I can't help but think the mop-headed militant character on the album cover is a tongue in cheek jab at French noise enthusiast Vomir, who always performs his noise sets hidden underneath a kaffiyeh. Ironically, this scarf has become more recognizable as the fashion of a 22 year old hipster girl than the original image of Yasser Arafat and the PLO.
There are three types of listeners that will drop the needle on this one: The Drone / Noise fans of Swanson's now defunct project Yellow Swans, fans of elegant and classically-minded instrumentals typical of the Type label, and then there are those dance music fans who are as surprised as I am by beats surfacing as a newly integral part of the avant-garde Ambient / Noise / Drone world.
None of these three are remotely prepared for what happens on this album. Swanson decided to fuck with everyone here.
With a hynosis-like approach, he sends you back in time to that really bad tripping experience at the warehouse party in Detroit circa '95. You remember, the one where one of the dj's was walking around shaking hands with people, and later all your friends were talking about how he had dosed his hand with more liquid acid than you could possibly imagine.
By the time you were peaking you saw no reason not to accept the offer for some ketamine. Shortly thereafter, the lights were sizzling your brain like you were staring into the sun, and you were pulling on the side of your head trying to remove that drill bit that was furiously burrowing into your cranium.
All that to say this: Here we have blistering noise-laced techno. This is Jeff Mills, Muslimgauze and Vatican Shadow buried under 6 feet of Prurient and Wolf Eyes.
Remember to take your Dramamine and keep that gallon of oj on hand just in case you want it all to go away.
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