"Wallowing in Excrement & Lost Horses"

Some sadomasochistic reverberated pulsating depth charges hit the depths of the ocean, like real Canto 48 level inferno, you're surrounded by these pieces of shit level anxiety. They're occasionally accompanied by motorcycle Doppler effect diminuendo being interpreted by some type of demonic strobe light whoopie cushion.

Intermediately through the ominous haze and bottom feeder sand clouds of mink carcass pollution and unknown yet to be discovered additions to the periodic table colliding with toxic waste gets all these luminescent monsters of the deep sea PCP level high, real uppers, which is nothing to say of whatever God knows what which was just flushed down the toilet at the Chinese spice synthetic pot factory. Stoplight Loosejaws with jagged fangs, oversized dislocatable jaws and teeth in their throats, a Humpback Anglerfish lingering between the Abyssopelagic and Hadopelagic zones ... ready to pick a fight with whatever lies at 12 'o' clock.

A gurgle accidentally squeaks through this sonic forcefield of a radiating death wall, exposing a victim for a half second. But the sound quickly drones away back into UFO abduction sonic abstract noise.

Tribal drum patterns can be heard in the distance played simply and stoically. They are gathering volume to sonically illustrate and exemplify their approach.

Airplane engines, lawnmower motors, contact microphones and plexiglass, God's moan - old testament wrath invoking, snare drum & sheet metal, automation accompanying the immortal angst of the slave to the grid and the grind. Contemporary urban electronic anxiety. Post-industrial.

Ah fuck, what is that? A dissonant chord from a Cello? It's some type of creaky pirate ship oak on steel being gently rocked by a windless current somewhere in the baltic.

The cassette tape skips and the side turns. This brief end from this impressive harsh noise tape snaps you back to reality and out of the deep ocean hell.

Before you know it, you're tripping acid at 6:45AM while on your garbageman run. The Moby Dick nightmare was a disillusion, a daydream. Those Humpback Anglerfish were the maggots that just spilled on your work gloves and stained wifebeater as you craptastically thrusted a half broken trash bag into the compressor with your bad sprained wrist hand.

Luckily, at least you got Twin Whips 2 song cassette in your walkman. At least you're a CASSETTE GOD! At least you're still alive and stoned inside, feeling the wind and maggots in your garbage hair.

Any Cassette God noise boy or girl would love to add TWIN WHIPS to their audio collection.

-- Jack Turnbull