Dr. Delvis Memphistopheles

Desiderii Marginis: Deadbeat Everything commences from inside a human firmament. “Deadbeat I,” enters the flame; a poignant piece of music, it flows nobly from the speakers. This does not merely open the proceedings; it ignites it. A vast cry echoes through a series of funereal forms, pulling in immense waves of melancholia. It is as though every abandoned memory has been enveloped into a single human fireball; now it is burning at the centre of an immoral universe. Mourning becomes exhilarating when it refuses to remain buried. Grief is firmly compressed until it generates a shockwave composed of pure bouts of light. “Mantrap” and “In Harm’s Way” carry the listener into a blackening void. Metallic echoes close around the procession, breaking down the familiar shape of the self. Injury is no longer remembered from a safe distance. It becomes the chamber through which any transformation must pass. With “God’s Shadow on Earth” and “Angelus,” the enclosed darkness begins to open up. Murmurs and immense resonances hover above the ruins signalling a loss that cannot be named. For the human in a freewill there is no simple salvation, but the material of suffering is refined. A weight remains, life is in retreat. “And Never the Twain…” holds opposing realms apart: earth and heaven, body and spirit, burial and release. Elsewhere, “Souls Lost” fills a division with voices suspended between disappearance and return. No one is rescued; each are carried forward in a torrent part of the flow “Deadbeat II” revisits the opening fire after its first combustion. A sorrow hovers, but its form has changed. What began as an unbearable cry now possesses distance, structure and repetition. It leads to “A Bolt Out of the Blues”, this cascades through the darkness with a filmic hum. “Beyond Retrieval” then accepts that no transformation can restore what has been lost in its original form. Something within has been destroyed, whilst another entity has yet to emerge from the remains. The tracks follow a sequence on the album, beginning with “Deadbeat I” and closing the original programme with “Beyond Retrieval.” Deadbeat moves from decomposition towards brief moments of illumination . Its ascent never abandons a sense of dread. It uses mourning as fuel, turning a funeral cry into music for the mind.

Various Artists: Salò, or The 120 Days of Sodom The soundtrack to Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Salò surrounds the ruling elite with the musical language of high end cultivation. Yet each composition steadily strips that pretension of any noble authority. “Son Tanto Triste” opens with polished melancholy. Its elegance initially appears to elevate the setting, but the images soon turn the refinement into irony. The music supplies the libertines with the atmosphere of civilised men while their actions reveal appetite, cowardice and primitive domination beneath the high end tailoring. The pieces by Bach, Chopin, Orff and Puccini deepen the contradiction. Their cultural prestige suggests order, discipline and spiritual elevation, but Pasolini places them against the addiction to humiliation and death. The music therefore does not dignify the libertines; it pricks their pretensions. Every graceful phrase enlarges the distance between how they imagine themselves and what they really are. Chopin’s melancholy becomes especially corrosive. Rather than humanising the persecutors, it roasts their emotional fraudulence. They defile beauty without compassion; everything is an object which has an orifice. Their taste seethes with corruption: evidence of superiority is displayed by those incapable of recognising the humanity of the other cast before them. Orff’s ceremonial force is darker still. Its grandeur exposes power as nothing more than a theatrical performance. Authority marches, declares and arranges bodies, but beneath the spectacle lies its own cadences of humiliation. The music gives power its desired magnificence while the celluloid withdraws it. Cultivation collapses into grotesque entertainment, showing how what is deemed to be aspirant is a delusion. “Addio a Pier Paolo Pasolini” finally changes the direction of the record. The soundtrack moves from the counterfeit deification of the libertines towards a genuine lament. Unlike their rituals, Morricone’s tribute possesses grief at the spread of the human abjection. It does not provide enlightenment to shine it mourns the snuff movie that flows in its wake. The record’s movement shifts from cultivated pretension to immoral exposure. The music promises transcendence while the images reveal a ruling class crawling on filth mirrored in its polished shoes.

