’s minister of psychological effrontery and textician scrambler-in-chief Tom Chimpson navigates a cactus labyrinth of construction site field recordings, mad radio, turntable aliens, and Jon the Baptist’s murble-possessed guitar. His matter-of-fact message — about insurance, maritime infestations, messianic origin stories, and fragments that seem to say “no idea, you tell me” — arrives more garbled than perjured testimony in a kangaroo court where Masons are getting persecuted. One of two very brief tracks, Lala Lu’s confessional / plea / accusation / state of the union opens the album. And then, functioning as an oasis at the midpoint, a short mashup where Kristin Anderson’s boat slip sonata field recording rests on top of the gleeful self-pleasuring of Nixon, the rhino-hound sculptor owned and operated by Glub Pasha and Stanley Zappa.

Stop Yelling At Me In Neon Braille could be a rare MRI that ends up providing no useful diagnostic assistance; fortunately, an hour-plus of your time that drops an extra smidge of stress, discomfort, and claustrophobic panic into the skull is your idea of a prized resource. That’s what it says in your file, anyway.



Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - Toupee Made Of Weather CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

"Eventually the spring-breakers who survive their pandemic-era bacchanals are going to discover nostalgia, and Toupée Made Of Weather hereby provides many options for the inevitable retrospective anthology Befuddled Goobers of Shartwave with which all Jersey Shore wannabes worth their anti-viral cream will soundtrack their fevered reminiscences. In addition to sentences from thrift store cassettes, near constant field recordings of indecipherable voices in the background, collages of suburban VHS psychosis, and fragments of guitar and electronic flubba dubba from Fluxus Enigma and Hazel’s ’Lectric Washhouse sessions, lots of processed loops grabbed from various coordinates within the audiosphere are present — an instructive percussive vamp from Art Blakey here, disco hits by KC & The Sunshine Band and Kool & The Gang there, a little fortune-telling from Jan & Dean’s inexhaustible supply of face-palmistry, bluesman Jimmie Revard’s alien doink, weird shit by Steely Dan, yogurt-slathered sitar from a Carnaby-era Marianne Faithfull, and glitches sourced from a Paul Bowles album uploaded to Spotify (proof that the death of quality control is the noisician’s librarian card). “Dead Mackerel and a Bucket of Flaming Housepaint” is a demo submitted for consideration as the band playing in the foyer at the ceremony when guitarist Brian Ruryk earns his Lifetime Achievement Award. The Ensemble’s cover of a French black metal song relies on a phonetic mistranslation of the lyrics of the original by a wiseguy YouTube user and is also loaded with enough backstory to fill an escape pod (“you get 3-D pictures of space porn!”); in the hands of Bren’t Lewiis, it now reads like a dystopian travelogue penned by an incel from the future visiting the past to impregnate baby Hitler. Other highlights include the transformation of lyrics lifted from Daffy Duck and The Groovie Ghoulies into pathos-rich nightmares, Lala Lu’s baby-doll-off-her-meds multi-track soliloquy, and the deliciously anticlimactic finale when Stanley Zappa and Glub Pasha spend some time between two ferns." -BUFMS



Emerson Lake & Cheesedoodle - Wild America CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

"Atrocious as the name of the band may be — as the name is, no need to hedge — there is no denying its accuracy as a descriptor: two parts shrill, overblown, and longer than necessary; one part aberrant, oversaturated, and lacking in nutrients. The near-hour-long nature-show soundtrack recorded live on KALX in Berkeley, 1987, by a short-lived group consisting for this session of Scud Mandrill and Phil Smoot (The Whitefronts), Greg Freeman (The Call), and Chas Nielsen (Idiot (The)), aims to singe whatever porthole of empirical data collection is chosen. No matter what, part of you will end up scarred by Day-Glo hues, unpleasant grit, overexposure to reptilian crunch, the hot mulch of regret, and untamed electric howl." - BUFMS


Glands Of External Secretion - Chronic Pussyfooting CDr £7

Butte County Free Music Society

"If this is not Barbara Manning and S. Glass’s post-apocalyptic homage to Fripp and Eno’s early ’70s monolith, the only other explanation is hermit crabs having brain seizures inside Tibetan singing bowls. Using loops and digital delay to enhance the steroidal calliope atmosphere with a touch of relentlessness, claustrophobia, and dread, the duo’s two long, whirling tracks fling ropes of bright ooze this way and that. Be on high alert for supernatural beings wobbling through a series of movements and gestures that make sense only to a black yogiraj lost in some unspecified realm where space and time are mashed into an origami-like lump. Thirty-eight minutes of symmetrical splats, crackling wheem, crystals made of congealed blood, and Tortuga silt." - BUFMS


Wreckers Ruin - Sister Eel  CDr £5

Base Materialism

Layers of cassette textures escaping from the Burselm Crypt, interrupted by untamed frequencies and randomly (well) placed comedic audio segments. The framework is cut up harsh noise, but the outcome is something a lot more warm and dare I say musical (but don’t let that put you off).

“sister eel” offers abrasion with a smooth undertone through organised absurdity—a release that reflects on 90s harsh noise whilst staying true to contemporary British experimental music.


