Saturday, 4 February 2017

Rudimentary Peni ‎– "No More Pain E.P." (Southern Records ‎– BOOBOO 09) 2008


To round it all up on the Rudimentary Peni front, we have a guest reviewer,and RP advocate, from the Convivial Cannibal Clan,.....I think he like Rudi P, don't you children?



No More Pain E.P. Rudimentary Peni's last proper release from 2008. If you think I forgot Wilfred with no bassist on or in reality you’re a cookie hard to crumble. Any less and you would have a hum of an old refrigerator. But at least you could tune your instruments by in some soft princely subterarrians mind. If you got that you will need to explain it to me eventually someday so I too may recall. What I really mean is that this one here, without any pain, is at first glance to but the most initiated a sound sleeper. This can happen easily upon anything one has been waiting for and salivating over for years blurred by years. Suddenly to appear one day on a plate set upon a table that turns is bound to be swallowed voraciously. Unattentive before the rushing flow of anxiety can subside from the breaking of the pressurized damn by it's own contained weight in wait and anticipation. But let me skip about and go forward. When after many listens and a million millipedes crawling legs later the grumbles have curled up and all but died. Subsided to waysides and added to the piles of accepted truths I pretend to be panged before. When truth be told it warms me inside and fills voids and small crevice alike like cider vinegar given to stomach acid produces an alkaline sea filled with nay fraught but froth. The calming sea foam waters of youthful summers before the worldly ills willed their way into your direct vision of inescapable consciousness. I have to admit that I already knew that to swear on the Peni equals death. I doubly admit to the knowledge that this would be an instant death swift as it isn't sweet. I was/am/to be a moronic mensch machine it seems to the days end of my reversed youth. A surmiser of inequitable zeros stacked and racked. Drawn and hung, quartered and gutted. Measuring the drew entrails to count the prophecies in their shapes of things which shall come by this way in formidable foe of some formless fornication upon dead virgins on altered slates. A sacrificial pool of all things lost and loved more so because of their absence. Left on the door steps of strangers in towns no map has drawn and whose very names are pronounceable only to those who flick tongues to taste success built upon the sorrows of broken backs and hobbled featherless roll about, blind and confined to wheelchairs after being ejected and felled with newly human bodies fragile to the very earth so they may break. Gravity doesn't subside to grace anymore than the heaven's have a direct affect on the gravitational pull unto this tiny blue speck we call home, easily lost in the pitch of the void. Surrounded and contained, it composes all that is not the aether. What does this have to do with John, Nick and Grant you may ask? But do you listen truly anyways after voicing doubt? Or do you think of only fallables to slight and rise one's own ego and self worth? Done up every which way it is always still the same. And we are left surprised in it's final sum to find it's still a god like damnable sum of zero! Still! Why you ask. For what purpose possibly you must have this be the garnish left for no substance newly prepared but the same after taste of an already fetid taste by way of conditional Dysgeusia upon the mind. Counting backwards I hear by a sentenced admittance to prepossessing an ignorant ear. One not standard but duly equipped with a built in stereo feeder backed by the bliss filled hiss of some unholy-holy anamorphic reptilian of imagined biblical proportions. Grotesque as it is shaped and twisted by unseen sources unrecognizable compared to any perceivable truth held as recognizable. That I hear it all day long from rise to set, from lows through peaks is surmountable to any suffrage imaginable but thinking straight any bounty befallen upon the mind is nothing more or less the same. Only viewed from stations separated by perceived distances in concordance to one's own placement. Befitting or askew. It is most likely I truly believe up to you. Not to so much change but more in the failure to recognize vibrations and resonances. Deaf as a doorknob I think they say in far off parts of the world which you are not familiar with. This album is a sleeper because it slides by the listener and quickly. It's simple down progression of chords is as basic as a band with rudimentary in their name should be some would surmise. If they were of small wit and dimmer inner enlightenment. Or had your parents humor. In reality this is a great Peni album from their third phase in sound (fourth if you count the Magits) that include 'Echoes Of Anguish', 'Underclass' and 'Archaic' as well as this depressible little ditty. So you may think this is dark and gloomy and your parents are going to think