Death in June and Les Joyaux de la Princesse: Östenbräun. FIST Östenbräun is not so much an album as a sealed room containing the residue of a vanished European nightmare. Originally issued as a 1989 collaboration between Death in June and Les Joyaux de la Princesse, its material reshapes existing Death in June recordings through loops, orchestral fragments, martial percussion and historical voices. The later CD edition condensed the original cassette and added further collaborative pieces. The music appears already damaged. Melodies surface through the debris of dust, locked in repetition, cranking  distant mechanical movement, as though discovered on decomposing film. Drums advance without celebration, strings carry sorrow without offering release whilst voices arrive as fragments of command, testimony or memory, stripped of the reassurance supplied by a visible speaker. This gives Östenbräun its unsettling strength. The record does not recreate history clearly enough for the listener to stand outside it. Instead, history becomes atmosphere: a contaminated inheritance circulating beneath the present. “The Congress,” “SD XXI” and the title collaborations turn political theatre into psychic debris. The grand gesture has collapsed, leaving behind uniforms without bodies and ceremonies whose purpose has become indistinguishable from death. Its use of authoritarian imagery remains deliberately dangerous. Symbols can expose the seduction of power, but they can also acquire fresh glamour through their haunting melodies. Östenbräun frequently balances on that narrow edge. Its ambiguity is artistically potent, though never morally neutral. The album’s deepest movement is from fascination towards desolation. What initially resembles pageantry gradually reveals itself as emotional frost. Triumph becomes an empty procession; sacrifice becomes an abandoned landscape; nostalgia discovers that the homeland it seeks was constructed from graves. There is no purification at the end. The record merely removes the banners and leaves the listener facing the human absence concealed behind them. Östenbräun is beautiful because its beauty has been poisoned, compelling because it never pretends the poison has just disappeared.

Raison D’Etre - Anima Caelum #FIST Less like a conventional CD album than a dig into the soft earth under the floorboards of human consciousness. Older compositions are drawn together and reforged into a sustained ceremony of descent. It leads to exposure of the primal matter and offers an uncertain renewal. Bells chime against corroded machinery, subterranean drones and mutilated choruses drag the listener below a tidal flow. Mourning and the Inner Depths of Sadness along with The Shadow of the Soul do not just describe the descent of grief, they flutter in the miasma. Each closes the door and allows despair to cloak the atmosphere. An aura is then stripped of its usual definitions until only the vibration of memory is left to undulate. Yet there is no wallowing, instead pale voices sway to the wind : each echoes amongst the ruins. With no provision of home comfort nor the offer of any resilience, pain is allowed to become audible before a diagnosis is imposed. Repetition of sound provides an audible paean to End of a Cycle and Metamorphyses announces there is no celestial receptionist who can stamp the souls passport. With a closure it is announced Without the Shedding There is No Forgiveness that whilst the psychic wound occupies the architecture. It does not oversee the bricks of the building. There is no instant redemption: it enters the darkness and awaits a shape to emerge. Heaven does not hover above the world it is assembled within the human wreckage

Radio FIST For Alchemists, Dreamers and Illuminators Come - enjoy the darkness 10pm-3am UK time

@JoshHalliday Hi Josh I have another story about Nottinghamshire County Council Social Services, the Mental Health Team and Private Care Providers involved in a major racket regarding elderly care. I have just making a police statement - if this is something you are interested in Regards Dean

Swans Birthing (2025) #FIST John the Baptist sank and cried into the deserted wilderness: an end is coming/ embrace the nihilism for redemption finally will arise. Gira steeped in Americana draws on this sheer bedrock of desolation - whereas the religious messiahs saw signs of hope - (for their saviour) - this album aims to birth a new….. Enter this world: Sink into the shallow pool of the brimming tides of effluvia: wanton destruction is being enacted for yet more piles of not so much wanted accumulation. Humanity is being driven to the brink of its extinction : seemingly it cannot change direction. Asphyxiated , the flames of annihilation are coming - they are lapping away at the most stupid of base lifestyles. The western man believes he is ‘developed’ such is the delusion: he is merely isolated and drowning. Here the tomes are set to epic visualisations, screaming drones are sucking out the air from dry battered lungs- distended voices sing their lilts into airy spaces. It is a heavenly picture of earthly hell: Gira becomes the soothsayer - ironic pastiche of a know it all pastor - earnestly lecturing his flock. The earth cracks asunder and new worlds collide but it is a long gestation. Twinkling as primal stars - the chants offer respite from incessant pounding - the pace softens and then Bowies heroes launches a fusillade. A message of hope is finally delivered in an immoral wasteland - Nietzschean Zarathustra revelries call for an affirmation of the carnival of life. Whereas the weight of existence aims to grind the individual into dust to reproduce the passive consumer: the new consciousness reaffirms the chant for a new man: enter the noble artist. The mark of a new consciousness is the re-creator of life: he doesn’t buy it - he lives it. But it means being aware of the mire when reaching for the stars.

