The sonic cartography of The Church Of Dead Girls is of a most devastating delineation, seemingly derived from a diseased relief map embroidered onto the mind of the sociopath, rendering no relief in sight for the interested (captive) listener. This is rough stuff all the way around, the NTT noistrations of an incendiary, insidious nature—like having one's skull sand-blasted from the inside.
I am reminded of the impressions I gleaned while listening to Band Of Pain's Reculver disc, as if I was inside the mind of the sociopath (lots of dark sonicscape/noise-related bands explore this motif, BOP nailed it amongst the best ever) and all of the repetitions and voices and sounds corresponded with the declining sanity. But NTT have a more lethal approach because, through the unsavory underpinnings (samples, mood altering synths) and the molten, distortion laced crackle of pure sheets of noise, the devious ministrations of the sociopath are of an intrusive nature, burrowing into the mind via sheer overbearing sonic presence: as mass, as substance bleeding from the speakers, congealing as a suffocating, oppressive sentience!
But there are also moments in which the more tempered inner workings of the insane are highlighted, and they are often side by side: the 24 minute "The Illusions That Loneliness Manufactures," builds to a clattering, subdued climax, more background than up front (as with the whole track), in which a heartbeat becomes the focus towards the finale, only to be bludgeoned by throbbing, high-pitched loop that is the core of the following track, "Self Pity Is The Rhythm Of My Heart," splayed by an even more caustic tone, before a blanket of thick noise gurgles to the forefront. Ranting, heat-seared vocals drowning in distortion are at the heart of "The Simplicity Of Hope," the illusions of hope, simply denied, slaughtered by the horrendous white noise avalanche of voracious razor-like fangs that devour samples and thought in the locomotive audio maelstrom. Female intonations of fear, of dread, and Martin Bladh's throat-wrenching guest vocals are stalked by ravenous beasts disguised as sheer, unadulterated pain-inducing sound during "...And Angels Hone Their Hooked Beaks Upon My Open Chest Cavity." (At the seven-minute point, as the full-force of NTT's sonic violence is unleashed, it's near impossible to think...) "Ordinary Body Horror" is of an audio abuse that defies retribution (NTT means to annihilate all possible negative responses); the samples and repetition (a whiny machinery tone of haunting origin—it is the ghost in the machine as channeled though a horror mindset) of a relentless, in your face and melting the flesh audacity. Pulsing sounds build in the background as a person describes the desperate futility of love during "Love Or Perish," succumbing to weird female (?) utterances (almost mantra-like) and a crashing metallic percussion. Chaos explodes on the soul-devouring "Deathcry," amidst gnarled feedback, more samples (tortured screams as additional instrument), a tense synth base, and vocals scrapped off the charred walls of the crematorium.
The sense of dread resignation is threaded throughout, a balance to the sounds on this two-disc set that almost incapacitate the listener, tones that render one nauseous, defeated. My ears fuckin' hurt!