ninehertz

Sly & The Family Drone have been irritating and mystifying audiences nationwide for a while now. I'm yet to witness their singular vision, but apparently their live shows are a thing to behold. With the drum kit broken up into skeletal remains, audiences provide the clatter and smash that accompanies the band's static oscillations and ghost sounds, which must create a tribal and atavistic scene.

A choice quote in their press bumf comes from the Basingstoke Gazette, simply stating 'worst live band in the area'. If that's not encouragement, I don't know what it is.

Unnecessary Woe then is the band with the audience removed, but the drum fragmentation complete. Pieced together in an industrial unit, you can hear the sonorous, dry and rusty atmosphere from the off. Handed Cack is Tom Waits' What's He Building In There? updated to post X-Factor times, half drones, shimmering cymbals and bumps and scrapes that create an unpleasant and cold experience but one you'll want to delve into again just to work out which noise is which. Is that a sink dripping followed by a clapped-out mailing machine? The grasped fragments of voices manipulated and repeated certainly are haunting. Like Salad Fingers come to play you his record collection.

Grey Meat takes on a more formulated feel, there's the creeping and insistent percussive pulse under this that brings to mind laptop-bothering static fiends Fuck Buttons, but in a more organic and spittle-flecked manner. It elevates into a kind of high pitched drone and cymbal whirlwind, the sound of what seems to be several kits being pounded at once carries on for an eternity, but it remains listenable at least.

The excellent if a little long-winded A Man That Could Look No Way But Downwards, With A Muck-rake In His Hand follows and spans an almighty twenty minutes.

About halfway through they all scream at once, which is horrible.

Drums pound on and on, I don't like this any more.

A burbling radio sounding not unlike the scary bits from Silent Hill crackles away somewhere underneath.

Pressure-cooker like repetition grinds away at your mental state, eroding what semblance of reality you have left.

This is getting unbearable.

I'm going to stop now.