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 New York’s Blowtops
play dismembered nightmare sci-fi blues-grunk like a disease from
a William Burroughs novel infesting John Spencer and causing him to tear
through his early records and cut and paste them back together on top of
and underneath Shellac. As comic book fans might mutate into graphic novel
nuts I can imagine these chaps holding down day jobs in bookstores and
chemists before clocking off to return to their rehearsal lair deep down
in some desolate part of the city like suburban superheroes of squat,
where they obsess over B-Movies and inject strange radiation dust and plug
into their music machines to make this robotic yet free-form, random
regurgitation like a regimented Royal Trux but with the alien sex appeal
of insect repellents. Often, as on ‘Black Jebus’ and ‘Eight-Eyed
Awakening’ songs jitter all over as though the frequencies from an
electro-shock therapy patients ECG are wired up to their
instrument-holding hands and they are mere conduits for some other entity
that’s rapidly losing control under the polluted New York sewers.
Unpleasant and unpalatable, ugly and brutal. But that never stopped The
Fall.
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