One of the most bizarre and assaultive records I've heard in a long while. This is particularly impressive because it's not really a noise or punk record, but in fact some insanely twisted hip hop from Australia. The label, 72826, has already compiled a dossier on their new vinyl compilation release of Syringe Stick-Up Mama, which I've enclosed below. 72826 is from down under too, but the record ships from Canada, so you US customers can ORDER in confidence that it won't cost too too much.
In early 2004 Syringe Stick-Up Mama, Latch Key Kid and Bag Snatcha formed a partnership in a mansion in Canley Vale. Within months they released a series of demos and played their 1st show at Rooty Hill Residential Gardens for Spanish Speaking Frail Aged. However, due to recurring altercations between Bag Snatcha and audiences, they played their final show at Caringbah Bizzos, and the group split up.
At Christmas 2004, although the crew had split, they released the album they had been working on, Dealers to Nodders. This was funded from charity rorts and stripping copper from factories. The album features guest appearances by Midnight Stabber, who Syringe Stick-Up Mama met in Borders where Midnight Stabber was dakking an 'Introduction to Post-Colonialism', and the wholesome Flora, who Bag Snatcha met at a Christmas carols sing-a-long at Northcote Nursing Home in 2003. Long since sold out, that highly sought after CD remains an important artifact of experimental hip hop from Australia and the majority of it along with a select few other songs have been rescued from obscurity and remastered for vinyl. Tastefully packaged in a newly designed sleeve; it also includes an insert with lyrics and liner notes. All copies come shrinkwrapped and affordably priced. Cloaked in mystery, little is known about the Syringe Stick-Up Mamas. Their violent and outrageous on-stage antics are now legendary. They were certainly pretty out-there and insane. And highly original. From Australia, no less. A bit rough around the edges, but severely kooky. First pressing of 300 copies on black vinyl.
TESTIMONIALS:
"Yeah it's off tap. The dopest speed psychosis I've ever heard." --UN Hun on ozhiphop.com
"It’s seriously bent. It’s without doubt the most twisted and fucked up piece of music that I've heard in ages. I mean that in an inquisitively endearing way... It’ll scare the hell out of anyone who hears it. You thought that Necro and his crew were nasty! Well, think again… Imagine if Curse ov Dialect were grafted with a Mexican hardcore Brujeria and then hooked up with the sensibility of TISM, then you get some idea of this madness. Funny shit. I've warned you. I seriously don’t know what anyone will think of this. It’s original and so flipping weird that I can’t tell whether it’s absolute shit or fucking genius. It’s unlike anything you've ever heard." --Blaze (Mental Combat Mag/Hype Mag/Next Level Records)
"Straight up the byproduct of years of shooting smack into your eyeducts." --stylelistiks on ozhiphop.com
"THIS IS THE REAL PSYCHO CIRCUS !!! I NEVER HEARD SOUND LIKE THIS BEFORE ... ITS LIKE CURSE OV DIALECT ON SOME SPEED AND HEROIN !!!" --Chukchee Blog
"Possibly the greatest thing Fragmented Frequencies has ever heard ever, in the history of ever, is [...] Syringe Stick Up Mama. [...] Whilst the rest of the album is an erratic blast of unhinged politically incorrect and at times verbally abusive socially conscious hip hop, with breathless and stupidly fast rhymes over inventive, dense and at times break-core beats, 'I Shit On Ya!' takes everything to an entirely new level. It’s a level so dangerous and inventive that the air up there is so thin that few ever get there, and those that do can’t remain there for too long. It starts normal enough (or at least normal in the context of this album which anywhere else would be very very weird), with a bit of Eastern European accented ranting over industrial 4/4 beats, yet then the real ranting begins, the music stops, almost like it gives up, knowing that it can’t even begin to compete with the genius that is about to follow. Or flow. It’s a torrent of abuse for the next eight and a half minutes, a' cappella ranting as the MC lets all those pent up grudges out, and it’s like opening the floodgates as we get swamped until we can barely breathe. ‘Cunts who are too weak to burn bridges, I shit on ya,’ ‘anyone who’s name starts with the letter a I shit on ya,’ he rails. Yet this is a far reaching totally insane and unfocussed rant so everything is fair game. You dobbed on him in kindergarten? Guess what? He remembers and shits on ya. No one is spared, even the ‘sissy’ who turned off the sound on the mic because he was spitting at the Empress the other week, or a pizza place who doesn't put enough spinach on his pizzas. That’s right, he shits on ya. By about five minutes his flow gets scattered, he loses track, tangents away and any semblance that this was ever music, and not just a random potty mouthed unhinged lunatic is gone. What makes it so great is of course that it’s hilarious and wrong, but mostly because there’s no censorship or polish. This is not studio trickery or even rehearsal. This is straight up pure improvisation. This music is blood pouring from a wound and no one’s bothering with band aids." --Bob Baker Fish (Fragmented Frequencies)
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