blood of knowledge

Hell’s teeth, first there’s news that there are Polytechnic Youth happenings occurring shortly, with full lengths from Dream Division and Perrache being finalised to be followed on their busy schedule by a Heartwood Institute newie. Now I know, we have about our person, an album by Jonathon Sharp – he who is Heartwood, in his own name which is screaming for review along with a batch of other Castles in Space nuggets, all I can say, is hang to your hats, fondness aplenty is arriving very soon. Now I say all this because, a new Heartwood has appeared on a name your price compilation through the Genetic Trance imprint of the wonderfully named, Antiquity of Ohio, entitled ‘blood of knowledge’. A five track / artist head to head, the Heartwood track being ‘Bramley End’, the start of which may have some of you lulling beneath the same kind of bewitchment as befell those entering the lair of Melmoth the Wanderer, whose absence I must say, has been a source of concern around these here parts. despite its strange steely romanticism and misty eyed nostalgic, its vintage HI fayre if I’m honest, all ghostly rustics piercing through parallel time slips bringing forth fractured memories harvested from abandoned farmhouses, forgotten village greens and pagan May Day play, a dance of the eerie sweetly sighs. Elsewhere here, you’ll find Fault 242 who serve up ‘awaiting to do stuff just because the system wants us to do stuff’, a little something that had us fondly remembering the little curios once upon a time shipped out with unrivalled frequency by those much-missed Scotch Tapes folk, this track appearing simply to be some random perhaps accidental /intrusive field recording , the type of which your smart phone takes an unappreciated liking to doing when it goes rogue. Lamborghini Turbofire step to the plate with ‘SDTh’, I take it from turbo fire that they are referring to the Lambo’s rear end when it goes sport mode, that green flash, must admit it makes me sigh. Likewise, I blame Lamborghini for a life of disappointment, at a tender age, I was always a lover of the Pininfarina designs, between football posters and various glam obsessions, pictures of classic Italian marques adored my bedroom wall, yet among the Miura’s and Dino’s, it was always the Countach for me. I was in love, I knew what I wanted to be, career wise, a free-lance architect. However, that all died the day I happened upon a Countach, not the usual red type, instead a yellow version, I stood transfixed by its lines, its beauty and breathless symmetrical craft, as I ventured closer, heart beating 10 to the dozen, my world crashed around me, there in front of me literally a foot or three off the ground was my whole reason for being. A dawning realisation befell me, height wise I’d started sprouting, the tallest in my class by a distance, my legs appeared and just carried on, I mean still in the juniors, I was already too tall to fit into the compact confines of the Countach, even if I’d gone in side-ways I’d still have to poke my heads and legs through the windows. In a fleeting second all had changed, therein ends this sermon, ahem. So where were we before we got waylaid by the curse of the Countach, ah – indeed, Lamborghini Turbofire, found here cooking up a nifty slice of strobe pulsing rave replete with sky piercing fanfares and a rare visit by MC Satan all nailed into a thumping club floor frenzy. Any question? As to the Raw Materialists, these-folk were in fact on my ‘to do’ list, not sure whether that was via a message, an email or just some random pick up from some recent band camp wander, so expect this lot to appear again in the near future. Here they serve up ‘slapstick index’, all of which appears to be some super stoned hairy riff needling no doubt worse for wear following an over ambitious go on the bliss pipe laid over a fixed staring electronic pulse tone, quite zonked out if you ask us setting things up nicely for further aforementioned fondness in the near future. Last up for this strangely becoming compilation, the much-admired Petunia-Liebling MacPumpkin herewith her well-practiced peculiar. Now I’m fairly certain that we’ve had cause to fondly free think on the abstract fried charms of ‘green glow’ at some point early in the year, a warping daydream plucked from an alternative reality, a fracturing kooky dissected in equal parts incorporating elements of Wizard of Oz, Lear, Leary, 1920’s surrealist films and a whole heap of magic dust, the merrily macabre type I wouldn’t wonder.

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