This rather curious publication consists of manifestos, texts and art by the experimental music bands Lab Rat Scene, Hate Criminals and other trailblazers in what could not be termed the "no-name" subculture.
Effortless Genius Press Version 3.3 2018 | A4 50pp | 1×MP3 | 9.5mb PDF
It also includes a hyperlink to their free 48-minute Initiation Into NAMM noise/montage compilation MP3, reviewed thusly:
INITIATION INTO NAMM By One Who Was There
Have you ever heard the phrase, 'A dog returns to its own vomit'? Have you ever heard or read 'Initiation into NAMM'? These boys are all about the shouting and the marching and the scream.
'Labrat Scene' is a major recording. It should win prizes. It's a progenitor of the Hot New Genre of CURSE, that art that becomes art through not being art and transcending art through the speed of movement, a poke in the eye of those minimalist kantz who are merely pretending that they can't read their scores.
Yay, monne, come on all Fagan, like, a-farre oot, mon. Breathless, like. A bit like an elevated E. Sheerhan, like. Eyes like fishes, or glass. Shirt buttoned up wrong. Hacky hairdo, looking well dark in BW photos. Why shout when ye can whisper? Hear the birdies warble all lovely, but when they feed they feed on the fraught and the frit. You're gonna wake up one morning and see that it's all been taken away.
Dogs are watching. What are they barking at? Some idiot's belief scheme? A nocturnal parabola? A horned being? Every fucker has horns. We're all reluctant servants, save for when it comes to serving our stupid selves, manifest as the sound of monkeys typing out the lyrics of the songs of Elton John. Technoid nostalgia about freedom and that.
I believe this masterwork was recorded in a 96-track studio with the assistance of a spiritually blind producer, mouthing repeatedly, 'Tell me what you want to do...', charged with a mission to make Sunn O))) sound like Japanese pop. Something's gone wrong in one of those Tibetan monasteries they have these days, and someone's struggling to tune up their Akashic balalaika.
Why speak plainly when you can mumble? The devil does not inhabit buildings made of stone, but the devil can be found in the foundations of every building that was ever constructed. That horn is the herald of the wild hunt. It sounds its blast in demonic German. Every language has its usage and the silence that succeeds its deployment must be filled.
We expire whilst dreaming of a distant and jaunty accordion tune that makes our useless deaths seem worthwhile. That's the destiny of galley slaves. The splashing of the water echoes the flooding of our lungs. We gasp out, 'Black Metal is music for sissies!' That's what we're saying. Why speak through your mouth when you can speak through your nose?
Death to the Kocknut Kunt Kolin! Bang his nut sprightly on cymbals! Fly it away on the great ship UFO! Deck yourself in white robes! I know these people, walking about with their genitals exposed, projecting generative potential as wisdom. There are folk songs behind it, overheard in the silence accompanying the fury. They're prophetic, then and now. They say, 'Can I have the Word with you? Can I have the flesh, and the light, and the life?' And we offer them up for free.
One gets more than hints about high-level occult conspiracies and commonplace otherworld ingress. "Do not climb on the Stones unless you are naked..."