untitled - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
This is artist formerly known as Charles/Charred Balls. As you would expect from a Gastric Female Reflex refugee, this thing is all over the place -subdued tape collage, opiate flavoured 'songs', the amazing stuttering hands of a sauced up organist, it's all here bubbling along in one big baffling stew. Hell, it could easily be some grubby outtakes from a Puzzle Punks session. Actually it reminds me of something Charlie Ward (Stomach Ache CEO) would have once slurped on, now wheres my spoon?-cm
aaron dilloway - door with no handle - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
A major oxide wobbble as the Michigan master of magnetic tape hiss finally delivers some dementia for the Monk. All the tangled up tape loop mess you know and love, with plenty of slow-motion sludge, aquatic gurgles and sleep inducing rust to get your mind drenched. Junked sounds of the 8 track come crawling out of the speakers alongside vocal chew. A spirited take on a demented dusk. File under Catatonic Dumpster Music, and keep it beside your private stash.-cm
the hunter grachhus - the bolsheviks shat in my brain - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
New hydroponic sketches of freakdom from Sheffield that should satisfy those of you with that roaring appetite for freedumb jams and methnic drone-outs. I hear delerious barkings of glue factory workers, the hanging heaviness of the local nut houses 'drum and squal' therapy sessions, pockmarked harmonium hymns to Harry Pussy, and whole bunch of giblets that I can't quite put my fingers in, but it sure does make one of my eyes twitch, so I say let the sweltering fog descend, we don't need no torch.-cm
chris forsyth & nate wooley - the duchess is dead, long live the duchess - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
“Global navigation satellite sytsems have made the old surveying process of triangulation unnecessary. That is to say, when you want to make a map these days, you just take a big cosmic snapshot & draw it. Guess it beats working out your scale of reference from a few points on the ground with some string & pencils. However, these two polite, mannered gentlemen are old fashioned. And old fashioned is the kind of guys the world needs, because they're the kind you would let babysit your kids. So instead of downloading the Buddha app to a fucking iphone, the pair go Euclidean by laying down lines across each other's playing, quietly looking for fixed angles. Little bubbles & abrasions from Wooley's trumpet mouthpiece. Planes of wavering tone from Forsyth's guitar. Live at Zorn's club in NYC.”- Angela Sawyer
dave miko - doyers data dump - chocolate monk - 3" cdr - 7$
“Think you like poetry, asshole? You've probably never even met the fellow. But this guy has. Even if he is a sloppy painter. And one from that capital of self-shitters, Brooklyn. Yes he has. Been there, that is. And like that poor Greek SOB who died bringing the news of the Athenian victory, the guy's run all the way back here to the land of the living from a zone of arrows and corpses. And he brings you back a session that's epic in the literary sense. Yelling, screaming, ranting, and even some shrieking. Not much else either, save a couple of stray electronic buzzes from the mike. Recorded at a Chinatown hipster bar in front of a few close friends, who were probably shitfaced. In fact, what was Clint Simonson doing there amidst the defeated Persians, bearded fools & fish sauce? Your call, but I say he was on his knees catching the flying spittle in a little cup.”- Angela Sawyer
zack kouns - the holometabolous larval process as metaphor for man's destiny - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
Kouns is a delerious spirit, from pig iron country, OH, USA. He grabbed my lapels once, wild-eyed. All wine reek and holy smoke, just started yelling at me “I got something for you, brotherman, Its a 40 minute modern liturgical, transcendental death jazz composition.” uh-huh.. “It compares the insects process too mankinds development, dig?.” ummm.. “I Think a wiry cat like you might just beable to handle the juices.” O..K... He proceeded to press a master tape into my trembling mit. And so here it is, one mans vision.-cm
More voltaic drip from the minefield of a mind of Stella. Two of the tracks here originally appeared on a super limited cassette on the Nazot label (hence the title here), but you probably missed that in your somnolence. Plus we get an extra 25 minute track,, thats over 77 minutes of zonked out sci-fi damage. A nausea inducing ride, seas on saturn style, using the same demented tape technique as on the Foucault Zombie sessions.
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Some of the more schooled of you may remember Sticky from many years back when Bananafish asked “Hey, phone billists, is Sticky a wanker?”, I knew the answer, even before i caught sight of his boufant and the tight salmon coloured strides. Now the one time A-Band member and former Leith Walk man about town spends his time chasing tail in Columbia under the thinly veiled disguise of 'english teacher'. Here Mr Pink Breeks teams up with Auld Reekie chumps Usurper for a mildly greasy stroll into the world of dwarfed out improv, you know the kind of miniscule clunk and clatter that keeps Greg Kelley up at night. Two live sets (Ithaca & Brooklyn) from their USA tour and two Bogata/Edinburgh postal face offs.
