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For the shadowy avant-garde consortium, tonight is the final level in aesthetic destruction, sure to separate the mild-mannered experimental rookies from the full-metal-straitjacket killing machine

Self-delusion is a terrible thing. There you are, thinking you can take a bit of sonic abuse, that even the most noisesome noise has a place in your heart. Then you wander into 'Welcome To Execrate', the club night named after the terrifying album by DJs Speedranch and Jansky Noise, and four hours later, you're promising your shattered self that from now on, it's The Corrs and nothing else.



For the shadowy avant-garde consortium, tonight is the final level in aesthetic destruction, sure to separate the mild-mannered experimental rookies from the full-metal-straitjacket killing machines. Be sure, this passing-out parade involves real passing out. "We will tear your soul apart", vows a Prince-Of-Darkness gargle, as Speedranch^Jansky Noise bounce their particular armageddon off the walls. Records are thrown about the stage, tragic remnants of more innocent times, now tools in the quest for unlistenable evil. There's waves of sonic nausea, a bleach-drinking scree, increasingly deranged samples of things that might once have been human, maybe even played on Radio 2.



Viewed sensibly, it's really just macho posturing, the equivalent of men who cut off their own heads to prove they know no pain. Yet while pointlessly vengeful, there's a bizarre purity here, a true witness to the infinite oddness of the human mind. For that, let's be grateful.



For the brain damage, let's not.

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