This is one of those ones where I wasn’t sure whether or not I ‘needed’ a physical copy. I listened and dithered and ultimately missed my chance at grabbing a limited edition version, and, on balance, I think this was quite an error of judgement. Such are my travailles.
Brain Tourniquet, in case you didn’t know, are a power violence act. They are vast and difficult, and sound as though they might be able to break through walls using just their own huge lumpy fists. Like Iron Lung or Gas Chamber, they possess a clear understanding of the genre’s inner workings (gnashing speed; crumpled sloth; ungainly ‘Fetch The Pliers’ lurches) but are also comfortable enough in their own oily skin to add something wholly and disgustingly their own to the mix. The mad scrabbles and eyeball-puncturing dissonance speak to this, as does the sheer audacity of the album’s closing track – a variegated ten-minute whopper that looms and gurns like some sort of ungodly power violence rock opera.