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"Following CDRs and cassettes for Smokers Gifts and Kovorox Sound, and a track on an Idwal Fisher comp, Melanie Delaney gulps down some fermented plantain extract, squares her shoulders, embarks on another temporary exile from Ashtray Navigations, and takes her rightful place atop the Chocolate Monk bully pulpit. The musical spastasms of her solo project Ocelocelot goink in tandem with Jovial Bowel Syndrome, that Midlands medical condish afflicting those with diets high in pig’s milk and sausage muke. Ring modulator abounds on the CD, attaching itself to every decibel like a Louisiana eyeworm, leaving pockmarks across landscapes defined by cornball menses tutorials and cloudy waters from the snout of the matriarch. Delaney charms plasmagnetics and electrosputum with the deftness of the Janitorial Custodians of Jajouka. As Ocelocelot splays her space nuptials across a skyline smeared with mushy peas, and junked Vespas limp across the tarmac at Dragonfly refueling stations, orphans gaze away from the mysterious metal chambers it is their duty to scrub with steel wool. Gawk, urchins."
- S.Glass
The Gas Shepherds are dead, found throttled in some midlands bog, an emacipated mess. But weep not, be brave, for from the ashes comes the suitably psych-damaged UFO Antler Band. In the red keyboards and vocal murk that reminds me of early A-Band sputter are led a stumbling by the tremelo shiver of a cavemans hand unveiling the gauzy guitar sound of that 'up all night revelation' feeling. All, eh, 'produced' with more hiss than a bag of snakes. I can almost hear De Waards wiseman contempt. But we don't need none of that shit round this hole in the ground, right?
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andrew coltrane - midnight winds - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
More zoned out murk to come crawling out of a Michighan basement. Hermitage Tapes honcho Coltrane delivers up a mix of organic strung out drones and sweet crud-fi tape pieces, all bound by pipe hits and pure of soul lurch. While some gonks might try and sell you on the 'bleakness' of his work, this baby starts off with a 14 minute brain massaging, drool soaked, mould raga, that had all at Nyoukis lodge visaging glorious globes of nature descending from the ceiling. And he keeps his brain in the drain for the entire ride.. Need a lift?
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part wild horses mane on both sides - anus carved in wood - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
More musty low-brow improvisation from the man/woman duo of Pascal Nichols and Kelly Jones. Leading you deep into the undergrowth with primitive movements and avant head storm. Come follow a percussion, feedback, flute & loop march that guides you right over to that lonely and malformed tree in your mind, all the while distracting your gaze from Pascals limp with the fluttering of sound grapes, then stuffing dank cotton in your earholes. Yep, come taste from the cracked wooden spoon, goon.
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lexie mountain - stone shit unicorn - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
The mighty Ms Mountain, Baltimores Queen of Tape Hiss and swagger squats down and lays another fine egg of head scratch. Lowbrow tape collage of all her chops, from backyard jam band to psychic accapella damage to ear/soul laceration and further still. All executed in her own street-level avant thug style. Like the sacred mushroom this will take you beyond mangled.
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gryn brvs - transport to theta - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
Its not that the 1st track just sounds like cavemen summoning spaceships from the sky, the Gryn Brvs (pronounced Groyne Brothers) actually were trying to do just that. Recorded round a campfire on a hill in Ireland one night, the duo sweated out minimal chops, absolute 'less is more' jams of strumming and catatonic tinkling, sauced up with electronic drones. We also get a live basement jam and sweet closer that whiffs of atlantis. Now put your arms up, and your brow down.
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datashock - acidulle - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
More deep hippy listening with the german freedom band. Contains 2 psych jams from the VOL IV session, a trio track from 2007 and an old folk intro from 2006. Trundels along the immense stumbling road of fine german drug music and makes you believe that some UFOs might be made of wood and mud. Edition of 100, so its time to put down that pipe my friend, and listen to the little man inside your skull "go get it, numbnuts."
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blood stereo - little creeper - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
Recorded live at Resonance FM. Full on duo in kick back mode, trying to burrow out of the airwaves into the listeners spine via tapes, voice, violin, oscillators, percussion and various other junk. A very pleasant magnetic headache. "Constantly engaging, and almost OCD in its search for new sounds, it runs a pretty slick roller coaster from meditative drone to looped rhythm to random samples to vocal exhumations, all inextricably connected and mystically-timed, as if these two have some secret key to the sweet spot at which to stop hammering a sound and transform it into something new." - Noiseweek
uboat - condor song - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
All out goof/guru vocal & drum guff from Ben Knight (towering breaker) and Pascal Nicols (stuckometer). Tired of attempting to ignite yr third eye? then why not open yr second anus, and fill your empty head with this exotic homebaked doughnut. And please, resist the temptation to run.
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f. ampism - a ceremonial swirly - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
Fine stoned loner bedroom constructions from this old grizzly. A well baked amalgam of tapes, electronics, vocals, clarinet and a bunch of other shit I can't pin down. Shove on your headphones and let the ear syrup begin.
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gas sheperds - untitled - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
These uk primitives are drooling. Salivating some wild liquids, most probably brought on from licking a finish mushroom, or toad. Bedroom plucking, strange clank and paranoid electricity. Its enough to send you back to the cave, asshole.
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neil campbell & john clyde evans - live at transmission gallery, glasgow - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
Recorded 22 November 1998 this is a bliss blister of cello, violin, tapes and voice. Like some shortwave radio broadcast straight from the porch, the duo conjuer up Sticky Foster as a 'ghost presence'. Karen Constance done did the artwork. You needs it.
