Posts Tagged ‘Blackened hardcore’

Panurus Productions – 2nd May 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

Northern noisemongers Belk are no strangers to the virtual pages of Aural Aggravation: I personally first caught them live as a duo back in 2021, when I remarked in my review that as fierce as they were, they might benefit from some bass. I could never have imagined just how much. These days, their sound is dominated by some juddering low-end that’s practically arsequake. It’s as if they thought ‘you want some bass, eh, bastard? Here’s some fookin’ bass. BOWWWWWWWMMMM’. They’ve certainly evolved over the last four years – but what that means, in real terms is that they’ve developed methods of making noise that’s even more nasty and gnarly and generally unkind to the eardrums. This is a good thing, and ‘Flayed’, the first of their two contributions to this split release is a beast. It has a definite and undeniable sense of swing to it, a swaggering groove that’s somewhat unexpected. But what is expected – and delivered – is a crashing riot of noise, a juddering wall of distortion, squalling, dirty guitars, drums blasting at a hundred miles an hour and guttural vocals half-submerged by the swirling chaos, with tempo changes galore and simply all hell happening at once inn explosive, brutal frenzy.

‘Cloak of Bile and Oil’ begins a little more gently – and for a moment I’m reminded of the intro to Fudge Tunnel’s ‘Hate Song’, which inevitably bursts into shards of incendiary sludge and squall – and sure enough, so does this, the extended intro giving the deluge of noise even more impact when it finally does arrive. They describe their style as ‘Blackened Leeds Hardcore’ and this must surely be a definitive example of what that means.

Casing are an unknown quantity, and their two contributions are brief – the longest piece is just over two minutes in duration. The sound they offer is certainly no less abrasive or disturbing. There’s nothing to indicate what the initialisms of the song titles actually mean, but the electronic excursion which is ‘L.U.A.N.L.B.’ begins with some rumbling dark ambience, soon rent with the wail of siren-like feedback, before a wall of harsh noise distortion swells like a tsunami and swallows everything. In contrast, ‘D.T.H.D.T.C.’ launches headlong into a gut-churning blast of manic grind, with a nauseating bass churn to rival that of Belk.

What it lacks in duration (the four tracks have a combined running time of less than eight minutes), this release more than makes up in devastating intensity. Mission accomplished.

AA

cover

Panurus Productions

Christopher Nosnibor

The text accompanying this ultra-limited and micro-niche release forewarns of ‘Blackened hardcore that follows three simple rules:

1. Do you remember earth, fluid, accident, stone and teleport? Perhaps

2. And the smell, a blade under the water three floors up, correct? Yes

3. And fresh marble lines submarine quarters, but they kept asking you about a garden you imagined some months ago now? A back garden in a terraced house, yes, built like stairwell, garden on each step

The figure, the face, the temple I knew of before recording this record. Some months post and now I understand why a mansion. Walking the body until it knows naturally to consume.’

The cryptic final paragraph, I don’t claim to comprehend, but the result is a five-track cassette with a running time of ten minutes with a lot of block caps. It’s also harsh, noisy, and brutal, and in the tradition of all things black and blackened, the production is from the toilet and the playing is at a thousand miles an hour. The result is a churning blur of gut-churning guitars and drumming d fast the individual beats melt into an oozing morass of pulverising thunder.

‘A VISION OF THE ROTATING MUSCLEMAN BETWEEN THREE COBRAS’ begins with some banal spoken-word monologue about trousers before exploding in a barrelling blast of dirty noise and shattering feedback.

The longest track has the longest title, and ‘A CELEBRATION OF THE CAREER OF A SKELETON THAT PLAYED BASEBALL AND BEAT PEOPLE UP AT THEIR HOMES’ is a brutal and blistering assault. It’s three minutes of battering, harsh noise that emerges from a billowing build-up of amorphous noise disturbance that churns and scrapes and glitches and funnels, before breaking into one final tumultuous thrashabout. There may even be vocals in the dank morass of overloading noise, or there may not: it all melts into a dingy sonic mudslide. Perfect.

AA

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