Category: Electro / Industrial / EBM
Blurb: This latest helping of techno-fetishism takes on a more direct, beat driven approach to lull the listener into a false sense of security within a hostile environment.
Philadelphia’s Noah Anthony – a.k.a. Profligate – is no stranger to the game. Having developed a reputation over the years as noise renegade turned avant-pop composer, and perhaps now industrial techno-fetishist, he continues to break the mold denying himself any residence within a designated comfort zone. Taking on a more direct, beat driven approach with his latest and properly titled release Extremities, you are shamelessly tricked into securing a position within a hostile environment. Forced into oscillation, you fabricate peril for yourself by remaining idle. Finding the floor – in reference to his previous release via Not Not Fun – becomes an act of survival between sweating bullets and exhausted muscle.
These cuts are beyond mature for their years. Intentionally meant for underground club use, taking ownership of the space for which they, in a literal sense, might occupy a majority of the time. There is an even keel of high and low frequencies being delivered, fused together by a brooding physicality that is sure to throw your bones up against a wall and your headspace out of equilibrium. The tracks read more as epics rather than captured and formulaically structured. Whereas most artists struggle in actualizing the concept of duration and being able to maintain adequate momentum within a composition, this thought doesn’t even seem to come across as relevant. His confidence in being able to drive a melody straight into the fucking ground is demonstrated time and time again, while shoveling more layers on top of the mess that has already been made.
A cassette tape is sampled, fast-forwarded, and shredded at the same time into little bits of dirty confetti, creating textured environments out of physically harmless though catastrophic circumstances. Moments occur when synthesizers are scrapped and pasted back together, using an adhesive that is designed to corrode in time; you begin to hear a portrayal of what it sounds like to peel. Nothing is permanent or extravagant, yet it is assembled under a specific law of aesthetics that have been manipulated in order to provide function. The kick is continuous and unrelenting. It smashes you to the street each time and raises you back up like a jackhammer in strict sync with the BPM, or a swan dive into concrete. Your body can’t help but to shake and clench onto the nearest something, in which you hate the objects and events that rub against it. Letting go of whatever suppression, this eventually becomes irrelevant. Locked into a malicious groove, the decibels excruciate and continue to creep through the remainder of what once was that has now since been skewed and rendered obsolete.
Having emerged from the analog cesspool of a somewhat harsh and experimental noise-driven background, his former efforts under the alias Social Junk seem as if they could have been intended as soundtracks for films that were never completed. There is an apparent cinematic quality overriding the conceptual output, to an extent that makes each unconscious attempt an immediate cult classic. The visual characteristics of an outdated, overly color corrected, and poorly treated copy of a VHS recording are transcribed accurately into adapted waveforms, where sound is then interpreted again as a faint image and interrupted beyond recognition.
This writer sometimes wonders if Anthony was born inside of a factory; seamlessly manufactured rather than being raised in captivity. Sounds speak in a silver tongue of the terminology of a lost, mechanical language – yellow teeth gnashed raw and pumping out monochromatic gradients of smoke. The vocals are remarkably brief and poignant, murmured through a slur of ricocheted echoes that carry an intolerable weight and resonate an anthem-like quality. This overall tone he has crafted for himself throughout the years is all too specific and reminiscent of a particular, potentially nonexistent time period, like a paracosm on the brink of extinction.
I feel like I am being led astray on an important journey, on a leash and in constant tug-of-war with myself. The road ahead in ruins to pseudo, store-bought enlightenment is paved with shit, but it is a visceral experience regardless. Droning you along through a procession of melancholy, building up into its own regulated take a turn for the worse, you plummet into a vortex of cold technological drift. There are shadows of laughing faces all around lurking in and out of perspective, disintegrating into an overwhelming collective glitch. Everything becomes static and all of a sudden “you want out of the bleeding house.”
But the hell with it… let’s eat.