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decaer pinga / runzestirn&gurgelstock - omitting the troll - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
sand rattle kins - 13 steps from kava conch - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
This is a glorious weirdy. When i sniffed these baltimore dweebs out first time they were going by the name Mongol Wives, but somewhere down the track they decided enough of the exotic brides tag and one of them oozed out the name Sand Rattle Kins, so here we are... I don't know if there is a Little Finland located in Crabtown, but I doubt it. Thing is this great little batch of audio whoopee sounds like Tomutonttu edited together by some cracked out kid with ADD,, and thats not a bad thing. Get in on it!
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ryan jewell - autodidact starfruit motherfucker - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$
Ohios percussion/improv whippersnapper deals you a hand of potent one man gruel. two tracks: a real heavy scraper with snare, floor tom, cymbal and contact mic. Plus a white light excursion on a wheel. No overdubs, just mind rubs.
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family underground - grave passage - chocolate monk - cdr -9$
More delightfull Danish mong out. Heavy analogue synth lurching on this baby. "Family Underground are from Copenhagen, Denmark. Not much going on around here. We jam to have fun. The sound hails from the bowels of the shipwrecks on the bottom of the Baltic ocean. Family Underground consist of three, using a wide variety of instruments. Psychedelic drone for those who want to be down forever."
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taurpis tula - steel rods bruise butterflies - chocolate monk - cdr - 10$sold out
This first recording as a trio (Heather and David Leigh are joined by Alex Neilson on drums) is a full on sonic avalanche. A wild exorcism, baby. “... leaves little fractured patterns scorched onto the memory like acid on glass. Taurpis Tula’s improvisational magic has taken a stronger but no less delicate and detailed turn. This is an epic excursion.” - Stylus
second family meets anla courtis - gangun guru - chocolate monk - cdr - 9 $sold out
Ascending from the stink haze of Zodiac Mountain, the Davenport Family, Jesus Balls and a ton of other drooled out Wisconsin jam bands comes The Second Family, a troupe focused on growing green, green roots in your hear holes. This has got a sweet fidelity too which means you can let the leaf in yr lug grow big. The clan are joined here by the wise blood of Buenos Aries mountain man Anla Courtis, adding some zoink guitar gristle and subtle wyrd magic. For them kids who get misty for the early WW&theVV daze.
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family battle snake - optimistic suburbia - chocolate monk - cdr - 9 $sold out
One of Bill Kouligas' most shimmering ear jolts.. Using just reel-to-reel tape loops and analog synths the little greek takes a laid back brain soak in an attempt to reveal evolution in colour listening. Like some wacked out new age self help guru this disk exhales confusion bliss and sends the electronic message swimming into view. Would make a nice tripped out sandwich with Wizards and Infinity Window, if thats the kind of lunch you like packing.
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robedoor christ vipers - chocolate monk - cdr - 10$sold out
Slow smoke jams from Californian sloth worshipers. Total monochrome lurches into the feedback hole. Like a mouthful of black strawberries. Great dementia. “Voices, confusion, poisons. An endless fade to grey.” - Not Not Fun
wooden wand & the vanishing voice - angel hair - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$sold out
skaters - pavillonous - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$sold out
chora - from the shape and contents of a sheeps stomach - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$sold out
Unveil the long pipes, shrouded in cloud comes this monster of a disarranging dripper. I am truly all over the shop with this fucker, hear a totally different disk everytime I spin it. So from my yellowed note book I give you ...gamelan in the spit ward.. an unearthed organist... tape loops chiseled from stone... an ale soaked amulet... the warm howling of the deaf... radio broadcast of early torture devices made from seashell... the hydrophonic tongue. But forget my rambling, dear reader, just come smell the warm confusion of these amazing young South Yorkshire cavemen for yrself.
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infinity window - trans fat - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$sold out
Great mulched 'new age' synth bliss from a Black Egg goon and one of the gonks from Astronaut. Feel a cloud envelope yr head.
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axolotl - prophetic ass - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$sold out
New psych damaged batch of nocturnal hookum from Karl Bauer. Zoned out crackling, tones and sweet SK-1 blowout all brewed up into a sweet load of tingling psychic non-songs and grot beats.
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c spencer yeh - the strangler - chocolate monk - cdr - 9$sold out
"Spencer is one wanted cowboy, so he makes more records than most have nosehairs. And many are droney records, which as all record nerds secretly know, are about as tough to lay hands on as your own boogers. But whenever he slides off into the uncharted desert like this, it's worth extra attention. Carefully sculpted audio ping pong games are played with scatological rasberry sounds. Toilets flush, wind whistles, straw bubbles spew, Donald Duck talks to you on a fritzed cb radio, and bits of a strangled laugh track flop like dead fish. Go further into the dunes, and skeletal, all-thumbs acoustic guitar licks start to be circled by esophageal vultures who attack the spiney dead. Yessir, let's get lost." - Angela Sawyer, Weirdo Records
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