Immaturity Of Movement feels spherical, self-sustaining. There is nowhere for the noise to go but inward, and so expelled vibration becomes the instigator of new movement: loops push against their own edges until they buckle and crack, feedback serrates itself on grey beds of distortion, while vocals writhe into the middle and force the storm onto the surrounding walls. It feels dangerous to hear energy brew and regenerate in this way, and as two of the three pieces terminate with the abruptness of a pulled plug, I wonder whether this is a conscious move made on the brink of self-destruction. To proceed any further would be to forfeit the ego completely.
Each piece feels like a fermentation of introspection, or an obsessive dismantling of solitary thought; an innocuous flash of nostalgia spirals into a tornado of self-questioning, picking away at the significance of every gesture and limb. On the title track, it’s almost a meditative process – a botched guitar loop evaporates into a molecular spray of feedback and projectile screams, departing the body of musicality to become a pure and violent sound, liberated from the gravity and edges of flesh to exist as the pure undulation of movement. On “Document #8 And Being Late”, a pilot tannoy calmly articulates its own impending oblivion, as a dull rumble of noise smashes against the metallic scrape of dissection implements. Chaos gathers over each piece like a storm cloud, and as the more patient, structural elements of Knifedoutofexistence start to melt into unconscious reflexes of loose feedback and sheet metal, I start to realise the ecstatic liberation within this act of vibratory sacrifice. To be expelled into nothing is a beautiful thing.