Reviews

Hanging overhead like the darkest vision of overblown arse ripple, The Cherry Point`s Rusted Gut smothers in from on high, overpowering, retch-inducing, a blind-rage billow of mud spattered, crushy-mouthed, slit-slushy. The stench of lost decibels is overwhelming, monstrous glowering masses slowly churning a messy, muddy whole into lurching lumps of blubbery burble. Which is not to say the shit lacks focus. There`s a genuine sharpness, a potency, even, the seemingly infinite play of component parts controlled, contrasted, laid bare for inspection. Devastating, positively GRIM, earshowers of bristling rage and energy expand and surge across wide open fields of putrified, noiseome freshness. Drawn out sewage-drone scrapes against moaning feedback shriekage. What appear to be actual synth tones filter through the lumbering bleakness, distended, corrugated shitbellies flatulating a velvet-smoothed blackness. Deeply entombed in its dark and twisted heart, The Cherry Point serve up murky ambient backwash over which rust-covered bells scrape and clang. Cavernous, thunderous densities blanket near subliminally screeching hordes of bloated, iron-grooved excess. The net effect is at once brutally harsh, and softly sweet, punctured, candy-coated surface tensions giving way to bottomless depths, spiraling endlessly inward. Although pointedly flush and full-bodied, the sheer mass of shit piled into the mix effectively crowds out any sense of forward movement, the labored struggle epic in its attempt to realize any progress whatsoever.
This observation is especially pertinent in the introductory passage of "Rusted Gut 2", whose utterly suffocating stumble-stump bludgeries pulverize any attempt at fidelity or clarity, buried in a shit-pit of distorted, mudslug crunchsplutter. Then, as before, the muffled flow starts to unravel, effortlessly expanding outward, growing meatier, sizzling with a sultry glaze of sweet snuff fluff suck traction. Just as suddenly, what I take to be the "part of rusted gut 2 recorded live" plops into play, well ground kernels of severely wittled-down contortion wrestling for attention. They hardly need bother. Ultimately, rumpled, lumpy coagulation drips over rotted, nauseating clumps of septic vomit turd, crumpled into asphixiated sphinctpipe.
NoiseGrade: A-
Harshness 8.6
Density 9.5
Rawness 7.1
Craftsmanship 7.5
Spasticity 2.3
Harmonicaness 8.9
Taken from Mr Blumpy