The TTT intrigue and stuff is high on this half hour of modular synth and poetry from the mind of Han, a Glaswegian nurse/noise musician extracting the surreal from the quotidian with endearing wit.
‘Leaving a Spoon in a Tub -10’ is a curious experience in the company of Han. Assisted at times by producers Brunnera and Max Sydetollan, Han appears to use atonal, textural noise abstraction and unusually recorded vocals in a way akin to Anne Gillis or certain Cosey works, gradually unravelling a thread of logic between its pealing opening passage of sine tones mimicking bagpipes, thru to plonging viscous rhythm and the chuckle-worthy refrain, “You can’t call them midget gems anymore, it’s against the law”, to pockets of crepuscular cicadas and detuned mantra, into full untethered oddness that congeals at angles into warped warnings of unknown threat.
It eventually shores up in tattered no wave pop gunk piqued with melody reminding of Oï les Ox tape’s awesome ‘Serrure relax’ tape, but complicates itself with reflections on everything from going to the shops, organ donation, and fermented meat. Shake a stick in any direction, you’re pointing at some type of audness inside.
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The TTT intrigue and stuff is high on this half hour of modular synth and poetry from the mind of Han, a Glaswegian nurse/noise musician extracting the surreal from the quotidian with endearing wit.
‘Leaving a Spoon in a Tub -10’ is a curious experience in the company of Han. Assisted at times by producers Brunnera and Max Sydetollan, Han appears to use atonal, textural noise abstraction and unusually recorded vocals in a way akin to Anne Gillis or certain Cosey works, gradually unravelling a thread of logic between its pealing opening passage of sine tones mimicking bagpipes, thru to plonging viscous rhythm and the chuckle-worthy refrain, “You can’t call them midget gems anymore, it’s against the law”, to pockets of crepuscular cicadas and detuned mantra, into full untethered oddness that congeals at angles into warped warnings of unknown threat.
It eventually shores up in tattered no wave pop gunk piqued with melody reminding of Oï les Ox tape’s awesome ‘Serrure relax’ tape, but complicates itself with reflections on everything from going to the shops, organ donation, and fermented meat. Shake a stick in any direction, you’re pointing at some type of audness inside.
The TTT intrigue and stuff is high on this half hour of modular synth and poetry from the mind of Han, a Glaswegian nurse/noise musician extracting the surreal from the quotidian with endearing wit.
‘Leaving a Spoon in a Tub -10’ is a curious experience in the company of Han. Assisted at times by producers Brunnera and Max Sydetollan, Han appears to use atonal, textural noise abstraction and unusually recorded vocals in a way akin to Anne Gillis or certain Cosey works, gradually unravelling a thread of logic between its pealing opening passage of sine tones mimicking bagpipes, thru to plonging viscous rhythm and the chuckle-worthy refrain, “You can’t call them midget gems anymore, it’s against the law”, to pockets of crepuscular cicadas and detuned mantra, into full untethered oddness that congeals at angles into warped warnings of unknown threat.
It eventually shores up in tattered no wave pop gunk piqued with melody reminding of Oï les Ox tape’s awesome ‘Serrure relax’ tape, but complicates itself with reflections on everything from going to the shops, organ donation, and fermented meat. Shake a stick in any direction, you’re pointing at some type of audness inside.
The TTT intrigue and stuff is high on this half hour of modular synth and poetry from the mind of Han, a Glaswegian nurse/noise musician extracting the surreal from the quotidian with endearing wit.
‘Leaving a Spoon in a Tub -10’ is a curious experience in the company of Han. Assisted at times by producers Brunnera and Max Sydetollan, Han appears to use atonal, textural noise abstraction and unusually recorded vocals in a way akin to Anne Gillis or certain Cosey works, gradually unravelling a thread of logic between its pealing opening passage of sine tones mimicking bagpipes, thru to plonging viscous rhythm and the chuckle-worthy refrain, “You can’t call them midget gems anymore, it’s against the law”, to pockets of crepuscular cicadas and detuned mantra, into full untethered oddness that congeals at angles into warped warnings of unknown threat.
It eventually shores up in tattered no wave pop gunk piqued with melody reminding of Oï les Ox tape’s awesome ‘Serrure relax’ tape, but complicates itself with reflections on everything from going to the shops, organ donation, and fermented meat. Shake a stick in any direction, you’re pointing at some type of audness inside.