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The impenetrable fogbank of silence fiction quietly leads into the surreal surroundings.
two green jumpin' dragoons powers up into a pulsing, rumbling, shimmering, sputtering soundstream, which shifts into a more crisp, sporadic mode of operation, buzzing out finally. The random clunks of piano aqueux are flooded with roughly intertwining strands of flutter/ruffle/rumble.
Noisier squeals, buzzing static and woofer-shaking subfrequencies bare grotesque wounds; the track subdues, revealing an almost flute-like musical pattern.
des fois j'attends vite (1:40) could be some kind of submolecular recording, capturing the soundspace between the electrons of an irradiated atom.
Faltering rhythmic pulsations and step-like thumps permeate the growing energy-haze of il faut allécher le coiffeur.
What sounds like tiny pebbles being dropped into a pan, transforms into something mechanical-yet-airier, as leipzig zig spoutnik's thrumming core begins to spiral with dense, smoky swirls and feedback-like coils. Another pulsating vortex,
mononoise glimmers with a strange gritty beauty.
tes mots insultent le silence is an audio-aroura-borealis of keening shrillness rippling over a smoldering bed of darker undertones, laced with rhythmic static.
ce soir, c'est la samba du démon slips in on almost subaudible frequencies that are felt by the eardrum more than heard. The disc reaches a crazily chatoic crescendo with the cut-and-paste collage of
farsifalafel/heavy metal (11:37); cyclic bloops, gaseous hissing, clockwork mechanics, quavering frequencies, grungy blasts, machine-like drones, seismic shifts and other disjointed shards emit from this spouting geyser of noise. The frenetic hodge-podge is, strangely, not as overbearing as that description might imply.
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