Ramleh Too Many Miles (2000) A Spaced out rock is hurtling through the vacuum of space, fragments are splintering into - all-encompassing holistic vibrations. The universe is not at one. Violent particulates are embracing these cosmic sensations - they hum and quiver. Clinging together there is a pulsation of a golden heart beat. A beating is swiftly being delivered in tandem to the psychic throb of Gaia: this rotten feeling is being sent to earth - making sure it throbs and contracts. But then a dull growing spectre flits within the shadows of the mind: constantly it flickers. Verbal taunts are being shouted out: but nothing can be heard : there is blizzard of feedback showering the narrative. It is a disturbed world of paralysis that is being presented: fissures flare and cracks widen. 12 songs in overall are delivered - each strangely lulling whilst deeply unsettling / the listener is left to pick up the pieces with the warping of any perceived ‘normal’; feeding the listener a rock structure / then blowing it apart. The world normally viewed is benign: the world inside the head tries to impose order on external flux: this tears it apart. Most people cannot stand too much reality: maybe microdose on each tune before taking one big hit?

Walls Have Ears Sonic Youth (1986) Dissonance as art - the attempt to puncture the idea that the world is harmonious and truly endearing: the opposite end of the line to the US schmaltzfest. Behind the cooing for Teddy Bears and sighing for Momma, lies the ‘psychotic colon’. It is filled with indigested effluvia of over-processed manufactured mush. The owner is destined for an early death. Sonic Youth tapped into those life flows: the same vitriolic levels of anger that raged throughout the 1980’s pours into these sonic veins. Cathedrals of electronic squalls wash over a time of great economic dislocation: the world seemed void, bereft and without hope or vision. Reagan and Thatcher had stepped in; the future of humanity lay in constant acquisition and hoarding. Art later suffered as a result of increased patronage, with an audience suffused with growing satiation. As material conditions changed, so did outlook and demeanour. The raw energies of the 1980s dissipated: they became turned out into monetary signs and values. Hoarding then became de rigeur. Here the attempts to capture a world lying beyond the modern mundane: they are harnessed in free-flow jams. 1960s epic encounters between harmony and its antithesis - ‘clang and clash’ - shift away from hippy self-preoccupation around ‘meaning man’: instead they jab, poke and provoke in the slang of the NY punk. Manson, another west coast world away from NY - reappears as a New York Ghost - akin to Siouxsie sporting a swastika - the icon of great offence. The man from the Catholic run approved school who later took in the outcasts from lineages and the middle-classes to recreate a family - casts a long troubled shadow. In various guises he lives throughout these NY themes - the antithesis to the soft schmaltz porn of the 1970s Waltons. Death Valley 69 and the ‘tunes’ culled from the first batch of platters are given rough hewn live work outs: the electricity sizzles and soars. It prickles and then with the full force of a Boeing in a spectacular throttle : it takes off with pure levels of violence. It is a reminiscence piece - a bootleg later reincorporated into the cannon: accepted as a long lost son and given a makeover. It is worth its history to reveal a time and place where the walls may have ears but the ears were remarkably open.

In Memorium to Jhonn Balance…It just is Various (2005) #FIST Alchemical soothsayer whose imagination exuded a strong gravitational pull - magnetically he lit up the firmaments. The legacies of his existence are invested in his artistic expressions: these swing like lanterns within a grim life sucking universe. Alcohol culled his mind: trauma legacies eventually crept up and doused him in their darkness. Down he went into their depths: the world could not hold him. Balance was lost to entropy arising from the malevolent past gripping him in its grasp, then drowning him in its sorrows. In the meantime, a life was lived: the extent of the magnetic pull is exhibited in these 2 CDs. As a tribute or marker of existence; it is akin to a royal guard of honour. What is displayed on these discs is an imaginarium sparked by Balance’s brief life: it allowed a free flow of excellence. To experience its fullness it just requires a complete immersion: nothing is out of place. Each track captures a slither of Coil, only to regrow it on barren or luscious soils. The result is a thick luxuriant foliage, a demarcator of human existence. A variety of performers each contribute a piece to commemorate Jhonns life: the final result is a remarkable assembly. As tributes go - it reaches high and stays there - a fitting though hidden disc. For anyone into Coil: do not be afraid, this is a continuation of generating alchemical gold from the base human imagination: a veritable treasure chest.