you're suicidal if they hear or read the lyrics sang. Nick Blinko is such a tortured soul and as schizoid as they come you may say. Well maybe he is I've never met the guy. There is an ocean of misery between us. Filled with actual oceans and too many people along the way for any despiser of the human race to endure. But just because a claim is made or words said do not make them truth or with out their context being misunderstood. The semantics of language is an enemy to sardonic and cynical thought. Comedy is misinterpreted by those with nay but serious souls barren and drab in their automaton daily gear grindings. So of Nick's purported mental state one wouldn't and couldn't be learning that based on these songs nor the lyrics nor even the claims from the man himself. Remember it's never too late nor any day is it impossible to wake up as an entirely different person and to never be what or who you once were but in passing dreams or brief flashbacks quickly dismissed. I heard about a guy once who woke up as a cockroach. And then there were others who burned all the books where this had been told to in confidence for reasons even sillier than that of the purported cockroach anomaly. Which is allowed to exist as reality? Which is deemed preposterous? Which monstrous? The mind is an uneven blade. Naturally dulled and without gleam. It takes hardened hands and keen skill to shape and sharpen. Polish and shined until it lusters in pure darkness of its own source. With a point as sharp as the tongues gathered in conversation at Agora in ancient times. Nearly all these songs and a good deal of much of their catalog of gloom has actually been penned and plucked by the one named Grant Matthews. Yup. Grant Matthews the unassuming bassist who in more likely a reality is the core individual most responsible for keeping the Peni flame alive and burning well enough through the years to keep the games playing along to the off beat paths of the always guaranteed new disenchanted youth being sprung forth in brooding packs daily and at an exponential rate. Even songs lets say from their most cynical and stark raving 'Death Church' which you swear had to be the by product of old sick Nick more often than not was mostly Grant. The beauty and what I find most endearing about the partnership which is Peni, is their seemingly complete lack of inflated ego at all. Or so it appears to me anyhow. A single fan separated by space and some time zones. Maybe I'm right. Maybe I'm wrong. I'd rather not know. The mystery is the allure and I shall say that again and again. Fact less are many of our so called facts and knowledge over this band that it is near impossible to get the same story twice ever. Peni is well aware of this and by no shorting of strong wills I'm sure have continued on in silent repose. To the nays of some but to the cheers of the silent majority whom keep to themselves and have always been immediately attracted to one or all elements of this band only to have it grow by the years spent wondering and imagining and filling in their own stories for lack of attention gained into the private lives of it's members. Nick's lucky I'm in southern California or I'd loiter about his dwellings just as those wretched curious miscreants whom haunted Syd Barrett in his house on the hill days spent in self exiled alone time. So naturally lack of public corrections and statements have led to facts being derived from as far back and up a ways inside dark recesses of our own asses. Pinkish palaces to keep heads too tired or cold to leave the warm but cramped corridors of denial and ignorance. Risks of suffocation or retardation due to lack of oxygen to the brain not even enough to talk one out into the fresh airs of clarity. that I wouldn't be surprised if it was all culled out by carefully inserted tubes by sordid nurses who wash hands with naught but bodily fluids splashed. The reuse of and unsanitary swapping out plasma for colostomy bags are frowned upon but by whom? The elastic plastic shoot 'em up junkie's of faux pas youthful fountains? Turned over to reveal truer yet identities of a vandalized urinal. Naked as a porcelain god but dressed down in scraps through scrawled initials of unreal hound dogs bringing home the dug up bones of it's long dead master. Whom have tried and toiled at or about degenerated activity in non duality. In vain or vanity either leads to the trickle of the anointed nectar, this gnosis, this stream. Silently staining the gene pool in a luminescent hue like piss dribbled down the leg of blue jeans soaked through. All this non concerned to force an epic enema of very mean proportion onto the sad eyed crass kids because they were smelly and ate dapper for breakfast in between huffs. i remember being told when younger that Nick Blinko used to live by a graveyard and as a kid would dig up bones and put them back together like some ghoulish kin of Gein, in sorted fragments. Hogwash. I am so far off in a flight of ideas let me pull the madness in.

