C. CELL "U R Missing, U Destroyed From Inside” C37 (Abstract Tits)

Xenia Xamanek Lopez is a Copenhagen-based badass of many experimental hats, each of which somehow more distinctly adventurous than the last. & While other projects of hers focus more on drones or a choral base, this particular monicker, “C. Cell” draws its power from several disciplines including (but not limited to) Basinskian harsh noise cycles, where destroyed loop eats decaying loop eats dying loop, spacious narrative compositions of swollen distortion, non-beats, and live, knob-tweaking shouts into the void, and some good ol’ fashioned Skinny Puppy vignette worship, where nasty drum machines and ever-tweaked, tonal phrases battle to the death.

Not for the faint of heart, if this striking piece (to be ingested in its entirety) doesn’t grip you thoroughly, right away, may I suggest Taking your Time and zoning out a bit? The intricacies didn’t reveal themselves to me until after a handful of listens all the way through, but, once I strapped on the headphones, all the subtleties came out in full reinforcement; then I became a believer. Sit tight!

http://xeniaxamanek.com/urmissingudestroyedfrominside.htm
and/or
https://soundcloud.com/xeniaxamanek
http://abstract-tits.com/

-- Jacob An Kittenplan

QUEST REMOVAL “Preset Stealth / Wrong Wohnung / Furtim Vigilans” (Abstract Tits)

Gang lips melt psychically, ESP on vaporizer, bent ears to heaven, earth, then heaven. Chance chants and hovering lately, base emissions bear instruction if internalized. New moves, moving stealthily through conduits in condominiums, check the synchronization, check the patents, move stealthily. Transmissions almost received, encourage adjustment, adjust, receive. Reframe directives, levels dangerous and vision iffy. Vision compromised, mindwarp engage emergency agents aged acutely. Wrong Wohnung! Falsch flat! Exit strategy, max evasion, adjust, reframe. Crashes thunderous and through portal swift evac, superimposition confusion and nocturnal damage. Transmit, one to one, record, reverse tactics, abort. Check the cortex, retransmit, abort. No signal. End.

--Ryan Masteller

BICHON FRISÉ “s/t” C25 (Abstract Tits)

Quiet down in there, Bichon Frisé, I’m trying to talk on the phone! I mean, I love dogs, but look at these animals – what am I supposed to do with this? Do you breed them this way? I mean, my aunt breeds Lhasa Apsos, hideous creatures, so I guess there are worse things in the world. But still, Bichon Frisés are just WEIRD, and round, unnaturally round with their hair like that. Little yappy roundheads. So glad the “band,” I guess, Bichon Frisé is more interesting than the wacky-looking canines they’re named after. The Copenhagen quartet mixes noise and drone into an unholy racket that I can STILL HEAR FROM THE OTHER ROOM! Shards of sound pierce eardrums, pitches too high for the HNW crowd but malevolent and intended to harm nonetheless. I think, anyway, or maybe this tape is just the rallying cry for the inevitable dog army that can perceive these tones and follow their instructions to an outright conclusion. Sparkly, refracted soundwaves – listening to them is the sonic equivalent to staring at a light spectrum just slightly too intense for human vision. Pushes the boundaries of endurance. Worth the effort. But seriously, I can’t hear a word you’re saying because they’re still at it in there.

--Ryan Masteller