D.Coelacanth - Ghoul Town Tails Two  booklet £5

Self released

"Yesterday morning I sat in the poang and read the second instalment of Dai Coelacanth’s Ghost Town Tales. I should be back at work but instead find myself reading about the Gravy Scientist and the Heavy Fractions Band and find myself much preferring this new found freedom. I look upon it as retirement-lite, a trial run for the real thing should I ever get there and if I do ever get there I shall spend my mornings reading such as this. A fine start to the day. Bugger the crosser and covid give me Mole Seventeen, Rat City, Alan Rammer and the Fang Thugs.

As in the first outing there is no pretence to plot structure, punctuation, beginnings, middles or ends. This is no obstacle to enjoyment though, in fact to any decent minded William Burroughs loving literature freak there is much to enjoy here. Especially the vivd imagination of Dai which is capable of producing this;

‘Jarry loves a mushroom I noticed the room upstairs contains gheng zone I could feel it when I came out of the toilet river beyond the static window they make a facsimile but exaggerate certain features to gain viewers frozen scabs organise a car pool verena tries to discourage this kind of talk suzi was editing she told everyone that she no longer needed to eat they don’t look fresh vhs crime you think people can’t sense it but they can mr lee drilled into someones face and shouted something about pie fillings.’

The ‘pie fillings’ are a constant as is ‘spanish milk’ ‘mr lee’ and dozens of other character including the mysterious ‘mole seventeen’ and his/hers/their various similarly numerated counterparts.

Amongst the many fine aspects of his work Mr Burroughs’ writing was rich enough to furnish many a band with a moniker and so it shall be with Ghoul Town Tails Two. Take your pick from these few gems;

Subliminal cemetery
Cannibal gas
Spider jail
Dunbar ming
The electrified flap doctor
Mole people in shemp masks
Bucket spiders

Such is the richness that entire stories are to be found within short paragraphs though what’s happening is how you interpret it. It could be something to do with ‘the shemp’ or ‘mr lee’ or buckets or mushrooms or that mysterious Spanish milk. I have no idea. Like Naked Lunch meets Blade Runner with all the richness that those two can conjure.

Gulping this down in one sitting takes your mind to a strange place. You read on and on as if transfixed, drugged, the characters and language enveloping your fevered mind filling it with all manner of imagery. Or you could dip in at random take a paragraph and etch in to your skull these words;

‘grisly tape cult they just sleep and drool sprocket collector not even pagan satellite …’

-Idwal Fisher


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - Keystone Cyclops  CDr £6


Kinda-sorta but not really a concept album, noise opera or what-have-you, the final 2020 release by Bren’t Lewiis Ensemble is named after a one-eyed turkey from one of the many unreasonably vivid and detailed dreams that tiger-lily their way out of the subconscious of Gnarlos and make a grab for life on the material plane. While the album is free of all reference to Les Nessman, it instead jumps across time and space, logic and proportion, and intersects with scenes of obliquely rendered insurrection led by the titular character who, in addition to being that most ill-tempered of the class of land fowl known as “delicious,” also happens to be a superhero. His accomplishments in that role remain undetermined, as do whether they have any effect on anything, and if they do, whether it’s good or bad. No, it doesn’t make sense, just leave such hopes in a paper bag somewhere and move on. The group keeps things moving at a zippy pace, layering objects-only jam sessions, field recordings, guitar treatments, tape manipulation, and primitive electronic garnk that drops through the ceiling like a fat man stepping off the beams on the attic floor. You might actually omg aloud once immersed in this loop-saturated, collage-heavy snart-nado of dystopian pop culture and sci-fi, where Wanda Jackson, Lenny Bruce, Mr. French, and an ugly bag of mostly old hotdog water masquerading as a talk radio host enhance the spectrum. Not surprisingly, audio boosted from homemade internet videos, persistent voicemail scams, silverscreen classics, cornball commercials of yesteryear, old sound effects libraries, and thrift store cassettes abounds, while on the other hand, no one foresaw cover versions of Destroy All Monsters’ classic nihilist anthem, Edward Alderson’s delirious visions of revolt, and Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s gavotte-slash-inexplicably-affecting-lullabye-dirge (voiced with maximum creep factor by newest Ensemble inductee Commodore Slaiman and Jon The Baptist). Overall, it’s a screwball empire-toppling as heard through a cellphone infected by nano-parasites that are eating the transmission.


