"Happily, our swain can still turn a tender phrase like a baby on a spit."

Foetus ~ Flow
(Thirsty Ear)

Ahhh... the roar of grease paint, the smell of placenta. In excelsis deo, a new Foetus is stillborn!

The amateur discographical historian that dwells within every overdressed, surly gearhead™ can explain the finer points of the circuitous career of one Clint Ruin, a.k.a. Foetus. Suffice to say, the most recent opus, Flow, is of an excellent amniotic vintage, recalling the fine pink and somewhat hairy bouquets of past afterbirth like Thaw, Nail, or Hole.

Ruin's soliloquous menstruations have discharged his most personal effort to date, which does not make it less dirty, just cranky in a new and exciting way. Monsieur Le Ruin's Foetal postion seems to have found a specific topical womb involving drug and/or female addiction. The music is rife with his signature cleverly-crafted fudge punch industrial grinds (notably "Mandalay" in its ruinous orchestral punctuation), with injections of grimy swing ("Grace Of God" and "Heuldoch 7B") and vein-tappin' lounge numbers ("Cirrhosis Of The Heart" and "Victor Or Victim"). Happily, our swain can still turn a tender phrase like a baby on a spit: "You got me confused with someone who cares," for example, or "I left my libido in a rented tuxedo." Foul and yet strangely necessary.

All in all it’s a wonderful extraction, which--like a plasma donation sets one reeling and feeling lightly nauseous--as only a good Foetus can do. Flow leaves a uniquely indelible stain that both old-guard fans and neophytes should enjoy sitting in, as well as being, quite possibly, even more fun than a Caesarian. –Else Teicher

 

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