A Grumh Silver Circle Under Plastic (1987) #FIST The aesthetics of flagrante filtered into ecstatic dance, a nasal rush, then a quick release of primal energy. Here, the mind fuses with the sonics to produce a collective trance: a fusion of bodies are writhing within a throng. The hi-energy drum-beat cackles and is nearly everything: the lyrics snarl their invectives for liberation - everything is banged to couple with a disruptive noise: the beat is being publicly transgressed. Gone are the gay platitudes to love and Cartland esque bromance: in comes a more violent sexual world. The beat is in the beating. But this is not just music for one/sex invocation: it moves beyond its initial purpose. It speaks for all. But it’s not the summer of love and moronic trance: it’s the sounds of cellar like basement clubs stripping hidden dimensions. A Grumh took TG, SPK and reworked it into a Front 242 pounding to produce a European sensibility. Order and disruption vie with each other: sleek autobahns are littered with high-end car crashes - rather than decaying castles and riddled with sin churches. These wrecks ride to the fore. In a return to the late 1980s: strobing the club sounds, bodies are glistening with sweat: poppers, smoke and mdma abound. Shapes ordinarily carouse the atmosphere: these tunes conjure up dry-ice and half naked torsos. Fishnets, leather and harnesses capture the eyes: PVC and Latex all vie for attention - now fixated with black eye liner, dark mascara and bright red lipstick: everything glistens. It was a time to be alive: latterly, everything has disappeared, fitted uneasily into the black hole of time. It will be interesting to see how future worlds can make or reconfigure this by-gone era. Does the music invoke - or is it just an empty shell? It marked a certain release from the past - but it is now fully entrapped in amber. Moments ideally lived are now in full dissipation : time waits in the wings: it speaks of senseless things.

Best of Bauhaus: Crackle Bauhaus (1998) A sonic exploration of an internal polar darkness: wrapped within this icy realm, there are wizened shrouds. Each are thawing inside: waves of intense emotions then pulsate and writhe. Each gyration is composed of ominous pulses - it chases a rabid depression around- at the end: it leaves dark stains crashing against crystalline sands. These tidal stains summon you in. Enter! Once ensnared they invoke new forms of depression - not the sullen forms which induce apathy and hopelessness. This immersion summons up rabid night terrors. Intense and pulsating, it drills into the mind , invoking imagery of entrapment, loss, and envelopment. Gothic in its epic grandeur, it reveals an epic tableau: enlightened words are composed to depict bleak Anglo wastelands. Winter villages, riddled with shattered lives are brightly exposed. In these epic wastelands: people are left silently wailing. These sombre moods are punctuated with a collapse into internal rage: overall, the end effect is both invigorating and uplifting. It is a true musical catharsis. The earlier songs are fractured, brimming with inchoate rage, twisted with sonic experimentation. There is a swagger, a lack of fear, but by the end these kinks were being record company ironed out. These 1980s songs have been remastered to bring out new textures, at least to my ears. They are beautiful paeans to an internal loss - if the mind is braced it is worth a re-visit to these 1980s dark entries

Swans Die Tur ist Zu (1996) #FIST The latter part of the second noble incarnation: Jarboe added feminine texture to Gira’s masculine brutalism - here both elements dissolve, only to re-emerge in swathes of sound. Sonic violence pulsates - allowing a dark melancholia to seep through the daylight cracks. The aim? A pursuit of purity and authenticity, exhibiting the ability to articulate a sensation without restriction: this is the mark of the true artist. It is the stance of the ubermensch : someone who takes constant risks and reflects back to the world its warped concept of truth. The ubermensch lies in contrast to the moguls sock-puppet : the mannequin who performs to a preconfigured template. They offer the general public Pavlovs preconfigured behavioural formula. It is affably lapped up. Originally an EP: this has been stretched into an album, (formerly destined for Germany). Later elements were reworked for Soundtracks of the Blind - the experimental disassembly of Swans collective music. Coming after the beautiful harmonic violence of the Great Annihilator, Love of Life, White Light from the Mouth of Infinity: this marks another transcendent moment. Drones, cascades and rhythms all avidly pulsate : everything has a constant feel of pulling the listener into its orbit- replete with outtakes taken from the Astoria gig (which I attended) - it flows throughout as a tidal stream filling a pool of consciousness. Cathedral guitar squalls lift the gloom - time is however ebbing and energy is being projected into the stratos - the sombre cadences reflect these time passages. Everything eventually will return to dust; bask in those moments of pure consciousness.

