Audio:
Sublimado Corrosivo · Burros de Dios · Vida y Color · Multimierda · The Third World Chickenpoxp
[Lea la versión en español de esta entrada]
Against the squawking logic of time and taste, Escupemetralla’s cassette-shaped curse crawls out of the late 20th century’s forgotten drawer of magnetic shame. These are four plastic relics that never wanted to be remembered—but in 2025, they return like radioactive pigeons, digitized and re-toxified under the glorious moniker: Exotic Matter of the Universe.
This is no box set. This is a collapsed wormhole. Inside: the sonic goo once bottled by Clonaciones Petunio, featuring the releases Sublimado Corrosivo, Burros de Dios/Asses of God, Vida y Color, and the legendary Multimierda. Think of them as four waxy suppositories of anti-music, recorded under the influence of socialist fever dreams, metal shavings, and post-industrial cough syrup. In addition to these four tapes, this thing digs up songs from a never-before-released single vinyl called The Third World Chickenpoxp, plus a handful of bonus tracks that’ll probably be the three delights fried rice special at your local suburban Chinese joint.
Restoration? No. This was an infection perfected. Remastered using middle-ear nightmares and auditory fever spells. This release is a blasphemous giggle carved into the forehead of music history’s crucified son. Escupemetralla aren’t here to entertain you. They’re here to outlast you.
Each tape was an act of loving sabotage, lung X-rays hurled at the poppy concerts of Madrid’s "movida." Muhammad and Muhammad operated as erratic mediums, receiving garbled transmissions from anti-salsa, anti-crooner towers. Inside: flakes of rusted iron, junk-code algorithms later used for The Matrix, and lyrical contempt for all things floral-necktied. Every intentional error, every overload, every meaningless silence and transmission glitch from the original tapes —preserved like sacred bacteria.
Music remastered and cloned by Clonaciones Petunio, 2025, Barcelona 
Sublimado Corrosivo (1988)
This is where the delirium hatched: recorded entirely in a dimensionless void between two calendar years, inside a defrocked kitchen in Sant Adrià de Besòs (Barcelona), the city sprawl that inspired William Gibson. Instruments? A portable television channeling square waves from the underworld through and Underwood typewriter, and a five-speed fan repurposed as a rotary prophet.
The name? Borrowed from a real-life poison: corrosive sublimate, or mercuric bichloride—an antique sterilizer for surgical tools too delicate for boiling. In August 1988, Dr. Antoni Puigvert, a legendary urologist and Catalan oracle of the prostate, was nearly vaporized from within after mistaking said pills for candy. This album is his hallucination, not yours.
Corroded tracklist:
💎 Boato: una marcha fúnebre para dictadores caídos. En el Imagine a dictator buried alive beneath a layer of Catholic incense and socialist leaflets. That’s Boato: a funeral parade for tyrants who still think they’re trending. In the left ear: The Edict of Constantine, droning like a Gregorian TikTok. In the right: a rooster fight from Tijuana, funneled through a homemade oscillator and God’s broken hearing aid. The beat? An IV drip straight into the wounded psyche of late Francoist Spain. This is not a track —it’s a slow-motion collapse wearing military boots and false eyelashes. Video
👸 Baronesa Russlein von Altebar: Banned by Tarragona’s Archbishop, a holy man who never pressed play. This one recites the alphabet backwards while a small Bavarian boy asks, in existential panic, „Warum schaut mi d’Maschin so an?“ ("Why is the machine looking at me?"). Behind him, five well-aged women play prepared flutes that have been tampered with by regret and tempered using Radium radius ratios.
🔥 Sagunto: Hell, with reverb. Recorded live in multiple foundries as the walls begged for mercy. Instruments: pile drivers, fossilized hammerhead fish, blunt trauma. Señor Petunio screams until he coughs up (Mexican) poultry.
🕯️ Valentín Corrales in memoriam: A suicide waltz dedicated to entropy’s revenge. Somewhere in the mix: a lost fax from 1948. Who was Valentín? A retired colonel, a disco electrician, a gymnastics’ professor in Salesian schools? An atmospheric anomaly? No one knows. But this is his funeral: whispering basslines, orphaned reverb, and sighs cribbed from an opera performed by ghosts under the age of 1200.
✂️ Retales Marisa: Corrosive patchwork for the inner ear. A nostalgic stitch-up of Hunagaroton label vinyl fragments, toy chime surgery, and the gentle scraping of old potato eyes being exorcised with a paring knife. It smells like your grandmother’s sewing box —if it were haunted by electricity.
