TERRIFIC TEAM-UP: HYPERWUMP (MODWUMP MEETS HYPERCUBE) COSMIC SWIRLY THANG

What happens when Modwump (Craig Manga) teams with Hypercube (Rodrigo Passannati)? A "post ambient trauma" rises in the guise of Hyperwump, and from that merger Cosmic Swirly Thang springs (courtesy of Black Box Recordings and Band Camp). 

And man, oh man, is Cosmic Swirly Thang ever one helluva killer LP: so sweetly nightmarish that it'll have one writhing in its many dark avenues, as it sounds on one level fierce and on another, plain damn clammy.

The title track does, in fact, define it. It's certainly swirly, but also big, banging, crude yet all so smooth in its pop-ulating groove. It references a battered brain or cut gut, but in either form, inciting no regrets: a bodacious blend that hurts so bad, it's goddamn good.

Its (arguable) spiritual companion piece, "Quantum Pop Hit" and its "Ian Haygreen RMX" counterpart are as provocative, and though I can't pretend to know what what they mean, I'll sure say this: They friggin rock, albeit in taunting, torturous ways.

In fact, they not only torture and taunt, their calamitous climate grows creepier as they roll, simulating the far-out noises of Frankenstein's lab, with snappy sparks and trippy gears, though I suppose their ingredients could just as well be ascending from the blood-slurping corridors of Dracula's castle. In either way we get a macabre duo that covers the dark, iconic bases: the LP's evident intent.

Other sounds are more alien. In the case of "Cosmic Peel" and its chilly "Station Zero RMX" sequel, one gets the impression of a monstrous takeover, their percussion inspiring visions of marching War Machines and blasting Heat-Rays. To accompany their beat, "Unidentified Sonic Object" sculpts an extra-terrestrial beast flopping from a crusty cylinder, ready to exterminate; and its "Humberto Alvarez RMX" multiplies the militant Martians a hundredfold. "Thora X", on the other hand, details a ferocious, faraway landscape upon which humans haphazardly land: a slimy, dangerous variant of what Mario Bava or Ridley Scott would paint. 

If the latter tracks are, in fact, alien-based, then there are others that reflect science fiction of a different kind. "Betamax Killed the Videostar" presents a melody for  high-tech transference (cool, old-school, "Alphaville" stuff for sure). "Gas Addicts" and its "FLVZ RMX" constitute "Betamax'"s cathartic aftermath, with computerized explosions that might usher Logan and Jessica into their long, fateful run; while "Metal Submarine Music" and its "Liam Boyle Fucked Up RMX" are unabashed Jules Verne/Captain Nemo-fueled: judgmental dictations to set a wayward world right. Oh, and the groovy, "Cosmic Swirly Thang's gIRL RMX" by Dan Svrc is a Cherry 2000 rendezvous turned tight: switched on, that is for hard, surreal delight. 

Two, additional tracks prove more so amorphous (and because of their singularity, perhaps smack of the title track). For example, "Roswell Fantasy Chennel"--and its "Seigfried Grundmann RMX", "Frankie Machina RMX" and "Henri Sizaret AkA Auto Reverese" trilogy--could be backdrops for a series of exotic, profane executions; whereas "Fat Ugly Boy Cuts a Rug" and Ian Cahill's rowdy "Comfort Within Noise RMX" spit of sadistic self-sacrifice: people hurting themselves or even others for the sheer, sick sake of it. In any case, we still get prime-choice examples of terror, even if they're much more open-ended in scope. 

If Cosmic Swirly Thang is any indication of what Manga and Passannanti can stir, I'd sure feel gypped if they didn't sequelize, but for now, I'm just pleased to ruminate the rude compilation that stands--and so should you!

Swirl that Hypercube thang at 

https://blackboxrecordings.bandcamp.com/album/cosmic-swirly-thang?fbclid=IwAR33q8N1WFQBTUsghrCZkLnYgulAllCcTkM43Bcc2v6wd6JZBlDUlTVQTCA

MODWUMP'S FEAR OF A PINK PLANET: PUNKISH SOUNDS FOR ALTERNATE VIBES

I must confess, if the title Fear of a Pink Planet had come from any other source, I'd have dismissed it as another whiny, woe-is-me anthem. However, coming from Craig Manga's Modwump, the title bleeds an old-school, in-your-face projection. It’s unapologetic, feisty, with hymns for those who feel the urge to protest, whether their shells be soft, rough or a smidgen of both.

The intent is amplified in the title track, with an old-time blurb from a fear-the-queer, classroom reel, followed by a mean explosion that rattles the senses with its anti-pop gyrations.

Nevertheless, the rowdy vibe isn’t across the board, making room for a swift progression, as represented best by the crass “Aliens Probed Elvis”, where extra-terrestrial know-how gets a much needed tutorial in hip-swingin' fun, but for flavorful darkness, nothin' can beat the parental bite of "Bela Lugosi's Dad": a tune that spurts of pure, parental fright.

