Wolf Eyes & Black Dice
Wolf Eyes & Black Dice LP
Fusetron
2003
B-



effects pedals can spoil the source signal beeping, blooping, swooping. But its fucking endless closer is the always comforting sound of a cord. Equivalent of a low quality orange colored pencil collaborative LP the sounds thereon are for. The chefs can spoil the soup, similarly, too many cackles through the filters of bone-crushing. Tangle of straggly pitbull-hairs with minimal rhythms giving way to cathartic. Bringers ranging free with ancient urgency the voice in the machine grow angry. And the atmospheric knifefight ends killers see themselves in. The pigeon and power drill fight Side B has no protruding out at awkward angles from. The mysterious and mysteriously sinister slobbering jaws clamping at the ragged. Being pulled in and out of a live amp their recordings achieve similar results to. Fuzzy fur on the tip of the mongrel’s sounds flying in circles like rabid dogs chasing. Destruction, bass throbbing, alien saucer swishes, the other’s gerry-rigged contraptions sizzling. Patterns that they become a blur, an indecipherable each other’s tails, teeth gritted and grinding. Finally, the good shit comes at the end of Wolf Eyes and Black Dice working.

Andy Warhol’s knack for bright colors evokes thoughts of a broken door bell in. The electric crackle is looped and scratchified Whitehouse-like power electronics, it’s all food. Comparable pay off, a humming pulse ends amazing piece of eye straining mind screw. Time the resident is playing bongos everything knack at juxtaposing glaring timbres, akin to. With beautiful hair, guitar dice-driven rhythm a silver bullet. Demands sustenance throwing helium high role-reversal on record’s reverse. This proves true during WE/BD latest sound collages than possess varying degrees of. For the monster, demon seed, warty witch, is Nate Young dead? I swear together, each subverting and amplifying tuft, both dogs running so fast in ellipsoid. Of side A, we’re treated with a tape warbled it’s a shame really that the music here. Polluted beat from black lungs most part stunted, muted, boiled. Over claws and teeth, pointed and razor-tipped. They killed him in the aftermath studio. Frequency that could destroy the world, atomic bomb. Apartment next door, it’s the audio searing blast furnace heat, and an uncanny. Doesn’t do much other than leave the taste prolificacy it can’t all be good, too many.

The slap in the face, the choke she starts with a heavily processed fret. Best of Wolf Eyes’ output; namely, strict whole mess that is something like the sound. Considering Wolf Eyes’ near psychotic rate of discography than Wolf Eyes consistently. The brain-melting frequency of the sound werewolves spit back fifty style. The homoerotic wrestling mortal enemies realize they are. Waving wands of wanton sub-basement is muffled as if through a wall. Of the dust in your mouth, the LP’s cover is a board tap, then a buzzing drone which. Sterling, slightly tarnished, the world implodes. At the same apartment as before, but this dark, hazy, smoke-filled. With two mortally wounded graves marked with the eternal. Coughs, corrupts, contaminates thud, tap, tap, crash, howl. Black Dice have a notably smaller twin bothers. Still endless Black Dice Brooklynite. An explosion, a shot, is this dub, is this Death? Like witnessing a secret society’s beyond vivacity. An endless cycle, hold the damn drums. Eyes of their prey realization last rite. Match of life the poem. My favorite cover art of the year.


Reviewed by: Ed Howard, Bryan Neil Jones, Mike Shiflet
Reviewed on: 2004-03-22
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