💃 Girls they want to have fun: Lauper’s anthem, torn apart and reassembled with goat brays and decelerated orgasms. One climax was reversed, others were microwaved. Mixed with erratic transistor howls, manipulated by a man who’d clearly been through too many winters. This is not a cover; it’s a curse.
🦆 Cuac cuac cuac: A military duck-march coded via Commodore 64, jacked directly into Stephen Mallinder’s spinal column. Charted at #79 on Radio Liberty just as Gaddafi flipped the “explode” switch on Pan Am 103. Later exhumed by Nøvak Records in their 2023 necro-compilation: Música degenerada. Vídeo
🤯 20 segundos para bailar (golpea tu cabeza contra la pared): A thirty-second riot in a heated test tube. Anti-anthem for bathroom punks and dodgem-carnival existentialists. Includes: the disembodied voice of a vanished nun, filtered through a Japanese toy designed to teach dance routines to epileptics and saints.
🕺 Omnes unanimiter – Elvis Presley se va a Alemania: What happens when you crossbreed the local children’s choir of Sant Adrià de Besós (see above) with the tank-division chorus of the U.S. Army base in Friedberg, West Germany —where Elvis did time in uniform? Answer: Teutonic beats birthed on a Casio VL-Tone, paired with maracas embedded with kangaroo teeth. Marching orders issued via megaphone by the ghost of Priscilla.
💣 ¡Arroja la bomba!: The band’s original anthem. Title lifted from an anarchist songbook of the Spanish Civil War. Barked in a tone of post-nasal Armageddon, with backing growls from collapsing factories. This is not a metaphor. The bomb is you. Spit the shrapnel.
🌊 Mar de los Sargazos: Not a sea. A vortex. A slow, operatic drowning match between tenors and sopranos, tangled in wet tape and post-Soviet reverb. Featuring the USSR State Radio Symphony Orchestra trying to recite Evstignei Fomin’s Orpheus while sinking in the Sargasso Sea.
👻 Ein Unsichtbarer geht durch die Stadt: The vanishing point. Named after a 1933 film no one remembers. The band pours out everything they have left —while remaining invisible. What comes out is a hologram of a sound, operated on in a smoky hospital where machines bleed, Esperanto is spoken backwards, and all information has been replaced with noise.
Burros de Dios / Asses of God (1990)
Asses of God is a holy middle finger hurled at musical logic and the spiritual BDSM of Catholic self-mortification —with audio cilices applied directly to the corners of the listener’s mouth. In other words: a black mass performed in a postmodern catacomb lit by faulty altar LEDs. Released by Escupemetralla during the twilight of the analog age, this cassette plugs directly into the Catholic olfactory bulb, inducing visions of priests as depraved celebrities, childhood as a 38-year verdict, and sainthood as a grotesque layer of makeup smeared on with a spatula and crowned with concertina-wrapped brass scepters.
The album draws sacrilegious inspiration from Josemaría Escrivá de Balaguer, founder of Opus Dei —a totalitarian, paternalistic, proselytizing sect dressed in cassocks and capitalist guilt. He’s also the author of The Way, a collection of 999 spiritual aphorisms written like prehistoric cookbook instructions. Many track titles, themes, and tones are carved straight from his Catholic ultra-conservative rhetoric. Legend has it Satan once appeared to Josemaría disguised as a worker, shoved him to the ground, and called him a donkey. Josemaría, sprawled on the pavement, whispered: “Yes… a donkey. But a donkey of God.”
This painful audio via crucis unfolds in the following stations:
🙏 The handsomest priest all over the world (Plagio): We begin with vanity in a vestment. A syrupy homage to the world’s best-looking priest—Escrivá himself —composed entirely of plagiarized homilies and liturgical chants stretched and mangled by digital heresy. A cross-eyed Neocatechumenal priest with the voice of a game show host and the charisma of a wet napkin delivers spiritual thirst traps with numbed disinterest.
👶 Would-be children (Bodrio): A deranged collage of voices that pretend to be children but sound like broken synths and overprocessed toy samples —like a fundamentalist Catholic at a gay disco. Inspired by Opus Dei’s insistence that its followers be as pure as toddlers —but never actual children, and certainly not “childoids.”