That same nippin' vibe can be found in  “Bingo Stole My Baby”, which is as fast-paced as it's chaotic (and identifiable to anyone who's lost some endeared, Australian trinket). “Krautmaskreplica” is also an equally meaningful mate: a kind of alternate theme for “The Munsters”, but where the clan is nowhere near as wholesome. Still, my favorite among this borderline, mod-culture cluster is “Sons of Sams”, though perhaps not for its presumed intent: It’s gun-based, but more so freedom-fueled, precipitated by a terrific Chuck Heston speech that gets one ready to fight for anyone's stomped rights. 

Other tracks take on a sweeter, electronic delivery. "No Methane", the album’s opening entry, spews a swell layer of syrupy despair: the kind of sublime lament that one might engage while prancing in a mosh pit. "Spider Vagina" is its inviting companion piece, presenting sex with dire consequence. (One must enjoy even when authority condemns.) "Downward Doggin" plays the same game: dark, hard and brightly dreary. It’s a blanket for one’s outcast state and a shield to block all those bigoted rocks thrown one’s way. “Skinner Box” becomes the behind-the-scenes armor to that shield: a cushioning costume for slicing and dicing, as the piercing rhythm cheers one on.

Though these aforementioned entries perform with varying zeal, it might be those frantic, automated ones that the listener remembers best. “Better Than Sexface” is the perfect cruising at rocket-speed example, whereas “The Butterbusk Catgut Trading Co” and “Tranny Europe Express” are the rebellious bumps and grinds. “Taming of the Shrooms” umbrellas the latter three, planting further demonic seeds to foster Modwump’s epic angst. 

There's even more than the aforementioned to be found in Fear of a Pink Planet (powerful remixes galore) if one dares to indulge. The album is wide in scope and at heart, pure punk. It never once buries its head in the sands, but rather pokes one in the throat, in hopes that one will poke back. 

Slip Modwump's belligerence on for size at 
https://blackboxrecordings.bandcamp.com/album/fear-of-a-pink-planet?fbclid=IwAR3uk5MBis1jHy2WSaRSLbc0td2CNRrigLit1Xa5eDAov-cLYpbZYt0cHQo.  

MODWUMP: ANIMAL BITRATE (A MANGABROS, EXPERIMENTAL TRANSFUSION)

Change characterizes life, though it doesn't often come with the best terms. Craig Manga/Mangabros' "change", under the clever, modified label, Modwump (remember "Naked Lunch'"s Mugwumps?), is one of those grand, inspiring exceptions.  

Modwump's two-part journey, Animal Bitrate, is bizarre as hell. Much of the electronic mix is abetted by toy instruments and broken drum machines; and that's just part of what makes the ride so emotionally evolving. 

As a vast, electronic extension, Animal Bitrate injects cynical, science-fiction concerns into one's brain. Even more so, with each and every connecting chunk and subliminal call, it digs bit by bit into the subconscious, scraping and digging up solemn thoughts and sparking them with wild energy. (If the truth be known, Marcel Prevaritura's cover artwork, which kicks off this post, is an apt representation of Animal Birtate's topsy-turvy flow. The artist's illustration, featured after the initial paragraph, conveys the tracks' tricky demeanor, as well: impetuous on the surface, but upon scrutiny, damn meaningful: case in point, the contained "Hunt the Child Catcher" game. Quite clever...)

Modwump's commences its epic experiment with a pounding, industrialized welcome: creepy in its circuitry, but vigorous enough to make one's fingers snap. However, it doesn't take long before it gets rougher, the sounds careening into those gruff, Mangabros growls we've come to appreciate. These provoking notes morph into a bullying blast that no one (with any sincere trace of mettle) could ever evade, and as such, one must engage in the bestial brawl presented.  

As this gargled stream touches its haughty, halfway mark, one recalls the mighty Mad Max, though not so much in road-warrior mode, but rather a version thrust into a perilous enclosure that makes Thunderdome look tame. 

This afflicting spree can't help but tucker one out, and from there, the dial turns, stumbling upon something akin to "Logan's Run": a theremin trek through a flashy, love-making tunnel, where every synthetic vulgarity flies in one's face. In its specialized, wayward form, the tick-tocking feeling is nice: the fornicating allusions creating a thick, sweaty taste.

When the ecstasy subsides (and a thing this intensely sublime can't help but do so), a gear-sprung coolness ascends, but who we kiddin'? That ol' seediness permeates. In fact, its portions have only grown more anxious with the album's progression: It's "Escape from New York" time, with a mutinous mission implanted straight into one's neck, but for what finite purpose, what infinite plan?

Banging trash cans and squealing vermin determine one's steps. Wailing hints of crazed Hendrix, of "A Clockwork Orange", of pinned-open eyes and slithering tears define one's lot in life. One has crossed into a new, mental dimension: stung, stark and masochistic. 

This new niche blossoms further within its final-phase thumps, burps and bleeps. One might as well possess metal instead of bone, steel instead of flesh. Hell is Heaven, in a capsized chamber where one's thoughts are no longer one's own. But then, without one's personalized fuel, the reverie wouldn't be what it is.   

In other words, Modwump's Animal Bitrate can summon uniqueness, even when one is controlled. 

Engage Modwump's weird, bit-by-bit transfusion at ... https://submarinebroadcastingco.bandcamp.com/.