One section of Papal Syrup, or at least one section of what I think is the first track - although I could be wrong - features some disc jockey failing to pronounce the name of the artist, or band, but probably artist. I can't pronounce it either, although it looks like kwoffn't to me, assuming that the p is silent and because the n looks like it should be h. I haven't been entirely sure what to make of previous Quougnpt releases, despite myself having now been sampled on at least two of them, but as I primed my Discman in readiness for the morning constitutional, it was either this or godspunk volume twenty-three; and because godspunk volume twenty-three appears to feature UNIT bravely taking a stand against the tyranny of labour unions - because you know those all-powerful labour unions have the entire western hemisphere by the bollocks right now, I chose this; and rather than making no fucking sense whatsoever, I've now played it four times today. Actually, it still makes no fucking sense whatsoever but I've been listening to the thing regardless.
I've thankfully managed to forget what sort of massively wanky name we used to have for this kind of thing - we here meaning everyone except me - not plunderphonics, but something in that direction. Anyway, I Worship Inertia is, I suppose, sound collage but with significant emphasis on spoken word, and particularly on juxtaposition of the spoken word to form a narrative which feels as though it should make sense but doesn't. It's the sort of thing which sounds quite easy if you have some sort of audio editing software on your PC, but is actually quite difficult to do well, or to do this well; and although the theme might arguably constitute gibbering random insanity, it feels as though the album is having a particularly weird dream and is mumbling to itself in its sleep. There's a sort of logic there. I'm sure you're waiting for me to mention Nurse With Wound, so here it is, and it doesn't really resemble Nurse With Wound so much as the Radio 4 afternoon play impersonating an album by the same; but different, possibly.
For something so heavily reliant upon stolen lines of dialogue, I'm impressed that I recognise only myself and Chris Morris, meaning I'm probably not quite so steeped in junk culture as I thought. Greatest moment so far, aside from there being a track called Wombat Arse, is probably:
I've made you a drawing of a giraffe fucking an elephant. Notice how his mustache looks just like mine.
If that doesn't convince, then you probably should have stopped reading three paragraphs ago.
No comments:
Post a Comment