Coloured Vinyl in a run of 250 copies with insert and liner notes by Seymour Glass.
Tracks:
1.The Dog Lady Dreams With Pebbles Underfoot (for Mike Collino).
2.The Grand Secret Wheel & The Communal Crock.
3.The Lips Of The Bulb-toed (For Seymour Glass).
4.Four Ways To Pronounce Idiot
Nyoukis! The name trumps hot on the carved brass horn. Gongs crash shrill and slaves shriek aloud. You Sir! Expecting pure vocal gravy like on ‘Carrion Hut’ or ‘Hora’? Madam, perhaps the holy minimal strings like that Golem grey Penderecki served us on ‘Owl Tapes’? No. Nein. Nyet. Not the fucking case pal. Four measured tracks. Two dedicated to the cats that’s been making heads turn for a while now (Banana Seymour & that Dogfella exactly) but all washing up a new kind of psychedelic moss. Fresh thin tendrils, easy to snap, but determined to grow among loose grey matter late on into the next day, and the next and the next. Dry coughs and outta-wack piano chords play into Boy Scout bike repairs, ‘test the bell, spin the wheel!’ Hot air leaks from a perished rubber hose. With knuckles like hazelnuts, these sounds shine like delicately laid cobblestones, laid end-to-end without no fuss or haste, they are tram tracks. Late night thumps, ‘boof, baff’ and a lousy Soft Machine organ solo talks a Brighton raver down from gritted jaw oblivion.
Euro voices abound in tangled syntax. Verbs sounds & nouns renamed. Sure, there’s blubber and chunder…’you, you, you and me’ that’s slam-up-bang to babby titter chat for starters. Then the downs come in re-directed by taut tape loops making the ecstatic, grooving on the surface of a micron-thin bubble. The proclamation, ‘I’m right here’ leaves us in no doubt who you are sharing your damp bedsit with tonight, slurping up the old wine as red as pooled blood.
Another take on the stretched ritual. A parrot squawks underwater struggling for fresh O2. Furious eraser scurrying action is met with the stony silence of a 14 year old girl while apples crunch between strong white teeth. Our old friends, words, are worried and fretted in a dark experiment; turned over looking for new seams and valves to shuck and prise open like ripe clams until mucus-like muscle slips free and falls to the flagstones below.
This is a living séance with The Acrylic Widow. Wisdom from the Old Ones, the thin Venn diagram slice between frantic scuttling & sweet Miskatonic stoned.
