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BIOG
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Hunting
Lodge provide the perfect soundtrack to an evening spent dismembering
a horse in a glue factory. Melody doesn’t really factor
in Hunting Lodge’s sonic manifesto, it’s all about
a pummeling bass that rumbles like a world-war II bomber,
the freeform guitar lines of a crack-addled Robert Fripp dragged
mercilessly through a wasp farm and a vocalist whose squawks
and screeches smack of the sugar-fix tantrums of a retarded
6-year old.
Hunting Lodge’s lyrics are, for the most part unintelligible.
Those that can be deciphered offer tales of a world hovering
somewhere between the banal and the depraved, bringing to
mind Hubert Selby Jnr’s Last Exit to Brooklyn or the
rituals and deceptions of Jean Genet’s Thief’s
Journal. ‘Found’ lyrics and sounds play a part
in Hunting Lodge’s attack on songwriting; ‘Fault
Finding’ from the current EP (Scott Joplin’s Piano
Rag’s) for example features dithyrambic ranting of the
recommendations from an orthopedic bed care-manual, and what
began as the irritating chance malfunction of a CD transfer
exacerbated far beyond what passes for the tasteful use of
glitch.
Taking cues from other artists such as Arab on Radar, the
Pop Group, the Birthday Party, Jesus Lizard, Teenage Jesus
and the Jerks, they have deconstructed the traditional notion
of ‘the song’ reassembling it as a giant killer
robot that’s going to crush your puny human head in
its rusty metal claws. OUCH! |
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