Alexander Ross - Grandfather Paradox  LP £18


Human agency seems innocent in this context, old-fashioned even, as if the question asked by The Grandfather Paradox is nothing simpler yet more unfathomable than “What was sentience?” But Alex Ross’s musique concrète constructions are indeed masterful; transitions too numerous to catalog -- thus making the album something of a quasi-psychedelic opus, a theoretical string knotted around cosmic lugnuts in a Jacob’s Ladderly tangle -- are flipped, flopped and fried, unless they happen to be clashed, superimposed mechanics, gridlocked with microtonal tapestries that recall the marching band in Animal House forever stuck at the end of a blind alley. Symphonies of texture unravel and reconstitute into layers of persistent memory that roll around chambers where the law of gravity is mere hypothesis. Decentralized fragments glimpse into bent dimensions where inebriation-damaged gorp falls between curtains of denatured screech. With so much of The Grandfather Paradox seemingly absorbed in its own autistic self-containment, lacking concern for external destination, totally committed to something as specific and unknowable as an old daydream coming back to life, conjured by a subconsciously detected aroma, field recordings of, for example, an answering machine or public spaces where voices are audible, almost seem invasive, as if loutish, oblivious aliens are dumping toxic waste and completely bizarre religious rituals in the middle of an otherwise contentedly secular diorama.


Duncan Harrison & Ian Murphy - Slow Lightning  LP £21

Sham Repro

Sometimes the old hands tell the truth. Cherry made it known some years ago that the cosmic hummus resonates. Bound by bread & blub High Wycombe Wullie (Harrison) & The Guildford Grouch (Murphy) took to Roedale Valley allotments some years back to sow the seeds for 'Slow Lightning'. Which is neither a split or a collab, but rather a love letter forged between close pals of the sonic ital. Let the Lions gaze turn the weeds to stone!

Harrison shows his delicate hand with thin precision loops and strange little snapshots. Scuttering gadgets wheeze ominous scents into the faces of yelping robotic kittens and the dictaphone player in yr mind just keeps intoning “let the low tide tingle, fella!”

Murphy proves he is no recycled revenant with a brave and bold bowl of text-sound tit pickle. Huff the high fidelity and let tribute be paid to those voices as they have teachings. The loops and the breaks keep it simmering nice, while flabbergasted turntables press cheeks with prime Bohman-esque yabber. Like Don probably never said “Let the duck honk rasp yr brain, man!


Willie Stewart - Ludo Is Fantastic  dvd £13


"Irish filmmaker and musician Willie Stewart premiered his documentary film Ludo is fantastic about Flemish artist Ludo Mich late 2018. An audio CD with the soundtrack to this film was released simultaneously on Stewart’s own label Hypnagogic. Now, two years later, Hypnagogic has released Stewart’s film on DVD together with a restored version of Ludo Mich’s 1972 film Arthur is fantastic plus the film ‘De Minotaurus’ by Chris Gillis and Rufus Mich, which documents Ludo Mich’s 2005 performance Excavation of the Minotaur. On top of that, a download code to the soundtrack of Ludo is fantastic is included in this handsomely packaged DVD.

Ludo Mich has walked and trespassed the line between life and art since the early 1960s. Ludo was trained an artist in his hometown Antwerp, where he was part of the vibrant and international art scene of the 1960s and 1970s. Influenced by sources as varied as Dadaism, Yves Klein, Piero Manzoni, the Dutch Provos, Fluxus and Situationist International, Ludo developed into an anarchic and subversive performance artist and a gifted filmmaker. With a keen eye for new developments in the technical field, he also emerged as a pioneering artist in modern media such as video, holography and electronic music." - Sea Urchin Editions

Bruce Russell/Gnarlos - Ruined Again  LP £18

l’Esprit de l’Escalier

Two tape pieces by The Dead C / A Handful of Dust gentleman on one side, using excerpts from texts on urbanism, recorded instrumental interludes, and electronics. On the flip, the side-long track by one of the mutants from Bren't Lewiis Ensemble combines fragments of keyboard drone, spastic violin, field recordings by Silvia Kastel and Joan Of Art, turntables, and diabolically uncooperative reel-to-reel tape. Insert includes companion texts “No: Your City” — Formulary For A New Christchurch” and “The Organ Courier And The Chinese Billionaire.” Cover art by Kate McRae. Edition of 200.


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - Moose  CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

Pointedly undignified improv is Bren’t Lewiis’s consistent tripping off point, the elements of which swap bacteria indiscriminately and form mutant heaps of questionable awareness. Fragments butchered from recording sessions — electronics, guitars, objects from kitchens and garages and toolsheds, turntables, loops, nonverbal vocalizations, and a variety of accidental and/or unintentional activities — spiced with nuggets plucked from the public domain (because any recipe with mayonnaise is not complete without raisins) are reconstituted with compositional prowess easiest described as unkempt; many of the tracks on Moose don’t fade out so much as wander at a leisurely pace toward silence. Highlights from the department of field recordings include the idiot neighbors playing their idiot drinking game, arguably gongable street musicians, and a time-lapse document of Warvette’s bullfight against the GPS in his pick-up truck. Gnarlos delivers the vocals on a cover of Peter Hammill’s “A Ritual Mask” with a level of passion rarely heard beyond a police scanner dispatch operator, while the reincarnation of Stentor himself, Lindy Lettuce, bellows and gurgles through a mash-up of words to the Christina Aguilera hit “Beautiful” and “The Light, The Sound, The Rhythm, The Noise” from Flipper’s second album. Lucian Tielens grins and bears it on a reading of execrable lyrics to an antique show-tune written to enhance the rich fantasy life of Coca-Cola salesmen. Thus, the end result is an album that’s one part stoned teenagers sloshing around the back of a station wagon taken off-road without permission, one part long-winded recollection of an erotic Tardigrade cosplay party, and one part endless loop of Linda McCartney’s synth solo on “Jet.”


