Rotten Groove

Artists

Album Info

Release Date: 1996

Label: Ignivomous

Both sides end in a locked-groove.
Includes Ignivomous insert.

Just like the camera in that Beatless video, I'm sent careering all over the shop by the singular sounds of PRK DCY. I duck into a music hall to watch Florrie Forde warbling "Hold YourHand Out, Naughty Boy!" and "Oh! Oh! Antonio" in sloooow motion. I follow the words 'up will go Antonio and his ice-cream cart' out through (sorry, THRU') the skylight & over to Diddyland, Knotty Ash, where the honourable Nigel Ponsonby-Smallpiece is having another explosive sneezing fit down at the snuff quarries, and the Gnomes of Zurich are drowning in the gravy wells. Dicky Mint and Harry Cott are discomknockerating Mick the Marmaliser, and so off again I scoot, up up up above the clouds, to where Dylan and Lisa are hiding in their broken teapot (courtesy of Dribble Apology) with only a bubble machine and Tenney's "Collage No. 1 (Blue Suede)" for company. The teapot explodes, and I follow Lisa to ground level, where she bounces happily on the soft expanse that is the corpse of shoegazing. Her guilty past revealed, she traps me in her wig and tears me limb from limb with her teeth, while Big Dyl jives to the sound of my bones crackling in time to the spinning of the record.
-Stewart Walden, Bristol, November 1995

Not striving hard enough to maintain my close loving relationship with Leon Chino is the one regret I have in my life. He was Mexicos only wooden fingered guitar maestro. I found his elegant string licks and tapestry clothing a real turn on. After 10 months of intense iron loving he finally gave me the flick. Half way through our fingered relationship Leon burnt his famous crotch bone number and denounced guitars as the evil instruments of the black orgone. He spent hours telling me how his mission had been passed down to him by his wooden fingers, apparently they told him in a collective chorus of screeching voices that he should pick up the new book and spread this warning. His book was an old Sony Walkman which he had stole from a skinny red haired american teenager who craved donkey asshole. For the remaining 5 months of our relationship Leon performed 252 happenings with his beloved walkman to anyone group of string polluted lepers. Eventually my unrepentent love for British heart stoppers Motorhead led to my big heave ho from Leon and his girating beauty. He was found dead at his makeshift "Tapage Temple" several months later, inside his walkman was a copy of Jeff Becks "Wired". Cause of death was recorded as tongue swallowage.
-Charles Ward, Tamaulipas, October 1995