GAS SHEPHERDS: S/T
Dig the faux Post-Biba sleeve-art!
I love tunes where it sounds like someone's putting the trash out, emptying bins and washing out empty baked-bean cans ready for the recycle box. But Gas Shepherds up the ante here and add to the mix (a) a drunken bee-keeper culling his hive and (b) a dentist with Alzheimers who's been sniffin' a rusty old cylinder of N2O. A badger snuffles its way thru the garden of yer mind late at night, shitting on yr lawn, scratching on dustbin lids and dismantling the lawn-mower.
They're from tha UK (hurrah - Albion Awake!) and are on the ever-alert Chocolate Monk label (Prick Decay - Yay!). They've done a cassette too; Mic'll love 'em if he doesn't already.
Thumb-pianos plunk their way through an enormous, abandoned harmonium played by sleepy little ant-men, then don platform-boots to climb an Iron Age fort and watch the sunset evaporate. Someone with asthma tosses in their sleep, while rivers of snooze-snot spit from split nostrils. It's like yr dead auntie's ticking off yr grandad in a secret room under the stairs, but you know they're gonna fuck eventually.
Everyone mucks in and helps unblock a drain or a cess-pit with twigs. Noise-bubbles blister and burst on a spool of cassette-tape. A baby satellite spins out of orbit. Locusts settle on a malfunctioning iron-lung. A radio-letter arrives for Michael.
Recordings of dead people singing the Blues. Zombie spirituals. A teddy-bear w/ throat-cancer.
Rattling spittle. Hissing waffles. A rose-coloured moon rises and an loafamic encriloptactor penetrates V-Space, its mouth-parts rattling in the infra-red breeze as it protrudes into our reality, feeding on the forgotten ghost-resonances of needle-worn 78s.
A blizzard of witch-children sweeps thru the room in slow-motion, eyes like opals, cascading past me in a series of bottle-green blurs, accidentally summoned by playing an old Hafler Trio album during the Chinese Month of The Hungry Ghost.