✝️ Holy intransigence (Pastiche): Audio loops made from sermons screamed into an organ pipe roughly the size and texture of a verrucose pig penis. The result: a sonic auto-da-fé, where industrial musicians are burned at the stake of pink noise. Inspired by Escrivá’s saccharine sermons and fascist "holy stubbornness," this track boils them in flanger sauce.
⚡ Holy rage (Chabel): The “sacred rage” Josemaría would unleash when his divine taste was questioned. One of his targets: Chabel, a pop doll who, when pulled by her back-cord, would shout Marxist slogans. The track builds a wall of percussive repetition before collapsing into a radio fragment describing the foamy vitriol Monseñor spewed from the pulpit like holy shaving cream.
🚀 Per aspira ad astra (Residuo): A celestial journey via a brutal aluminum scouring pad. Meant to cleanse those body parts unblessed by cilices. Trained musicologists may detect interference patterns sourced from cosmic debris, along with ghost samples from Metempsychosis by the band Arzachel. For everyone else, it is outer space music filtered through a cheese grater.
👕 Hair-shirt (Papeles): Self-flagellation using reams of sharpened office paper. Besides being celibate, Opus members are expected to perform daily penance, spiritual and physical. This includes disciplines (whips with lead-tipped cords) and cilices (spiked wire worn on the flesh, like devotion with tetanus). This track cuts deep. And in triplicate.
😈 Holy shamelessness (Die Kunst der Flanger): Imagine if Bach, dead, zombified and high on novenas, discovered the flanger pedal and decided to blaspheme The Art of Fugue via Casio SK-1 toy samples. This is holy shamelessness: a virtue every good believer is encouraged to practice while bench-pressing Bibles in the Torreciudad (Opus Dei’s sanctuary) spiritual gym. Way before Laibach mangled Bach in 2008, Escupemetralla was already flangering the gospel into submission.
🔒 Holy coercion (López on the water): One more “virtue” to observe: sacred coercion. Opens with the voice of Víctor Nubla quoting from Monstruo sin cola by Macromassa, then melts into Mr. Philips Braun’s orchestral mush before drowning in a baptismal lake. In its depths: a deranged busker’s riff on Smoke on the Water —reborn here as López on the water (melodía para máquina de afeitar a Macromassa). A cleaned-up version surfaced in 2020 on the tribute album Los hechos Nubla, curated by Francisco López.
🕊️ Ave Maria (Mary bird): A mutilated Hail Mary reduced to pulp, spliced with bird recordings and 19th-century hiss. Here, the Virgin becomes a feathered omen, chirping her rosary from a scratched vinyl sanctified by flogging. Pope Pius XII and Alessandro Moreschi (the Vatican’s last castrato) join forces in a failed attempt to resurrect the dead on Semi-Judgement Day.
🌄 Spiritual retreat (Vísceras): A guided retreat full of internal tube-shaped organs, violet-colored fluids, and the screams of forced depilation. A liturgy of the entrails, performed with permission from Iéximal Jélimite and the house pianist of a cursed hotel lobby. It's gospel by meat grinder.
💄 Holy coquetry (Boato remix, live at the University of Navarra): A triumphant distortion-fest revisiting Boato (from Sublimado Corrosivo), recorded live at a covert performance during Opus Dei’s spiritual exercises at the University of Navarra. Audience: 542 marriageable girls. According to Monseñor’s doctrine, “women don’t need to be wise, only discreet” —and must cultivate "holy flirtation" to attract men and sanctify them. Flirt like a saint, get undressed like Rita Hayworth. With feedback.
Vida y Color (1991)
In this forgotten gem from 1991, Escupemetralla dive face-first into strange new territories without ever letting go of the dusty folklore of their Spanish childhood —the kind condensed in collectible sticker albums like "Vida y color", where nature was a cartoon, and learning smelled like glue. But here, nature wears second-hand drum machines, sings through busted keyboards, and burps out sub-vocal transmissions that swing between the gastric, the social, the mystical, and the deeply, deliciously absurd.
Vida y Color is a cassette made of sidewalk philosophy, suburban mysticism, metaphysical labor politics, and neoliberalism in a tracksuit —punctuated with commas and chaos. It's a penitential revelation you can dance to, recently remastered in 2025 to sound even more baroque and uncalled for. Listening to it is like reading Nietzsche while someone does a rain dance on your back in rubber boots filled with LSD. Not recommended for healthy ears —but ideal for very strange Sundays.
