SKUNK'D GUNK cassette review

V/A “SKUNK’D GUNK” (dihd) 2021

 

Th’thing about skunk’d perishables is: they could be equally categorized as “aged”, mature, seasoned, if you will. The masters of the grocery timeline would lead us to believe only the fresh, unexpired and bestest before this date are worthy of human consumption. But do these suits know anything about GUNK? Let’s be honest, they wouldn’t dare touch that oozy Limburger sitting on a stoned wheat thin, unless ol’ Mister Moneybags brow-beat them at their couples bridge night. B-52s’s Dance this Mess Around 45 on his mahogany hifi turntable, crackles up the wallpaper.

 Sometimes that glistening brick of golden yellow Garden State extra sharp cheddar is what I’m hankering for. Can’t help but take a huge cartoon bite off of the corner. I’m talking about this year’s model from DIHD, SKUNK’D GUNK, in said yellow cassette shell. It is housed in a grey to periwinkle paper sleeve illustrated by Alina. I’m seeing chunks, curds, toothly stalactites n stalagmites, framing a skunk’r reliquary statuary holding its handpaws in proper secret society formation: blessings be upon them and those. Thankfully, and true to form, GUNK th’Sixth is beyond fresh, sure to fill every nostril with hints of mugwort and essence of Lon Chaney(s) Junior and Senior. All you lucid dreamers get a l’il treat.

 C’mon

 

[a]

 

BIG BLOOD.

It’s Alright pt 2: Like their oversized phlebotomist’s dream-name suggests, BB honor the human condition, how we flow our liquid through ourselves on the daily. What if Iggy Pop was a Passenger on Lee “Scratch” Perry’s(RIP) Black Ark in Kingston, Jamaica? Equal parts dub plate version and freaky family manifesto with a generously scorching tea-kettle whistle guitar solo. It is alright, the way that you live, the sequel.

 

SYKO FRIEND.

Knock: “every day I drive this car, it doesn’t blow it’s own horn, knock on the wall,” said the voice in a post-freak-out daydream with their toes sunk in the consciousness stream. Big group hug with Jandek and Kim Deal.

NOLLS.

Villain: Finland’s heavy groovers wax urgency on the Anthropocene, don’t sleep on this. Greta Thunberg, here’s yr inauguration band (If Rick Astley turns down the offer.) Otherwise, his backing band, for his second, nay, third act.

 

DRUMS LIKE MACHINE GUNS.

Guitar Center 2: The title leads one to believe this is a site-specific performance/field recording at a Guitar Center, possibly somewhere in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. They test out their wares for a brothers jam. What bright, incredible strings you have! We’re all little flies on the wall, watching the manager sweat the scene.

 

[b]

 

JIM SCHMIDT.

Ten Pictures: A carefully constructed sonic exploration, like a collection of short stories rushing in with low tide waves. This improvisation, although it wasn’t necessarily intended, recalls the ghost of Syd Barrett’s Golden Hair, and the tarmac of Robert Wyatt’s piano on Brian Eno’s Music For Airports.

 

WASNT WISNT.

Tripping Hazzard: guitarist and drummer sync in a road movie, a scenic journey, buddy-odyssey jam-sesh. They dig some good ol’astro-surf à la Man or Astro-Man? without the civilian space travel agenda. Instead it’s a ride to nowhere, and some reverse feng shui. Lookout!

 

STEFAN CHRISTENSEN.

Hiss Reflection: Toy piano dost mak’th me feel woozy. Childhood memories blip in-n-out. Nice textures and layers from one of the heads of Headroom. He channels the spirits with the sound signal and instincts.

 

PSIRENS.

Redux: Kind of catches up where SYKO FRIEND left off, but gets all vibrato with multi-voiced soundplay. While writing notes about this I mistakenly wrote ‘recluse’. If a siren was used for pleasure rather than emergency, it would be woven with wavy-path vocals over heavy droney bass footsteps on a wobbly waltz. Do the lonely dance ‘n have a sound sandwich.

 

HUMAN ADULT BAND.

Ceased to exist(fragment): Custom engine-rattling low-end vibrations in the vein of the whale calling out to their mates by the nautical mile. Hear the darkest depths of sonar, where the fishes are living glow-sticks, and the sand is finer than pastry flour. It’s a deep tissue chakra cleanse at the mer-parlor in downtown Atlantis. This one is a fragment, a piece of a larger puzzle. More could be on their way, keep a shell on your ear for the updates.

 

gunk n roll r rama

thtape n other dihd creations at dscgs

 

Adam Padavano