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - Live At Pompeii  CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

Anyone whose mind was sawed in half by The Stallion’s liberties-hogging interpretation of The Wall released by In The Red stands a chance of not hating what The Bren’t Lewiis Ensemble does to the soundtrack to Pink Floyd’s legendary concert film (plus a couple tertiary Floyd-related pieces), finally joining us all in the noxious haze of daylight after a fitful four-year gestation. The hairless apes don’t come at it sideways so much as burrow through the dirt underneath and pop their heads out in various places like moles trying to ambush a housecat. Hands with no arms. Torso like a leftover chile relleno. Vulcan autoharp. Alpacas recovering from the effects of tainted codeine. A cameo by Darksmith of California. You know how it is.


{AN} Eel & Friends - Duets Volume 1  CDr £6

self released

a collection of 14 tracks featuring the following artists in duet with {AN} Eel : M. Nomized, James Bailey, Kapali Carsi, tendencyitis, Bim Prongs, Thomas Jackson Park, whoknowswhocares, Pendro, tENTATIVELY, a cONVENIENCE, Volodmyr Bilyk, samarobryn, Wilfried Hanrath, Delores Mondo Stash , Eisenslager. Pretty wild mixture of freak sounds. Cover & label art by Karen Constance.


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - Noncanonical Gospels From The Cult Of The Immortal Tapir  CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

CDr version of the above with the added bonus of Ace farren Ford artwork, two inserts and dried-tapir-blood tea. Includes three bonus tracks from Refreshing Hemorrhage.


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - Soiled Gas Mask  CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

“Sugar brings nice sweetness to the sauce” says an accented voice a few minutes into group’s third album of 2019, one heavy on the fevered claustrophobia. Disturbing froth and gothic Mommie Dearest shame dissolve in a dark woont piece named after Alan Wagner’s legendary milk-bath poster (a Freakdom meme-of-the-year finalist). Joan Of Art — in surgery recovery mode, deluded and paranoid from the opioid painkillers — wanders out into traffic muttering the words to The Fall’s tale of sinister government agencies. Turntables and contact mics scrape layers of hardened parrot mucus for nearly twelve minutes in an epic examination of the difference between phlegm and sputum. There are two field recordings from The Dome in Scappoose, Oregon, made at the end of BLE’s August 2018 tour (one piece came about when The City Councilman’s phone was accidentally recording while stuffed into his pocket, and the other documents Gnarlos throwing balls of goat dung at a poster hung above the dumpster by the garage depicting President Shiklgruber cradling a baby dinosaur rescued from the twin towers on 9/11). Lucian Tielens dodges golfball-sized blobs of toxins and revelations that flicker across the bottom of an apocalyptic bucket, propelled only by grunting and orally expressed distress. A freeway execution narrated by a helicopter-bound ghoul. A jaunty celebration of urushiol. Cthulhu crèpe. Hemotoma. “The Funky Chicken” as fetishist’s instruction manual. So much dirty. So much unclean.


Felix Mace - Boundry Situation CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

It began as an undefined audio project in Spring 2012, a disparate collection of software-generated samples and crudely mixed tracks. Undergoing the early phase of chemo-therapy beginning in Autumn of that year, Felix Mace recognized that his cognitive parameters were adapting to the industrial chemicals he’d been prescribed, a side effect that left the usual creative outlets oddly unrewarding. The only thing that felt good in his head was sound. Digital audio generation and editing, demanding minimal physical effort and offering disproportionately great returns, mainly in the retention of mental acuity and a healthy sense of control over his daily life, came to the fore: the tedious minutia of micro-samples; the joys of arbitrary filter processing; reckless mixing; endless revision to the fullest extent. No rules, no expectations, no pressure. After a moment of realization that what he was doing was vitally important to his well being, a mere project became a personal exploration of mental, emotional and physical responses to cancer and treatment.

Boundary Situation front-loads dense tangles of diminutive noise squiggles and mechanical jitters, with elusive roars always corroding the fringes. It progresses through corridors and courtyards of increasing sparseness and disconnected unreality, and concludes in the peculiar triumphant glow of Man Against Nature. Voices with standard-issue clinical neutrality (as well as one or two that are unnervingly chummy) reciting assigned texts, institutionally formal instructions, and answers to FAQs zigzag between panting, birds chirping, owls hooting, a children’s playground, jet engines, railroads, and other sound effects. Mace’s labyrinths of looping and filtering, woozy guitar noise backdrops, appropriations of folky acoustic guitar, R’n’B instrumentals, and fragments of sharp piano playing are elaborate, yet navigable and uncluttered.

Boundary Situation is a masterful hybrid of electronics and musique concrete, inspired by good ol’ fashioned existential dread, overcome by dexterous manipulation of its own alienating elements.