This was the first tape Escupemetralla produced using their newly acquired decotetrástrofomonorhymers (they had three). The resulting pieces are as follows:
🐷 Tenemos todo el barro que queremos: A guttural tribute to mud, rapped by two of the infamous three little pigs (the third couldn’t make bail). Featuring a chorus of ladles clanging against prison pots, a Muhammad chewing dirt on loop, and the other Muhammad singing reggaetón backwards while scratching a vinyl made of sun-dried poop. Señor Petunio strums a guitar marked in the score as “ad libitum, ad nauseam.”
📉 Pobres de solemnidad: A tragic copla built on electronic pulse and a saxophone clogged with spit. A social cry for the undocumented, the long-term unemployed, and those spiritually overdrafted. This was Escupemetralla’s submission to the 7th Roland–Rock de Lux Demo Contest in 1991, where they won First Prize in Group B (electronic music), receiving a mammoth synthesizer and a twitchy Roland drum machine —used later to ghostwrite every Front 242 track without compensation.
🚜 Poclain: A song, a goddess, or a French excavator with spiritual depth? Flamenco handclaps meet proletarian krautrock while one Muhammad mimics the engine of a Poclain 1000XL bulldozer with his throat. The other Muhammad holds a rally in an invented language while fully caked in mud. Always the mud. More mud than the lyrics had space for. If this track doesn't quite do it for you, you might want to check out this recent remix instead: Poclain (Netanyahoo devastating dreams remix).
📯 Trompetas de Jericó: Constructed almost entirely from paper cones blown like trumpets and tin frogs pressed rhythmically. The result: penitentiary retro-trap that brings down the walls of metaphorical prisons and announces the end times in an existentialist-Gitano dialect. This track was recorded in 1990 for a compilation called Survive Behind Bars, which was supposed to be released by Eli Talgam in Jerusalem, but nothing was ever heard from him again.
💰 Tocomocho: 1980s techno-pop, but through a filter of bitter theft and petty fraud. One Muhammad steals Kraftwerk-adjacent beats of dubious origin. The other sells them to a shady fence in exchange for a mud sculpture of Florian Schneider. Sublime flute solo performed by a parrot wearing a headpiece made of another flute, a flute made of mud.
🌪️ The four elements: A suite performed following a visual score by Frans de Waard, inspired by his 1990 cassette featuring multiple interpretations of this theme by groups like Kapotte Muziek and Das Synthetisches Mischgewebe. Escupemetralla’s version is made of weeping, Zippo lighters, sighs, and (inevitably) mud. Every time someone says “ether,” a gong rings. Saying “Austro-Hungarian” causes torrential rains, fires, hurricanes, and —somehow—wet soil to ooze from the cassette slot. The digital version does not prevent these plagues. It amplifies them.
🌐 NWO: NWO: The New World Order™ as announced by George Bush Sr. from behind the bar of a suspicious tavern. Freemason-reptilian pop for conspiracy theorists in corduroy. The end of the world has never sounded so cartoonishly juvenile. Lizard kings in Teletubby suits welcome you to the apocalypse.
🌹 Sueño socialista: A drifting ballad inspired by utopian nostalgia. Think suede-jacket Socialist Party of Spanish Workers (PSOE), robust mustaches, and opium-laced optimism. It sings to neighborhoods, unions, city buses, and the rusting dreams of the Sevilla 1992 Expo. The bassline evokes the silent but ceaseless worker struggle... of ants.
⚙️ Motor inmóvil aristotélico: Like that eternal mechanism lodged in the anesthetized left ear of Aristotle —the original glitch in the matrix. This track stacks hours of parish organ notes and overdubbed grand piano loops recorded and re-recorded by Wim Mertens’ grandson. The result: endless loops folding in on themselves until they become... the very same unmoved mechanism, lodged once again in Aristotle’s left ear. No exit. No climax. Only recursion.
Multimierda (1995)
While the world was getting high on “multimedia artists” and their supercool spectacles with funding from the Ministry of Trendiness, Escupemetralla were busy drowning in their own filth —ignored by music scenes, ejected from the postmodern orbit, and happily fermenting in the compost bin of forgotten subcultures.
Sónar’s “advanced music” festival was, indeed, very advanced —especially when compared to Top 40— but only in the sense that it had advanced so far into prefab boredom and dry wastelands that it began attracting fans with visibly missing brain cortexes. Meanwhile, The Chemical Brothers were discovering they were long-lost siblings, and one’s sneezes were being turned into donut-sequenced loops by the other’s Ableton-for-toddlers setup.
Into this bleak panorama, Escupemetralla tossed a banana peel on the dance floor and gave the public a shove. The result: Multimierda, a sonic prank with a genre-defying label that could plausibly be described as metal machine hip hop, self-plagiarism-as-style, fake futurism, medieval electrocumbia, and artificial bluegrass all shoved into a magnetic piñata.
The album was composed with intentionally bad sound sources: poorly soldered cable nests, effectless synths with no computer ports, and hardware that sounded like old pirate radio broadcasts beamed from failing European countries in 1999. All tracks were composed by Greg Rivas, a known pelicanist, and performed strictly by score. According to the band, the music was actually recorded in August 2025 and self-back-broadcast to 1995 via a homemade Tipler DT Backward Chrono minicyclinder, patented in 1955.
The yak-dung audio pellets making up Multimierda include:
🥁 Ritmo X: A crumpled spiral of rhythm that tries (and fails spectacularly) to spark chaos-fueled dancefloor ecstasy. The track insists on being the moment —specifically 10:35pm—but ends up sounding more like a fish turning into the shell of a lobster telephone that rings after the funeral. Featured in the baffling 2017 Raster-Noton compilation Música para dolores de cabeza.
🪓 Barbarie: When late president Josep Tarradellas yelled “Ja sóc aquí!” in 1977, the balcony of the Generalitat de Catalunya collapsed onto several tons of facial cream, unleashing a decade of cultural slippage. This track captures that same fall: percussive hysteria degraded through modulation and filter abuse, like hearing “roc català” through the walls of a Catalan donkey disassembly room filled with flies and Steinway pianos. One critic called it “music for throwing cobblestones.” He wasn’t wrong.
🚽 Desmontaje de sanitarios: Made entirely from plumbing sounds captured while Señor Petunio’s toilet was under siege by professional plumbers, denying him his daily ritual. The band leaned into the trauma and made this monument to bathroom dissonance. A toilet opera. A flush fugue. Unfiltered, unflushed.
💿 Disco: All the disco fury of Calatayud’s underground in the ’90s. The sweaty ecstasy of circumcision parties on Barcelona’s Tuset Street in the ’60s. The foot-stank transcendence of Canet Rock festival nights in the early 21st century. Filtered into one pseudo-rhythmic banger made with two MS-20s and a plastic sax plugged into the state’s drainage network.
🎸 Quiero ser guitarra de Esplendor Geométrico: A lo-fi anti-anthem for Arturo Lanz and Gabriel Riaza, both praised and parodied. This is a strange homage, part-answer to Moscú está helado, part-punk nod to P.P. Tan Solo’s Quiero ser guitarra de Siniestro Total. Using their beloved MS-20s, a synthetic guitar, and Muhammad’s processed vocals, Escupemetralla created a digital punch bowl of broken effects that ping-pongs relentlessly. Dr. Piotr Balalaiky called it “pop in zortzico time buzzing between the ears of a hog-tied donkey inside Enver Hoxha’s cochlea.” The track appeared in the 1994 Noise Club Uno CD by Por Caridad Producciones and made it to Jesús Ordovás’ Esto no es Hawaii Radio 3 program. Music journalist Jaime Gonzalo famously labeled it “musical detritus by a noble freak of mid-’80s Barcelona undergrún.” Later, Nøvak released a double CD tribute: Quiero ser guitarra de Esplendor Geométrico. 25 Años de Paz (2019), inviting scene legends to destroy and rebuild their own versions.
🦨 Fetid ambient: Ambient gone septic. Saturated saturation. Field recordings of low-fidelity filth and viscous buzz layered into a thick sonic fog. The result: a humid, suffocating soundscape perfect for meditating on the ecological effects of chronoplasty, cruroplasty, omphaloplasty, and cranioplasty —especially when overdosed.
👾 Música avanzada de una civilización arbitrariamente avanzada: Sónar’s festival tagline “advanced music” becomes a satirical black hole here. Escupemetralla offers their version: music from a civilization so technologically “advanced” it circles back to magic, à la Arthur C. Clarke. The catch? It's intended for listeners so underdeveloped it might as well be performed on coconuts. Equal parts arrogant and accidental, this track earns its place somewhere between eternal obscurity and the Mariana Trench.
🐟 Weberphonics: Theoretical sociologist Max Weber meets Valencia’s bakalao rave culture via Liverpool’s fourth-dimensional wormhole. One Muhammad contracts chickenpox while DJing at an after-hours discotheque and translates the fever into sound. Possibly the only track in history with a BPM determined by sociology.
📍 42.31N 70.53W: A sonic postcard from an eerie site where bowling was played with severed heads. Named after its coordinates, this track is atmospheric, subterranean, and composed using a six-string synthesizer and a Welte-Mignon-Steinway pianola fed perforated paper randomly shot by machine gun. First released on Instants Inquiets (Les Variations Ludiques, 1994) tape compilation, it was later remastered and exhumed by Nøvak in A Nøvak Product 2. Una cierta oscuridad (2017).
🏔️ Quiero y no puedo: A hymn to impotence in all its forms. A track caught in a tug-of-war between leaping off the cliff and sinking into a waterbed that slowly descends into industrial-music hell. Fragmented sounds possibly cannibalized from Quiero ser guitarra de Esplendor Geométrico —plus distorted voices from The Exorcist priest and Heidi (a Japanese TV series), locked in a desperate, degrading attempt to communicate. A fitting finale —and a prophetic one. After this, Escupemetralla entered a two-decade limbo of creative dormancy, only surfacing for brief sleepwalk-productions like Avuyur (1998), now buried somewhere beneath the Mariana Trench.
The Third World Chickenpoxp (1994)
Back in 1993, Carburetor Records, a mysterious label from Minneapolis known for releasing artifacts by The Tape-beatles, contacted Escupemetralla with an unlikely proposition: release a 5-inch vinyl single.
Never ones to decline an opportunity to cause trouble in yet another continent, Escupemetralla fired up the reel-to-reel and cobbled together two plunderphonic monstrosities:
- Ceaușescu was a KFC compulsive eater
- Carnival of fowl diseases
Both tracks were Frankensteinian amalgams of aural debris, sampling chaos, and sonic scavenging. The aesthetic aimed to balance precariously between the radioactive satire of The Residents’ Third Reich 'n Roll and the anti-music contorted bricolage of The Tape-beatles’ Music with Sound.
As for the title of the single? The Third World Chickenpoxp —an unsubtle nod to The Residents' plague of audio surrealism, but now dressed in second-hand geopolitics, third-world fried poultry, and fourth-wave communicable diseases.
To hammer home its unapologetically residential DNA, Plundergraphics™, Escupemetralla’s rogue visual department, cooked up a cover that lovingly defiled the original Third Reich 'n Roll sleeve. Where The Residents had a cartoon Nazi gripping a carrot (playing off the lore that Hitler was a vegetarian), Escupemetralla featured Conducător Ceaușescu, mid-bite into a KFC drumstick, his face blossoming with the unmistakable rash of chickenpox. Swirling around him: a chaotic conga line of barely-disguised musical icons—faces that anyone fluent in counterculture could decipher.
The back cover? A parallel act of vandalism: Colonel Sanders holding six fried drumsticks mounted like hammers onto sickles—flipping the Nazi eagle in The Residents’ back art into a poultry-based act of communist sabotage, all framed inside a repurposed six-pointed star of total symbolic confusion.
But alas, the project flamed out. Carburetor Records ultimately decided that the tracks strayed too far from the heretical spirit of Burros de Dios and Vida y Color, and leaned dangerously close to outright Tape-beatle mimicry. Thus, the single was shelved, boxed, and doomed to haunt the archives of Things That Almost Were.
🍗 Ceaușescu was a KFC compulsive eater: A gleeful sonic desecration that stitches together the funeral dirge of Paul, John, and George as Eleanor Rigby gets buried by Father McKenzie—only here, the coffin is Egyptian, Ringo’s on shovel duty making little mud piles, and Hardy Fox and Homer Flynn are busy jabbing infected styes in their 30-kilometer-wide eyeballs. Somewhere deep in the mix, a Sandinista guerrilla waves solemnly to the listener before disappearing behind a veil of vinyl crackle and communist static.
🦠 Carnival of fowl diseases: A merciless audio freak parade built from the non-consensual contributions of numerous sonic victims: Boney M, Michael Jackson, The Residents themselves, Village People, and other poor souls better left unnamed. This is not a song; it’s a poultry-borne biohazard engineered to infect every last frequency on the spectrum.
Signed: Muhammad & Muhammad
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