This album is great its simple yet catchy. It's lyrically gaunt and grim with little substance and only dark sentiments. Though if one see's through this casting of ominous shadows and thinks mercurial thoughts one may just see a smile in place of the assumed sneer and for some ephemeral moment it is whimsical cheer and music from distant merry go rounds forgot from youth in wistful recall. Dare I say it but they almost sound like they are having fun. Even frolicking I will go as far to exclaim. Pox on my head but they sound happy to me. Songs like 'Doodlebug Baby' are possibly products of an itchy schizophrenic Kafkaesque nightmare one could climb clouds to claim. Though I swear you would hear a snickering like choir overhead ever so faintly. Even the opener with lyrics ripped out of the pages of T.S. Eliot's Wastelands is more ode than malodorous in it's intention. So goes the closer and what a closer indeed. In any other hands it could have been foppish and as boring as it would be pretentious. Thee ol' 'Pachelbel's Canon In E' which some who you would think to be in the know pointed out that 'Canon in D' is more common than 'In E' is of little to no consequence and as near non sequitur as relative aesthetics are to theorized relativity. The fact this piece believed to writ around the seventeenth century had fallen into obscurity or swept into dustbins only to be rediscovered in the 1970's and gain in popularity to the point it is as recognizable as any anthem or god forbid top of the pop charts record holders is likely the inspiring tell tale behind it's tongue in cheek inclusion. But I'm as likely wrong as I am long winded or rather narrow yet long in fingers as I peck away at keys like seeds to the well preened bird. Late to rise but not filled with worms either. There are seeds a plenty that go by unconsumed and left never to sprout. The possibilities are endless. Congratulations for making it another half decade to scrape on by hand me outs. With stagnate upturned palms unmoving and expectant over some force of animal magnetism to pull the loose change from pockets and purses through their powers of self pity and pungent pores clogged with filth and folly. You earn nothing through begging without mendication and mental meditation through fortitude and balance. Buy another patch your fabric is showing. You walking human billboard spawn of the modernized hippie bastard. So hate hate if you must or find that you can. For what you hate is all that you shall ever be. Words are the sinister sister to mankind's brotherly barbarism of violence and blood shed. Semantics are pure prejudices beyond spectrum unto all things. Separating and assigning. Labeling and qualifying. From birth to death we just babble on. It's no surprise the felled towers were given such a supercilious title as Babylon or the egg before the chicken. Both trite and a steamy bowl of tripe with secret ingredients secreted in squat knowledge kept hidden out back in the old abandoned bog sheds of yesteryears. black and white half an hours worth of these bloats effort of maybe a month's worth of work out of many more unconcerned. Do they deserve our admiration... absolutely. Could they try harder and give us more... who fucking cares. Do they owe us anything at all ever again... NO. Will a part of me die when it is finally a coffin note that is struck instead of basic bar chords by them and theirs... undoubtedly. Do i feel anything I have said holds a candle to their mystery... one would hope. But pessimists aren't supposed to do that. So listen to this and have a tummy ache in one's heart. Draw the stupid faces upon the clowns and jesters of life, dyslexic and upside down. Be jolly down deep in your bleak battered speech and wear dark colors. Say existentialist phrases as you feign in your soul for divinity. Be a miserable wretch with naught but disdain for your fellow man. By manes of lions we measure the beastly gristle. Not in girth but by outstretching our own falsities and failures. A heavy burden is so wearisome it must make thee mangled and disheveled. Then they scold with the hot blooded pastels of their master Hieronymus Posh by all things in a box. Pure dross! But it isn't what it is. Is what it is, really that which it is trying to convey? Undecided. So here's the last bone to be thrown amongst the savage and insatiable packs of the dog breath ones whom walk by and stand on hinds. This shall make your fun time organs tickle like sands down the narrow canal of a shapely hourglass. It won't be long now before another. No joke is funnier than seeing the indigent, whom mope about in usual off pitched whines, rear up ugly heads as shivers down spines erect them attentive. Hear if they haven't yet and by all times excited still when it's heard that Rudimentary Peni has announced another short album E.P. shall be released into the wilds shortly on and in the Southern most tundra's no doubt. The Loder ghost stays vigilant by virtues alone in spirit. Well and thriving from diligence applied long before. As it carves out paths pragmatic and pure in intentions learned by them and passed through us that prick up ears just enough to catch winds fleeting by no mere chance. No date has been given. But there is a claim, yet only that of a title, 'The Great War'. I wonder which could this be in reference or rather in tandem with. I can only hope Nick has begun to dream of dreams again as pill bottles empty down piped drainage spouts. Adapting a new persona in that special touched in the forehead by that holy ghost of some spiritual regurgitation. Some regal king this time or warrior emperor of bygone eras and hysteria driven battles of histories greatest being the reference respectively. One can only and ever does hope i suppose. May the trumpets sound as a duck is released in a gestation of shambolic piece. Like shit through a goose if I am let down by the buckshot of my own mistake. I can only pray the atheist god is a kinder one still. I'm going off cliffs now way past beaten paths. So it goes it's been told to me and I with a hearing disorder go off to fiddle with digits on a calculator. Punching in negative numbers as a formation of meditation and relief to all those compounded interests at large. What have I said? Nothing. What do I leave? Nothing at best. What do I wish? A Happy new years to you all. It's the year of the cock. The human race should out beam the sun by this one. The orient luster of it all is mesmerizing. I guess. Like pearls before swine or the missing hands of an amputee clock still ticking away the time alone in it's own geared head.

--Sumguay S. Nodiril
(Misanthropic Schadenfreude Pond Scum, occasional Positivist)

Tracklist:

A Handful Of Dust 1:20
No More Pain 1:36
Eyes Of The Dead 1:35
Prayer For The Unborn 1:41
The Death Of The Author 1:30
Grave Object 1:44
Doodlebug Baby 2:11
Annihilation 1:55
Sublime Fantasy No. 1 2:08
Pachelbel's Canon In E 4:16

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2 comments:

Martin Klapper said...

thanks a LOT!!!! never heard about them, but this is quite impressing....

Judas Vigilante said...

Great bit of writing CCC. keep in touch man.