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - Loose Meat CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

Over an hour of viscera untethered! A cephalic card-counting snuffler memorizing the dress-code for visitors published by the Commonwealth Of Virginia’s department of corrections. Cranksters rutting through the neighbors’ storage shed and trying to power a homemade UFO with an aquarium air filter. Miscegenation of texts by John Steinbeck and Led Zeppelin. Foul seepage and damaged percolations. Toys-and-turntable spasticity recorded live on KXLU. Heat massage grimness. Gelatinous conflagrations. Brittle geekiopathy. A spontaneous gurnathon recorded at the fire pit behind The Dome. Lily McBilly’s WTF mash-up of the go-go-boot morality ditty “Teenie Weenie Boppie” by France Gall and Play It Again Sam’s failed-pick-up-at-the-museum scene. The 21-minute “Boiling The Grackle That Killed Suzanne Pleshette,” a live recording from The Handbag Factory in Los Angeles that delivers twice the juddering oomph of sleep-deprived space cats overdosing on bovine tranques dreaming of a laser battle with a hot water heater.


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - Unable To Suppress The Twitching CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

Exploring the intersectionality of spooky chamber music and the failures of profane janitors, unnecessary announcements from the futuristic lair of a James Bond villain, and bones of the southern skull. Guests include Dylan Nyoukis and Warvette. Studio material and live recordings from Pro Arts Gallery in Oakland and KXLU in Los Angeles


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - External Organs  CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

Simian incantations made of over-saturated squelch clangs and reptile-friendly textures that are smooth as a cheese grater to the back of the head. Hiding under asynchronous grinds and competitive echo sharpness, the five long tracks here seem to recede unnaturally, like reverse footage of a smoldering grease fire, or a predatory ballet choreographed for It Had Been An Ordinary Enough Day In Pueblo, Colorado. The ensemble feels cooked alive on External Organs, maintaining a rhythm throughout comparable to extras from Night Of The Living Dead bonking into a wall over and over again as if trying to memorize the bloodstains on the sheetrock.


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - Worst Utopia Ever  CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

On their fourth full-length album this year, the Bren’t Lewiis Ensemble charges into a blood-snake melee like public-access heroes the Ill-Advised Mutants Of Wrestling. Psychedelic euphoria and dread-poisoned torpor grapple all over landscapes smeared with swirling scrape bubbles and the post-hypnotic wobble that cleanses residua from an overdose of personality suppressants. “Very smooth,” as one disembodied and uncertain and completely inaccurate voice describes hopefully, “And somewhat spooky.” Punctuated by phlegmy coughs and metallic chirps, phasing in and out of common-area ambiance, this slow-moving travelogue through between-station grinds, animalist crunch vistas, and long-form dissection of beige respiratory gack rises and falls inside an onslaught of sinister machine drones that flay and smother everything with placid steadiness. There are multiple screech havens embedded throughout Worst Utopia Ever, where ghosted rescue attempts suffocate under the hairy mud of cross-eyed tape manipulation, mushy expressway pile-ups, and out-of-control clang orgies.


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - Taxidermy Frogs Copulating  CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

Over an hour of primordial muck extracted from the squishy lobes of these rurality-damaged urp-meisters. Bendier and more musk-slathered than a nudist farm trampoline, this Eros-preoccupied companion to the group’s upcoming Thanatos-exploiting The Inevitable Typo On Sheila Ostrich’s Tombstone applies electronic yeem to backward Marx Brothers opera, the voices of slimy novelty degenerates, and everything writhing on the tiles in between. Ample time on their first release of 2018 is allotted to reimagining several of fiction’s great lotharios -- Dwight Shrute, Ernst Blofeld, Mr. Magoo, and Rod McKuen -- as a cross between fascistic playboys and sex Nazis. Bug-eyed gurgles and clacks advance and recede with satyriasis-enriched determination worthy of a home-made installation of Rauschenberg’s Mud Muse. All buttons on the cookie machine are pushable: Moistened sputters, lascivious fwaps, cascades of dirty corn popping, weird grunting, perv huff, dejected shuffling of objects unaccustomed to the attention, and primitive electronic wub from toys and gizmos and manipulations. Salacious alien screeches serenade the reluctant, propelled by the percussive fiddle-faddle of incessant gorge harassment and creepy shoulder rubs. In master suites where violins get sawed in half by morning-after dental floss spat out of inflamed urethrae, Thundertubes and Stylophones grapple like surreal Greco-Roman tadpoles. BLE’s confusing, heavily mirrored demimonde, where everything and nothing is disturbing and inappropriate, allows the sound of children’s toys to infiltrate the needlessly elaborate hideouts of villains and make everyone uncomfortable on several levels. Keeps things spicy.