Merzbow Psychorazer (1998) Noise, free fall and free-form emanating in long sonic blasts - it pours and cascades from the speakers in a waterfall of sound. It purges the body, nullifies the mind, enters into the pores and then just vibrates. Most will try to fight it off- reject its intrusion and find the disharmony an alien invasion, a disrupter of ‘natural’ harmony. This is basic repetition: noise as Guantanamo Bay torture, but the trick is to overcome its flow. Instead when it is embraced it enters into the mind as a cascade of harmonics (in Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib it was accompanied by being hooded - just enough air to breathe). Here the listener has more freedom to move. This sonic violence can be shaped by the mind, then brought to various internal shapes. Merzbow provides a template for shutting off the self from the wider world whilst accepting its tonal intrusion. Clearly this platter is not for everyone - most will seek to close it down fast; it requires being in the right frame of mind to engage with its tonal violence. It is an ideal accompaniment for somnolence - it cuts out the internal nagging voice: instead it drowns it in noise. Then the mind becomes fully lost in the vying tonalities : hypnotised, a deeper drift then beckons. The eventual loss of the self is a welcome release. Merzbow is therefore more than just confrontation: it is about reconfiguring the mind to rethink the nature and role of Muzak. This is a destroyer of illusions.

Brave Timbers (2010) For Every Day You Lost A collective of sombre pastoral songs, all are hummed and strummed then gently plucked to produce wistful laments: each of them becomes reveries for a silent contemplation. Gently they stroke to evoke, deftly, the tones are wrapped within a swirling background texture, conjuring up a cadence of Anglo ambiance. Eno’s work is central to the 11 songs structure when they are played out in full here. They all display their inherent fragility: Memory, recollection and loss whirl within the tones. The expression of the human emotional dynamic range requires a shift from the strident, martial and volcanic to embracing the bliss of a solemn repose. These offerings provide an alternative vista to cathartic noise and/or embracing the chaos; they are not a replacement or a ‘progression’. Instead, it is about accepting the multiple facets of human existence whilst not letting one component of any polarity dominate the mind. These songs provide a retreat into relaxation - a feminine embrace for a masculine mind.

Einsturzende Neubauten Haus Der Luge (1989) #FIST The echoing sounds of time long receding - here is 1980s Berlin, now a historical documentary piece: fossilised as a specimen. It is composed of Germanic ire directed against a Neo liberal regime suffocating the populace in wall to wall consumerism. A pre-wall world was reimagined by the refuseniks: it was a symphony of angst , triggered by explosive rage. The populace were caged in by concrete silhouettes and Cold War politics. Within its revolving centre was a hot white fusion: encased in a hardcore shell - riddled with industrial decay - the embryo for a new form of beauty coalesced. Neubauten slowly turned the Germanic language into poetry: no mean feat after the barrage of public relations messages fired between 1914/18 and 39/45. The depth and scale of the resultant bile was long and deep: the only German spewed prior to Neubauten was couched in the shadow of war, drowning the historical legacy of any form of alternative culture. Music wise, the house of lies revels in different industrial textures, there are screams of fury, the these subside into melancholic regret . Comedic parody gives way to brutal assault- the devils all play their tunes. An evocation of drowning memories bobble and wave before finally popping - receding - then the cries emerge of cities under siege. Elsewhere beer hall stomps are couched in the poetics of regret: in a cellar the self disassembles into isolation, reflecting the dissolving world tumbling around. The rhythms of life dominate the album, it is about grabbing existence and finally making sense of the self. Everything is a call to arms to shake the mind out of a stupor and embrace an authentic existence. This was the Germanic message of Stirner, Husserl and Heidegger - along with the Frankfurt School. They lacked a certain poetry and aesthetics - this DaDa cut to the bone has an overflow of it.

