Randy Wormhole’s first album is a crackling, crushing, crusty affair. The range and depth the duo manage to hack and drain from their fairly straightforward instrumentation is amazing, Gwilly’s torn-out organs offering John’s steeply inventive guitar a proper chamber of gruesome secretions to redistribute. The broad spectrum of sound (and noise) has much to do with Ferguson’s insightful and sensually inventive production, devising a studio ecology into which it is possible to drop the kind of brazenly obtuse counterpoints in evidence here and yield properly entertaining results.
Shaming Of The True
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