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When I destroy a photograph of someone I feel so fucking good. I want to end everyone’s memories of people, I want to stop people three or four generations down from knowing who anyone was or what they did.
To be a noise producer (“musician” or “artist” seems less than universally appropriate for practitioners of the discipline; a more neutral term is necessary) is, inherently, to be a pervert. It’s always deviant behavior, always against the grain. But there’s levels to it.
the road from philadelphia to tunhannock erupts into a tableau of arborescent violence; hosts of dryads weaving reds, oranges and yellows, ghost girls reaching out through limbs to arms to branches to fingers to leaves.
Ron Lessard tells for the first time his story in music about the highs and lows of running a label and a record store, weird projects, unfinished projects, encounters with other musicians, being on the road, and much more.
Conversations with Gary Mundy, and a wide range of Broken Flag associates, forming a sort of “oral history” of not just the label but a burgeoning subculture.
[Man]will know his fault by the sun which stands in fiery witness and the wind which breathes its judgement in the final silence of the world.
A man, rescued from a waterless dive by a robot hoping to “fix” him, finds himself disintegrated by a noxious fog of “Chrysanthemum Clouds,” the beginning of his transformation.
The absolute bizarre experiences of touring, noise shows, strange personalities in subculture, and being caught up in the antics of peers.
A wide range of artists from a variety of disciplines deliver sinister incantations.
The First issue of Cyanide Swamp, Reptile House’s broad reaching horror anthology
The Tyrant Queen of Iron City presents us with a bouquet of petty grievances.
The ritual sacrifice of three men at the hands of three inverse-graces.