Noise Research Institute – Domestic Nuclear Shelters

This review has been a few weeks coming.

Noise Research Institute, the latest project from Spike Vincent, longtime fiend and all-around perpetrator of crimes against humanity, makes no subtle entry with this initial effort, Domestic Nuclear Shelters. The album opens with the inconspicuous grace of a drunken football hooligan, likewise blasting eardrums and expectations without apology or concern. It is an abuse of sound, depraved and vile; like an electric razor chewing through Fabergé eggs. An abuse so far beyond the pale that it daunts all but the initiated: who are sure to revel in the debasement and affront to common decency.

The appropriate mood established, the album navigates through familiar noise territory as if guided by some preternatural force, sweeping through rumbling lows and piercing highs. Tortured organic wails wash walls of crashing sound against electronic backdrops both soothingly harsh and brutally serene. Massive, monolithic towers of sheer noise rise precariously above the fray, threatening to topple under the weight of their aural might, burying the listener in an avalanche of atonal rubble. Just as the Good Lord™ intended.

Perhaps the most impressive feat of this release is in its depth. Many newcomers launch themselves into the genre with little appreciation of its subtleties and little understanding of how noise can, and should, carry emotional weight; how it evolves both sonically and symbolically. Though lacking in some of the detail that more seasoned artists may have applied, the album has a solid foundation and demonstrates a firm grasp of the fundamentals that define the style.

Domestic Nuclear Shelters is proof positive that an old dog can learn new tricks. And I hope to be around to hear a few more of these new tricks.

[Rating:4/5]

Cheers, Spike.

Post Script: I really need a proof reader.

Tell me what’s the word?

Word up.

Here’s some random graffiti that I’ve seen around town over the last few weeks. These entertain me to no end, and that’s why I am sharing them with you, oh dearest readers. This is the sort of nonsense that makes the walk to and from work so very worthwhile. Otherwise I would open a vein and hope to be done with it all before I made it in…


Shit, Blinky! Run! Run!


Every so often the voice of reason is in print. Stuck to the side of a utility box on the side of the street. Every so often…


Yeah. Words fail me.

Randomly, here are some other sights that have inspired in me a sense of mirth.


Fuck all, these are some ostentatious urinals. I don’t need to feel this regal when voiding my bladder, I assure you.


Now, see, this is a case of improper expectations. By reading the first sign, one would assume, with due cause, that there is some other manner of trespass which is acceptable. The criminal kind of trespass isn’t kosher, but, you know, the other kind is A-OK. Then they follow it up with the second sign which just shoots that idea all to shit. I’m not really sure what to think about these signs. I haven’t seen mixed signals like this since the last time I tried to pick up a woman in a bar. “Sure I don’t find you repulsive; but I would rather go home alone nonetheless.”


There was a protest tonight along my route home which was, by sheer virtue of sublime irony, escorted by the local police department. I noticed this license plate frame on one of the police motorcycles and giggled incessantly. I had to stop and take a picture, even though it meant missing the light…

Alright, darlings. That is all for tonight. I’m off to watch some DVDs.

Swing that heaviest hammer you got

Hit this one out of the park.

I’m saddened that I haven’t seen any new Destroy graffiti in almost a month. I’m not sure if the perpetrators of this phenomenon have retired and moved on to other nefarious deeds, or if they have simply moved into neighborhoods that I don’t frequent. Hoping that this won’t be my last entry on the subject, here are the two most recent of my finds, from mid-January.

Glory be to the new sticker art revolution.