Friday, August 28, 2009
Pyroclastic Pontoon Quintet - S/T (Unverified Records CS)
Now here's a sleeper. Another one from that last Unverified run, this number is apparently the brainchild of the head of Scumbag tapes, though I suspect the quartet claimed to be in tow here has actually been left behind in the riptide quite a ways back. And I only say that because this is some seriously lonely, claustrophobic stuff, an empty little keyboard excursion with blown feedback whispered beneath.
Opening side is as dank and deep as the mysterious cover fetus suggests, like some tiny little worm feeding off some vent 20,000 leagues deep. Never seen a ray of light other than the glow given off by itself when it's after some equally solitary female--that or going in to confuse its microscopic prey, blinding its dinner before absorbing it. Not much happening here at all, but a world of sounds folded in anyway, with slow and steady little warbles of the keys squiggling between the masks of blackness and the feint outlines of hot water currents sliding above the colder, saltier residings of this lowly sea slug. And then it's gone before it even leaves a mark.
Flip side finds total reentry into the same prehistoric spot, the next generation if you will. Like this stuff just keeps going and going through the millenia, unchanging as its so perfectly suited to its function beneath the waves. And we thought we were the best adapted? These dudes just live their little lives over and over, mirrors of one another, from past to present to future to some post-Earth asteroid induced emigration which they'll obviously survive and flourish through anyway. Little fuckers are the definition of time. And eventually, when some big tuna carcass slides past the un-attentive eye of carnivore large and small alike, down into the dark and, one chance in a million, right into their living quarters, the worms join up to indulge, each little key patter furthering their appetite and each little crunch the sound of a million teeth tasting the energy of the distant sun. Ritual moistness, nice and lonesome stuff, totally killer.