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - I Have No Idea What You're Talking About  CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

Percussive noises are a constant menace on I Have No Idea What You’re Talking About, familiar in style and purpose to crank-addled crutzers with guinea worms freaking out about dive-bombing bats that aren’t really there. Off-kilter loops and crossfades seem derived from a Waza Ensembles competition held during a calamity on a construction barge. There are more roadblocks in this twitching, raw-fi mess than would be present if Scrantonicity covered Joeboy In Rotterdam, it was filtered through Ichiyanagi’s Extended Voices and then re-imagined by Edith Hillman Boxill as an instructional music therapy album


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - The Inevitable Typo On Sheila Ostrich's Tombstone  CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

In Bren’t Lewiis Ensemble’s latest reportage from the front row of a nightmarish debacle no one would want to stage, Thanksgiving is a revolting feast of Pynchon-inspired cuisine on the front edge of an exploding dirigible, yoga mats double as coffin liners, heavenly choirs are replaced by glitchy, private-press inbreds howling themselves sick in vortices of serrated cubism, and people who don’t know they no longer exist are the only ones who cry “Mortality as home entertainment? This can’t be the future. Can it? Can it?” Harmonic disarray and sour electro-splat seep upward and outward like a disturbing organ meat experiment going horribly awry. Dense electronic processes mingle with field recordings of machines defective and dying of old age. Alarm klaxons and calls to arms do not overpower the soundscape so much as wanly ooze from some anemic sky sphincter worthy of an Arch Oboler thriller. The forty-minute “The Flesh Is Already Engulfing The Guns” crawls into view like a family of zombie executives exiting a fallout shelter. Nauseated screeches dry-heave at strings of metal scraping marrow-less bones into bite-sized chunks. Swarms of clinking locusts disperse above fields of plastic thrift-store detritus getting overrun from all angles by locomotives locked in emergency deceleration mode. Flightless birds elongate their synchronized death squawks and amplify their internal doom. Molecules of electronic corruption wheeze complaints to no one. Violins groan with the vigor of an old rocking chair where a corpse has been dumped. Unattended radios transmit useless advice. Drones and pulsations slowly fall apart and atomize, a mirror image of decay and putrid nothingness enveloping untethered astronauts. A portrait of the void, disembodied space globules and all. The ensemble's version of Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s poem “Assassination Raga” embalms all the stripes of the rainbow that is America’s creep-show optimism with congealed blood. That the album is released on the poet’s 99th birthday is not a coincidence.


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - Gloria  CDr £5

Butte County Free Music Society

What The Red Dragonfly calls “the well-mapped out, but slightly unmeasured, off-kilter nature” of Bren’t Lewiis’s (ahem) music welcomes overmodulation, sound saturation, tape hiss, tape decay, tape damage, room noise, and many an audio defect aided and abetted by AM radio, cell phones, police scanners, weather-damaged microphones and speakers, and anything else that could impinge signal fidelity. Massive tape collages dejectedly shuffle through hopelessness and despair. Percussion-only pieces seem to be aiming for regal, yet achieve debasement. Slowed-down, amplified voices reinforce the feeling of beaten exhaustion. Tempos come from objects getting dragged clumsily across the floor and field recordings of children, machines, and workers. The same mound of objects, electric gizmos and detritus from Rapture Piles is here (as well as some of the same tape loops and answering machine microcassettes), along with new recordings of throat-clutchingly spastic electric guitar noise, claustrophobic violin, plainly declaimed words, reel-to-reel tape, and more decrepit toys. Scandalously repetitious, enthralled by the arbitrary, and peculiarly deadpan, Bren’t Lewiis does all three in a minute and a half and makes it seem like a month. Comes with a reproduction of one of the original 24 tickets to the never-performed theater piece. Edition of 50.


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - F.A. Henderson's Casino Sordide  CDr £5

Butte County Free Music Society

Recorded in Portland, Oregon, under the influence of King Tubby, The Frogs, and shared fantasies about a 30th Century interpretation of Grey Gardens, the foundational spwahaohao of F.A. Henderson’s Casino Sordide could easily pass as the soundtrack for a demented, Justice-Schanfarber-hosted straight-to-public-access travelogue. The ingredients manifest includes: jumbush; damaged sitar; shamisen-type thing; kalimba seemingly custom-made for Richard Keel; suitcase zipper; messed-up log with big lead bolts, wire, and sounding gourd attached (like a Gambian ko that could double as a cudgel for a midget Viking); metal lid from tea canister; ScratchBox; air mattress pump; acoustic guitar; toy ukulele; flutish wind-instrument made of wood; Velcro; big exercise ball; bells; lychee-shaped keychain; metal ruler; plastic lid from a bottle of hot flash pills; homemade zither; cat toy; aloe vera gel; mild dyspepsia; and wood scraped with pushpins. These quiet, understated recordings are considerably gilded by overdubs of loops, tape manipulation, found noises, remote individual performances by farflung members of the group. Two mid-’80s tracks previously released on their debut cassette Make It Stop, along with new collage pieces, cast this album as the red-headed stepchild of Pork Queen’s Strang geeking the sort of quasi-shaman visions present on Buffy Saint-Marie’s Illuminations, covertly harassed by parasitic sociopaths, temple desecrators, and a language-impaired tribe locked in a basement long after the tornado has passed.


