[Insert self into ocean]
“Your body is not a temple, it’s just food for the pump.”
Ramblings on resonances repugnant, riveting, tranquil, and biting.
Broaching uncanny depths of city life through aural exploration.
Grab your space suits and prepare your cryo-dried coffee.
A monolithic cyborg compactor that dwells in the fringes of space, slowly glassing and obliterating planets with surgical precision.
Elegiac are Emily Highfield’s compositions as she effortlessly floats from warm guitar passages to forlorn bogs of blackened malice. Amidst her transitional wafts, she often caresses listeners with witch-like whispers. And in flashes of ember-tinged light, she glides upward, transcending her auditory structures into feverishly blissful twinkles of awe.
Interspersed throughout the frigid void writhing, feverish outbursts of death industrial erupt and sometimes, molten heaps of sheet metal eek to create scathing harsh noise textures.
Everything you ever wanted to know about the album Lysol by the Melvins.