Guest Reviews by S. Howe of Montreal: Broken Shoulder, American Dust & Brizbomb

BROKEN SHOULDER "the tape of disquiet" (tape your mouth)  C40

Old school organ note a la walking the cow accompanied by unspecific aluminum pie plate drumming develops into clone robot keys only to fade out with what seems insecure suddenness.  We re-establish ourselves on the saccharinity of a sonic youth-like bass line, a more developed synthesizer idea creeping into the schizoid picture.  As a personal rule, if the synthesizing instrument occurs without a decent filter (be it distance, archaic speakers or exterior registration) I am not likely to masturbate wildly to the album a second time.  Interesting sounds like roundish feline feedback and slight percussive tinkering transport the side to a wavering close and I am verily compelled to flip the tape.  I wish I was not told that this album was recorded before the glow of some ancillary hemisphere, however, as I am nearly able to sense, now, the direct plug work and sound forgery.  The cover is simple and suitable on a crisp, well-executed j-card, and the tape itself, which is regardfully  unscathed, is an unbelievable solid fuchsia color.  On reading the revealing curriculum vitae that introduced this music, I was able to recognize, decidedly, the tragedy of the situation.  Our UK sound purveyor has had an accident, the result some bunk bed mishap, apparently, but I cannot decipher a modicum of physical or mental anguish on either side of the album.  There is a generally relaxed type of decently cushioned chair-tremor here, nothing more at all relating to sadness or some form of distress (not that that is a necessity, but it helps). Brutal B side-listening this morning as I eat a breakfast sandwich.  The sausage is delightfully greasy atop a disc of egg that is slightly dry.  A stiff yet fresh English muffin completes a very average taste experience. The tape unwinds into a cleanly yet disturbing contribution to the one-note synthesizer revolution of never, in other words.  Sinew snap of radiantly recorded bass-fathoms embroider the sound of gimped artistry.  The highlight here, in my pointless opinion, is the awkward guitar needlepoint culturing the record's conclusive track.  I could wrench perhaps 2-3 more ejaculatory episodes to this one but without the enthusiasm of my initial hoist.  This audio cassette is about a broken shoulder.  30 copies.

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AMERICAN DUST "protector" (self-release?) C10

That was just a dream.  Undamaged electro-acoustic menage from the Midwest on a sturdy white tape with crisp gold lettering; an intelligent-looking, extra paneled j-card of interesting eerie artwork.  The title track is unmemorably astounding, a tremelo-adorned song of good tempo and placid fuzz vox.  The second number on this super single elapses like a disciplined tall firs treatment, unfortunately, drained of sincerity (somehow) in disavowing strum lag and misstep -- a lack of deprivation, simply.  I sensed a murmur of occult evil emanating from our lead vocalist, as well, the kind of psychic transmission one would detect in the company of a Hollywood magician.  Good female vocal harmonies herein, Johnnie and Bambi could share a larynx, so to speak, perhaps even a microphone.  The second side of this audio cassette unveils two tawdry dimensional innovations atop dusky tracks similar in cadence to the initial side. There is an encapsulation of the small town house band throughout this extended play, only singular here in the band's glaring ambitiousness. I could not help but picture, sides A through B, this band preparing their reverb quotient before four hunched elderly rummies in some wood-draped watering hole at approximately 6:30pm, maybe three teenagers in the darkest corner of the establishment dumping fair amounts of phencyclidine into half-empty beer mugs...curlicued runners and flaps of ripped moss like carpeting.  The final track is a shade of dark blue with despondent violin of a kind of bruised f-hole tweak and loafing gristly apex not really
expected from your average house band.  The sound quality of this cassette is excellent through headphones, but I believe it is more so a non-headphone album for your favorite uncle.  To my understanding 2 musicians in the history of musicianship are permitted to use the 'water effect' vocally without loss of rectitude.  Neil Young is one of them.  100 copies.

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BRIZBOMB (fabrica)  (C45)

A live alien mythography registered at Westside Welding and Machine NY in November 2011.  The languid, droning transpiration of a colossal cosmic vessel as you hear fuzzed helium screams of extra-terrestrial ghost-formations communicating paranormally, perhaps plotting a massacre.  Scenic second track suggests a populous disembarkment of said vessel and the dubious meeting of infrangible alien minds.  A wide synthesizer-sounding loop battle ensues round 3, diaphanous skin is peeled free as by violent telekinesis in sizzling amorphic ebbs and the weaker unearthly race is processed into glowing cubes of pallid blue and pink. The bountiful satellite now conquered, all resources are rapidly usurped by unimaginable flesh-machinery.  Side B: the powering of our colossal ship for departure, pallid pink and blue cubes are transported to its mechanical helm and ingested by a turbine of tumultuously flashing white light that strobes to a crackling visceral throb. Radio frequencies peer in and out of this voluminous miscreation.  The moon is abandoned, stripped barren only milliseconds before.  Considering the magnitude of the vessel it is rather quiet on desertion...something stirs secretly within its vastly ramifying fuel chambers.  It was a ruse, the supposedly weaker alien race suddenly reconstitute as one into a radiating collagenous mass and surreptitiously overwhelm the ship, ingesting its spectral enemies via a kind of osmotic processing.  You can rent this feature film here ( for five dollhairs; maybe build a paramount film synopsis of your own on listening to the puzzling magnitude of this odd cassette.  It is most certainly deserving in this regard.  Immaculately recorded on an exquisite clear to metallic blue-foiled tape with austere white lettering.  An admirable heavy j-card of enduring varicolored ink finalizes this
space transaction.  Brizbomb is one human and one 1.8 meter tall, 147 kilo (5'10", 325+ pound) rack.  100 copies.   BUY HERE: