NEVAI, WOLCOTT - Wipe It Off FLAC album

Boldly posited Ketamine Funk as a cold industrious psychoactive reimagining of the west coast 'canyon sound' (of "Desert Rock") but whether their machine language is wrought from an oscillator simulating banter or the synthetic preparations of Wolcott's vocoder-esque vocal treatments, the Frampton that "Comes Alive" in the proceedings seems to be encased in a Cylon's armour.
Timbrally the results ar highly plastic (meaning unpredictable), as stark sheets of abrasiv texture bruise the impossibly un-porous surface of (directly-recorded) electronics as they vent an entirely immoderate barrage of silicon signal like the audio equivalent of the overly-smooth panels of (unphysically-imagined) computer generated imagery: this modern medium so contradictory in its twin characteristics ov existing in a describable detail yet being consensually dubious as fact. The results could be summarized as early DEUTSCHE-AMERIKANISCHE-FREUNDSCHAFT in a car ax-o-dent with English trio FAT. Jerkily-aliased meters anchored by motoric beats and RUDELY contrasting sonik-tactile descriptors, like an arrhythmic cyborg cabbage-patching in an isolation tank and groking that his own goosebumps are braille from the mainframe demiurge.
Mark Wheaton, a veteran from the hardest-core performance art arm of the L.A. New-Wave (notably in conspiracy with Joanna Went's lustfully mess-making spectacle) engineers this engineer's soundtrack with the requisite frowning sterility, supervising painterly dabs of restraint patiently framed by an utter lack of it; dynamic contrast has rarely been so mercurial, be careful if you're drinking coffee while this Extended Play-er spins, it's --ABRUPT!!-- in its surprise, as Wheaton proves himself to be the consummate pokerfaced 'strait guy' to the grotesque facial contortions of Nevai-Wolcott's replicant slapstick, delivering a prototype of ESSENTIALLY BIOMECHANICAL sound-arts that hit the biomech target from both sides of the fiber-optical-straw; Nevai's baritone-tenor vocal harmonys vibrate in androidal unison with notes you may not have otherwise detected in the seething noise-floor as Wolcott's airless bass-monoliths, initally tumescent in the casting ov shadows ov intimidation, whom, without warning, implode and consume themselves in viscous puddles wobbling in zero-gravity before they evervesce irridescently like metallic flutterbys in reverse, the inorganic and the organic hopelessly confused in both origin and conclusion until any distinguishing betwixt them is extinguished.
Like the space-shuttle Challenger's happy explosion, the smoke clears, the listener is incredulous that 10 minutes have elapsed and as they flip the thick platter and ignore the impression of radiation's creeping figment, only the stinging cologne of rocket fuel's romance remains.