bsmallTwo lovely lads blast out ropes of velvet noise-rock-bastardcore ejaculate. Adrenaline bollock. Hurts your nerves. We flogged most of these at their last gig, at The Bunker, Deptford, although we didn’t catch them live. We had to go home. There’s about 8 copies left. Comes with pro-printed, felt tip, collage pleb artwork, dubbed on cardio-red, jam cassettes. 3 bar. Thunk it were eddish of 25.

tgsmallThe face in the wall is from the Museum of Dr Ghislain, an active psychiatric hospital and archive for the history of treatment of mental illness, located on the outskirts of Gent, Belgium. It is a cast of a former patient of the institute and there are several more casts dotted about the courtyard, displaying a variety of emotions. The museum also houses a collection of “outsider” art – including a huge, exquisite scale model of the entire grounds of another psychiatric hospital, carved by an inmate of said institution with nothing but a blunt potato knife for a tool. Heavy electronic excavations from Mr M.Shit, member of Trencher and, more recently, Palehorse. Edition of 30.

rsssmallBeartown is pleased to usher into existence a physical realisation of ROBERT RIDLEY-SHACKLETON’s BUTTERFLY FARM. Recordings of chattering blabbermouths, blabbering chatterboxes, chapped bladdermoles and slathering cockerhoops are spliced, layered, beamed in, and blown out. Robert is widely considered. Both sides of this tape have sounds recorded on them. Ritualistic radio squeel, bitch slap electro-bass (pronounced like the fish), and improvised piff-paff infiltrate all five “songs”, while side A is notable for its continual references to knackered cyberpets. Robert croons a bit aswell – firm. Complete with neon orange tapes, colour stickers and “blood on the sea urchin”-style artwork. Limited to 31 copies.

jcsmallTramping down to the old mill, encumbered by borrowed office equipment and without shoes. JON COLLIN’s trance-hypno guitar explorations sweep away the mundane and reveal the uncanny. A fine tuning of reality through song and the soundtrack to the chip shop myths of western Essex. A certain stuttering symbolism is seen here in full bloom – defying definition and judgement, these masterful noodling are raw and unprocessed – a real tasty mirage. Bumped numb by potholes, and blown dry by a chilled north wind, the listener is lowered gently into a harmonious, warming embrace. One for fans of Fahey, Basho(s) or S.Bull, with big cases, and blurred artwork. Limited to 36 copies.


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