Kondole Psychic TV (1988) #FIST Ensnaring the natural world, scooping it up and dividing it into ‘lots’ prior giving it a title: all of this has re-engineered the human mindset. Divorced from the natural world: nature has become fetishised, deemed another ‘lot’ to be gawped at. Alienated man then with pride gazed onto the world he had formulated - completely unaware he was connected to it. Corralled and monetised - the sea creatures that previously haunted man’s imagination for eons: these were imprisoned and eventually reformatted into lite entertainment. Whales, dolphins and other exotics were placed in water tanks: they were then expected to earn their keep. Perform to the human command! There was a childhood wonder in viewing these giant sea creatures being overpowered by their human overseer: the latter ascending as a lord and mistress of a solitary inhabited planet. This was deemed a pinnacle of human power, led by the elites who perceived themselves as Gods. Men have always lived in self composed bubbles, unaware of their own entrapment. This platter is aimed at dissolving this disassociation: ambient drones, cries taken from the depth of human consciousness: discarded sonic are all brought to the surface. Base and wondrous fragments are dredged from the human mind, unlocking the thought cage, this opus aims to liberate its occupants and listeners as well as the creatures. Composed of 3 cinematic tracks: each weave a tribal magic, based on bringing the debris previously shunned / back into consciousness - a template has been devised here for critical reflection. Art is about establishing a guide: the mass have lost their way, instead of living - they have built citadels to consumption: from this foundation they inhabits its walls. This offers a way out of the morass, not as a step planner but as a drift into new channels of thoughts

Okra Okra (2016) Classical Piano based music, underscored with field recordings pulling it away from mere recital to bring to the fore other darker textures - and from this point onwards: it weaves a background mystical atmosphere. The ability to experiment with a bourgeois art form - then bend its sacred forms - (Boulez as a guide - along with the early Communist pioneers) - opens up a headier pathway. This rests as music for contemplation rather than steeling the self for an onward drive / an Apollonian reflection as opposed to the will to war - With the twist it leads the mind astray: straight line thinking after all is a marker of the death of the intellect.

Throbbing Gristle Dimensia in Exelcsis (1981) #FIST Motor mekanik machine noise - set in the USA - rapidly it cranks up its gears, fiercely building into an electronic howl: out pours the piercing scream of dissonant feedback - (anti-Muzak) - the repression of a century of industrial chaos…is just grinding and exploding. Manchester and Hull - (the north), the first areas to be carved-up by the industrial barons who then settle the rural populace to back breaking work: kindly, they ensured machine rhythms were swiftly imposed on traumatised minders. In the 1970s all miscreants were then paternally soothed by the cooing tones of Radio 1 schmooze. Eventually the whole edifice becomes upended by a 1960s art revolt - (after all - it was only ever a con) - this brings the sonic violence of how the north was really won to the full fore. Whilst the softer sounds of TG have been rehabilitated - this platter reshaped industrial muscle power as we know it. It is heavy going - a rough fan recording of a chaotic concert, capturing a noise band which is imploding. Here Throbbing Gristle mirrored the industrial chaos back to the oppressed, naturally vilifying the oppressor: where their art became a funfair complete with a distorted social mirror (rather than a repose for languor). It takes no prisoners - contrarily it works its way back to the beginning of the project- violent slabs of noise previously for example erupting at the ICA are somehow repurposed - however the end is nigh and the final (first) circle is near complete. If you make it through to the end - feel the catharsis but if you don’t - there are far easier entries into TGs oeuvre to begin the alchemical transformation of the self. 1st Stage - Nigredo - embrace the nihilism

Kleistwahr Acceptance is not Respect (2018) #FIST Dreams and the distended sense of time, space and presence: a roving sense of dense matter is crushed on Planet Alpha. It fragments into powder and then is forever expanding into the eons. Or perhaps there is a burning ball: within its core are the sounds of long forgotten conversations, chants and cries - these are building into a sonic fireball. Beware of the capabilities of sound. The projections are endless - human energy is caught in an ongoing suspension: a sonic painter builds a sculpture in segmented layers: uneasy timbres are rising and falling. They are all caught here. It can either grate and make you go click, or like the Lars Von Trier film Melancholia - draw you slowly in. Patiently hypnotised and immersed the sharp jagged edges which are unleashed allow those repressed fragments of memory to arise and silently break off. Up they float encased in guitar noise - unsettling, jarring and distorting the blandness of the day - just when it soothes - it sends another sharp pain. As the violence settles in; then it begins to soothe. Respect the polarities!