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Bananafish No.8 Sept. 1993(?JH) Tedium House, PO Box 424762, San Francisco, CA 94142-4762 ISSN ?none? copyright periodical 373w

= excerpt #2 = from WHEN YOU'RE DONE WITH THE BACON, THERE'S ALWAYS THE GREASE reviews by Valeria Strompett

And what absurdity-affirming roster of stars would be complete without an in house grindcore band? Not content to unleash "deadly fuckin' mayhem" and allow the carcasses to fall where they may, self-described "desk metal band" Faxed Head reports Stomach Ache rearranged the sleeve-art on their seven-inch, replaced the label art and discarded their lyric sheet, all without permission or warning. This label doesn't need an A&R; it needs a skilled diplomat. Faxed Head, PO Box 24433, San Francisco, CA 94124

. . .

The Bringdownzz, "angST," "hiwAy tO hELL." Guitar manipulation, shouting. Police-car lights. People who dress too carefully and stand too far away from the mike; wow, wow.

The Bringdownzz, "eArthWoRm," "YEw kOTex'D mY MONkeY," "aNgts." I am an earthworm, I live in the ground. Better they don't talk so much.

Steeplesnakes, "Lata Mageshkar Says She Regrets Nothing!" Running backs of electronic fuzz breaking tackles of electronic fill. Their tracks are hidden in manic overlays of noise. You'll never find me where I'm going, and you'll never have to come back.

Steeplesnakes, "Lettuce Bondage Film Soundtrack," "20 Aerobic Dance Pants," "Breathing Exercises." This is not nature's way. Wholly designed interferences and interruption. Only effects of abolition of permission. Grinding, pounding; world without mercy.

So, in general:

An anesthetic of endless repetition. It is enabled by instruments promising precisely repeatable effects; variety is introduced by human interference in the capacities of the instrument. Performance introduces the troubling effect of the expirable moment, where the endless and the repetitive are mastered by the singular and the momentary.

That is, an expressive mode that manipulates the endless possibilities of technical repetition is coaxed into appearing in a scene that can never be repeated. The compulsion of performance is to break through the restraints of eternal repetition into the freedom of singularity and uniqueness, a moment that can mean that the only way to be free is to be finished. Dead. Done. It is a life that must be won, cannot be given, and is won violently through its own death. Love, Dad


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