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - Dreamhouse Prison Of The Pastel Mafia  CDr £5

Butte County Free Music Society

With as many lop-sided bleats per minute as L. Ron Hubbard’s third annual vivisection of one of Anton Lavey’s goats of Christmas past in the parking lot of Dismaland, The Bren’t Lewiis Ensemble’s cave noise conniptions get spinal-tapped by indelicate incursions of raw, untamed electronic thrusts and stabs. Toys, scratchy LPs of old Vietnamese showtunes, various nube-tubes, the forced laughter of a little person courtesy of Werner Herzog, and kitchen objects are some of the reassuring soundposts in this chiaroscuro dungeon, blinking between the cavernous scrape of dejected janitorial tasks, the feeble thuds of someone or something getting dragged across cobblestones caked with layer upon sickening layer of effluvia, and tiny metallic splats scurrying like immortal tapirs from one corner to the other. Disembodied voices speak not so much to communicate but to keep the creeping dread of the speaker at bay. The damaged soliloquy of the permanently distracted gets a thorough examination here, bolstered by the weirdly spirited yelps of the doomed and murmurs from a decomposing mule born under a wandering star. Throughout their patched-together network, spastic clunks engage in intimate congress with mechanical gasps, chokeholds, grunts, and the struggles of the restrained, rising and falling in parallel with irrational wheedle pulsations and hopeless density. Remote controlled drones buzz in and out of view, according to the trajectories of nonsensical flight-paths. Peculiar grinding from homemade spirit-breakers (known in the trade as aluminum maidens) morph from dispassionate sketches of abscess-befouled meadowlands to up-close chakra punctures and hi-sheen abscess pierce to collapsed thunder from failed Russian barge maneuvers. Includes industrial expressionist collage.


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - The Armless Marvel  CDr £5

Butte County Free Music Society

This supplementary hit of the dark, bad acid that birthed Bren’t Lewiis’s Hard Molt (via elagabalusian section, according to the doula) wallows in a comparably jagged dead-end of monolithic schmutz. Skull-bending free improv waterlogged by tape manipulation, body-snatched sound collage, and gaseous disorientation; off-center guitar wobble impaled on spikes of fuzz; relatively meditative spaz-outs, household objects, tape noise, waves of fweemp; apocalyptic, maniacally saturated and self-engorged Echoplex; lascivious caliph vocals, the moist fwapping of a bicyle-powered chicken-plucking machine, field recordings, and disturbing phlegm loops; murky, impaired fidelity. More inscrutable than a murder at an old-fashioned smorgasbord. Includes industrial expressionist collage insert. Edition of 100


Bren't Lewiis Ensemble - The Thirteenth Century German Poet (And Who Can Forget Him)  CDr £5

Butte County Free Music Society

Rampant gaping immensity and pathologically polychromatic hoot from the BuFMS wing of Saint WTF’s Asylum. Micro-episodic tape pieces (with a head-spinning variety of appropriated voices, noises, electronics, music and sound effects) merge with field recordings, cut-ups, loops, improv, live performances, and a range of cover versions that includes a Korean plastic surgery infomercial, bona fide poetry, a book review, a YouTube waif, and Van Morrison. The group delivers pastoral yet alien meander à la The Way Out by The Books, spots of electro-creep worthy of Ruth White’s Flowers Of Evil, entertainment at a LAFMS barbecue, and a variety show extrapolated from the A.M. radios in the background of Firesign Theatre’s Everything You Know Is Wrong. A dazzling and peculiar assemblage. Edition of 50.


Lawrence Crane - Craniostomy Vol. One  CDr £6

Butte County Free Music Society

The founder of Tape Op magazine and Vomit Launch recorded and self-released numerous cassette-only albums throughout the ’80s, mostly passed around to friends and fellow noise-makers, consigned at local record shops, and traded with like-minded travelers through the mail. One reviewer wrote, “The echoing sounds, pulsating tones, and other space age noise creations melodically swim through the compositions, occasionally colliding in dissonant tones that pout over the rhythm, sometimes created by a fuzzy bass or Schroederesque toy piano rambling.” Six previously unreleased tracks plus thirteen selections from a half dozen self-released cassettes, with Steve Valin of Ziplok on three tracks, and Matt Mumper on the full version of “Beor’s Theme.” Cover art by Karen Constance. Edition of 100


Idler Arms - Kubelik Unbugged  CDr £5

Butte County Free Music Society

Forty-six minutes of slightly off-kilter, instrumental soundtracks for non-existent, noir-ish movies, edited from three hours of improvisational boombox tapes recorded in the late '80s by Larry Crane (Vomit Launch, TapeOp), Mark Evans (Fat Chick From Wilson Phillips, Uh-Moncst), and Lucian Tielens (Bren't Lewiis Ensemble, Serious Problmz). Kubelik Unbugged collects straight excerpts with no additional processing beyond modest crossfades; the trio’s spontaneously rendered squalls form a surprisingly coherent patchwork a la Obscured By Clouds, filtered through the atmospherics of 3R4 and retrofitted for a Doug Roberts-directed episode of The Twilight Zone. Edition of 50.


Glands Of External Secretion & Decaer Pinga - Tubular Bells LP £15

Starlight Furniture Co.

