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irr.app.(ext.), "Dust Pincher Appliances"
Crouton
In 1690, John Locke said: "Time is to duration as place is to expansion, and whoever pursues his own thoughts, will find them sometimes launch out beyond the extent of body, into the infinity of space or expansion; the idea whereof is distinct and separate from body and all other things." irr.app.(ext.) says: "Herein, which is the structurelessness of insignificance, possibility is given a reign of manifestation no longer limited by the constraints of possibility, the which can be considered the body."
What is the way to achieve this structurelessness? This expansion of possibility transcending the body? Why, by subverting your structure into disjecta membra (scattered remains) by the application of Dust Pincher Appliances. The album is the answer to this derationalized notion. The album is a means of achieving voluntary bodily dissolution: the cremation of thought. A series of anti-logical Dada lessons in how to descend the staircase nude without distending your particulars, Dust Pincher Appliances coagulates the diaphanous sounds that emanate, narcotized, from the "antiantedelirationatal music box". Against and before the delirium that logically develops from birth. Cover artwork: Jim Woodring meets Mark Ryden meets Antonin Artaud. A morbidly humorous performance of psychic surgery, the prelude to the Dance of the Tutuguri. Case in point: track four, part b) "bones rattling around oblivion." A shake of the shaman's medicine stick, a juju-needle in your eye, the blood-ooze of the dog star message worming its way around your cerebral cortex. Primal and clinical. Passionate and detached. Track one is vacuumed particles - the Mad Wall-drones that, sucked from your carpet, inhabit your body. Plucked strings inherit your fears, swirling around in a cloud of eraser dust and pencil shavings. Muted and mutable, they are the particulated sounds of dread and debacle being sucked out of the atmosphere and into your vibrating center, so you can no longer hide from irrational devices that whirl and intoxicate.
We are dealing with Irrational Applications of Extreme science. The sound is a bag of sterilized filth, an opportunity for the average human being to display his affection for detritus of the lowest order; a chance communion with all of the scattered effluvia, excretia and aspirated vomit sloughed off in a lifetime of sin. Will you turn away again in disgust, reaching for the toilet plunger, enforcing your corporeal irrelevance? Or will you instead face your foul legacy, and learn to be its equal? Track five: "desist in ceasing to exist," a double negative polarized to repolarize the polar icecaps that strain, crack and break at the influx of echoing underground chambers full of HAARP mindscrapes and digital flushes of modulated brain crimes. A distinctly emotive piece full of hurt and headache. Finally, the culling comes in the form of "wracking the carcass for residue," an industrial throb of obsolescence that entrances as it perplexes. Industrial = IN DUST, a TRIAL = i.e., a baptism achieved through grime. The readymade music boxes of track seven have all the telltale heart of a tale told in part only, and as I slide into this cold wormhole occupied by the hyperstring-membrane, the secret exit tunnel out of a vast abandoned atomsmasher, I know that I must return. I think I lost my contact in there, and out here, I've lost all contact.
