Somewhere in the sonic smut cellar - built on top of an ancient native burial ground - of the decrepit Mtl art motel where Fucked Butter's music resides their is a shaman mystic mining dirges of its dank depths. Synth-slime slit open by faux Frithian ultra-chorus jagged wryffing. A demonically debased Sage, like Greg without the clarity Wipers gave. Analog as analogous to a filmy fuzz of future's fog; misty-eyed from mystifying mental mold... When I saw this performed at Pop opening for YT//ST the stage banter consisted of such great lines as "this next song goes out to a friend who isn't here, but if she were here, she'd be outside smoking" and "who knew southern Ontario is now southern California". Then it got vicious.
Basically, this shit is fucked.
By far one of the best releases this year.
No comments:
Post a Comment