From Norway comes a noise collaboration that has proven to be a sonic surprise from MoE and Lasse Marhaug, it’s Capsaicin (parts One through Four). At first it is a bit brooding, an extended deep bass drone, growing gradually, in time-released single strumming with a silently lethargic nature. Part One finds itself at some variable precipice looking downward. As if a bell were tolling within a somnolent, disturbed state of unrest, the repeating drone increases in reverb and burnished surface layer that seems to slowly flay from its spine.
A wailing buzz of controlled warble stays within a palpable range with varying shades of darkening grey and about three-quarters in squiggly sound effects scratch the metallic finish like feasting creatures, perhaps amplified from a molecular level. As Part Two ensues its obvious that the glue holding this apparatus has discharged itself from the interior and become much more of a collective noise clash.
In this barrage is an industrial hive that roars with a wild abandon, though all in a very unique shaped format. The vehement din seems to be a contemporary form of no wave noise rock, like a coursing strand of undetectable DNA attempting to be harnessed. There are interesting moments like when it sounds as though a 45rpm has been slumped down to 33 1/3 speed, perhaps decoding some ghostly takeaway hidden in the mix. The bass goes so low, as far as it can go. Enter Part Three which becomes this monitored wave of discordant drone, running left to right and back again. The percussion is slight and played mostly via a sedated cymbal, but it effectively stays in wait while this pulverizing scanner covers its territory.
As the flair of copious noise grows into an encrusted drone noise wall it is evident in the transition into Part Four that the only way is downward once again, completing this cycle. The revved up noise is staccato and funneled into a arcuated pattern, with these hysterical cries systematically bellowing into a giant vortex that churns away. I do appreciate at about the twelve minute point the way in which this breaks from the sonic rue to showcase its own bubbling aftermath. If an Spirograph could etch the vestiges of the last gates of Hell, add a side of Hendrix at his most psychedelically altered, and perhaps a field recording of the innards of a cement mixer at full tilt you may only start to imagine the picture emerging on this rustic ditty. Although no one will be humming this to fall asleep.