rumble nowhere near a jungle, a tumbleweed of sub-sonic
rhumba cascading across Netto’s car park at dusk.
Subtly shifting plates of noise^horror nuzzle through each
other like horny eels. You’re along for the ride,
and Mummy, you don’t like it. Drone, Noisewhore Drone,
Industrial Pierce<rock, don’t wasps have Queens
too?What are they UP to in there?
Are Proud” by Pleas boasts a 70-minute sickfuck calvacade
of sideshow dissonance, parading by like the stink that
trails a pitchfork-wielding lynchmob with hard-ons as they
stormtroop through your sleepy village. That house at the
top of the hill, the really really last one on the left,
will burn long into the week.