A 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?

“Witches 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.

“Cursed”? What’s not to get?


S o u n d Clips: