The days are long and languid and they meld one into the next into the next, with whatever sleep I get being of the poorest quality. Muscles ache not from the virus, but from somnambulant contortions, the body riling with anxiety of any and all kind coursing through its veins. This is the climate into which Form Hunter has released their debut Self-Titled LP, and it could not be more appropriate. The duo, comprised of Stefan Aune (Breaking The Will, Kjostad) and Weston Czerkies (Sunken Cheek, Magnetic Coroner), offer reprieve through absolutely pulverizing noise—one can’t worry about the state of the planet if the planet doesn’t exist beyond layers and layers of heavy distortion. It’s actually calming. Within the opening seconds of “Sprung Trap,” it’s immediately like a full-body sand blaster pummeling you with granular death. Skin removed, then muscle, then tissue, then bone until you are nothing and it is everything you need right now. And that’s all everything is about: Right now.
Are we going in on analyzing harsh noise? Yep. It’s like what a 110mph car crash might sound like if the point of contact were stretched for infinitude, so twisted and gnarled is the hardware. Somewhere among all the crumbling lives this warbling tape manipulation, like a whammy bar gasping for breath, trying to remind you there once existed guitars and you once enjoyed melody. Low-end takes over, folds of grumbling underbelly hanging below the scree of ripping metal. They spar and swirl together like a tornado tearing through an archaic scrapheap. This is for waking up, teeth already clenched, to a world gone to shit, and trying to cleanse yourself of its impurity. You think it’s going to relent with “Dry Storage,” and then it does not and you realize you’re taking refuge in just blaring feedback. Yes, when the churning and scraping cut out, the leftover grumbling and sputtering feel like a weight being lifted. And when the grumbling and sputtering cut out, the feedback feels almost weightless. And in the absence of sound, you get lonely.
“Tracks Left In The Snow,” with its slow build, feeds off that isolation, taking time to tear you apart piece by piece, the agony of everything only intensifying with every new missing appendage. And when full force is regained, the feeling of nothingness is welcomed. The symphony of scraps on closing track “Blood Trail,” acts as a nod to Form Hunter’s instrumentation—old tools and junk aluminum, discarded nickel. Perhaps they’re mic’d up clean at first, but it’s still irksome beyond comprehension. And then that distortion adds on and beefs up, and a voice, something human, tries to break through but it’s snuffed out, stifled. And the transformation into pitiless bystander is complete. To play this record now is to eviscerate entirely, give yourself half a chance by taking the punishment into your own hands.
Form Hunter is out now via Found Remains.