Field Hymns

FH072 Lips and Ribs – ‘Males in Harmony’
RIYL: midi prog, whipping dildos, cream-based marching orders. Fifteen virgins with soft, vacuum cleaner-like appendages wave through the bars of your cage, celebrating and venerating your vitality while wishing you continued stamina. Match time is close and the acrid, burned notes of scorched gladiators waft over the pen the master keeps you in pre-trial. Ever since the Dav5 match, your left upper skeletal tendril has been a little slow but all things considered, as long as you can keep a direct strike from your upper carapace, you’ll win today and yet another empty shell will be tossed on the smoking battery and wire pile of your vanquished foes. Fighting the Maasbots is fighting for survival in just another way – what else could you have done? Blo-bits accounting? Off-world sevs and gevs? Never. This is pure life at its finest – ugly, bloody, and immediate. The bell squawks, the door rattles up, and the crowd roars with hunger. Fuck yeah.

FH070-071 Sciencevision/Slim Fortune split CS
Slim Fortune, RIYL: Nick Cave in a a Las Vegas dive bar, high on salt peanuts and rotting suede – and frisky. Slim Fortune is a peyote milkshake poured from the waxy remnants of a soft-with-heat Lee Hazlewood LP all over your goddamn $1000 leopard print custom van interior. I told them so many times, not in the goddamn van but they are just animals, amiright? The best thing to do is let them be (hopefully be still) and suffer the consequences later. You can’t take these people anywhere: remember that strip club in LV? Fucking carnage, there went the advance in one night. Like a breaker, you just let it ride and pay off the staff when they sleep. You get the couple hours alone you deserve and the day starts again. Maybe this day you’ll finally make it out of town. Maybe. Fucking animals. They’ll be the death of you. Sciencevision – Colorshifter, RIYL: lo-fi explorations of the inchoate void behind one’s eyeballs, imagined and real. Yeah, I am talking to YOU. The pizza joint is hot this July night: if you listen closely you can hear the sound of sweat escaping from the arcade machines. Every glistening quarter is slick with the summer DNA of idle and bored humans, too weary of the day to do anything but escape into free air conditioning, their collective scheckels slowly escaping from rapidly emptying pockets into perpetually famished guts of arcane 8-bit beasts scattered around this place like upright visiting caskets, blinking, hissing, barking in their strange mating language, every single one searching for the right color, texture, and timbre of seduction in order to liberate the very last quarter of their prey into waiting, vertical maws. These machines now have emergent dreams – 40 years of salty genes have corroded everything. This is not a good thing. Too many memories in this place. This, however, is their soundtrack.


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