A no-instruments interpretation of Mike Oldfield’s epic instrumental performed by Glands of External Secretion (side one) and Decaer Pinga (side two), in which deficiency is the cornerstone. By intentionally limiting themselves to prerecorded tapes, field recordings, electronic devices and effects, out-of-context musical passages, and anything else that did not require a musical instrument to be played, both bands interpret their respective halves of this legendary opus with methods that seem to run counter to the spirit of the original, yet paradoxically force it to shine through. Limited edition 300 copies.


RRS - Card Funk LP £14

Cardboard Club

RRS aka Robert Ridley Shackleton aka The Cardboard Prince unleashes his first full length vinyl LP after countless cassettes and CDr's (and a 7"). Come and get yr card hard with the bedroom sermons of a outsider funk snack master. Lo-fi, lurid, lyrical & life affirming stuff.

Blood Stereo / Hair & Treasure - split LP £12

Discrepant Records

So successful is this split-LP at hoovering up every last atom of vitamin B12 from the listening parlor, it really oughta come with vouchers for a cobalt patch. Not that eerily smooth and slightly red tongues are totally lacking in merit — rule thirty-four and all that — but there are occasions when a person needs to stand up without fear of keeling over.

Karen Constance and Dylan Nyoukis’s “Six Soddened Scenes” effortlessly ushers believers through their funhouse hexagon like a couple of one-armed juggler docents. A plastic bottle rattles inside a lettuce spinner, maybe, and it’s more refreshing than a tumbler full of iced bees (docile when served chilled, but they wake up in your mouth); machinery grinds during upper respiratory trials in a sitting room, not to be outdone by the beauteous overdriven shred of Ali MacKinnon’s amplified foghorn blarf; scratchy Brillo remnants and snippets of Bollywood soundtrack hover above scenes of escape pods about to sink during the systematic decay of the mothership hull, each rivet popping one at a time. Murky woont, fractured lost-life howls, and tiny screechlets define the slow-mo suffocation of an audience of easily spooked walruses who can create a stampede of fat with the slightest provocation (you do not wanna get in front of that, seriously); monologues worthy of Jodorowsky make their presence known among passages of ivory tickling, typically judgmental chickens, and equine asthma demonstrations. The mockery of swooping ducks requires a heads-up, what with their air-bending wing extensions that emit gnarly death cries appropriate to WWI myths, digital feedback, bass amps, and the heavy condensation of anxiety into hard, hairy, sweaty balls. Lady Clackarella and her magnetic sisters pick at the metal washers under their skin and leave trails of ooze everywhere they go. One section, seemingly designed to resemble evacuation from the digestive system of a sentient cabbage, should convince some listeners that they are, in fact, Crohn’s Disease with shoes. Looped and cut-up piano slip through the haze of a recital hall filled with addicts vaping carolina reapers.

On the flip, Hair And Treasure’s stingers throughout “Juno Lake Loop(s)” remain sharp enough to deface one’s concept of space. Vestibular heat radiates from the mirrored walls of Alex Jones and Gonçalo F. Cardoso’s wobbling honeycomb — indeed, the contrast and activity of their montage rivals a newborn infant’s takeaway from baby’s first episode of Spongebob. Colored vinegar fountains immortalize the sacred gurgle; death snorts commemorate distant string ploink; an organ dirge is jauntified and reimagined as a drained-pond shanty; the flutter of rubber swimfin on facemask and the crackle of cattails getting snapped off provide the necessary dinner theater overture. Gag-and-raspberry cut-ups are peppered with Mirounga ululations; contestants joust blind-folded; volunteers regret having agreed to high-speed bandage removal; pizzicato ploink bouquets flourish like the bursting blood vessels in a drunkard’s last remaining bits of uncorrupted cartilage. Top-shelf grunts provide deep satisfaction; the appetite for deep-fried breaded chainlink fence is whetted by the scraping of the barrel; virtuoso paddle boing elicits titters and giggles easier than two nudists scooping cloudy oil out of a vat; the reed-abusive whine of oblique wind / brass / licorice protocols mimics advanced inhalation strategies for newly mono-nostrilled scotoplanes. The league of refrigerator-trapped amphibians assemble (heralded by encoded somnambulant chirps and sci-fi bleep bloop passed along via networks of malfunctioning baby monitors), and drift isolated in a gelatin cube where accordion–harmonica woont bends and refracts in delicate intersections of tropical weather anomalies; imploding treefrogs remain calm during their noble self-sacrifice for the greater good; the anal growls of a twenty-one-duck salute morph into pronunciation guides for… something (it’s encrypted, so who knows). The sound of Zugly keyboards rippling through corrugated tunnels indicates closing time at the Nystagmus deficiency theme park.

Whether you’re struggling with a touch of anhedonia or just feeling dumbfounded and angry, these two collages will knock the desire back into you. The blissful wooze of aneurysms proliferates inside crystal balls until they pop, scattering into stammer-inducing arrangements where you can’t tell what’s facing up and what facing down. If nothing else, Discrepant’s release of this pair of masterpieces of maniacally telescoped Scheherazadian novellas proves that freak-scrambled history is one worth living for. - Seymour Glass