Fuck all this guitar shit

  • Venetian Snares - Winter In The Belly Of A Snake

    Reviewed by adam anonymous (bleed-music.com)

    <b> Venetian Snares </b> - Winter In The Belly Of A Snake

    Folklore declares Aphex Twin had a brother who died at birth, but it appears he may have just moved to Winnipeg. And gone insane. Hello to you Venetian Snares.
    For anyone new to calculated beat nihilism of the highest degree, perhaps the man born Aaron Funk (honestly! – amazing name!) is not the best place to start. Akin to a teetotaller suddenly necking a speedball washed down by two litres of moonshine, at best it’ll wreck your head. The less fortunate will leave without a face.
    “Dad” is enough to put the shits up any foolhardy type, and as dislocated tones recollect ‘I had a dream you were still alive’, the realisation explodes that this could be heartbroken dementia or a post-serial killing paean. Chilling, overwhelming, emotional.
    Then, picking up the electronica tradition of smacked-out weirdcock covers, Mr Funk tackles “She” by The Misfits and makes it his own. The results are ten times more ghoulish than the original’s schlock rock, despite being reminiscent of Therapy’s “Diane”.
    The elegant ambient bleeps ‘n’ strings intro of “Stairs Song” is soon disrupted by a hotwired fax machine blowing its load in mentalist fashion. It’s quickly joined by “Tattoo”, all looped violin (hey it might be a cello, but who gives a baby’s arse), drill ‘n’ bass and stuttering vocals fit to make the asylum in “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” seem like a good lifestyle choice.
    “In Quod” fires up and lets rip, surround sound percussion skimming off every surface with nastyass intentions; THIS is what the latest Squarepusher album should have sounded like. Harder than Richard D James, more focussed than Tom Jenkinson, more human than Autechre. So what we’re saying here is, yes, this drips acidic piss all over the big boys of electronica.
    At times, as VSnares peppers his machine gun electronics with indiscriminate abandon normally reserved for Arnie films, a real sense that this is all too much looms. Aural overload ain’t gonna be pretty, but turn this fucker up and indie rock will never again dirty stereos within a five-mile radius. Not once your very soul’s been ripped out, doused with gasoline and jammed back as charred smouldering remains. Funk even forewarns such events with “Yes Love, My Soul Is Black”.
    Obvious really. It’s your last chance. Get out now while there’s still time.

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