Description
Debut recording of New Zealand’s SOLAR MASS, Pseudomorphosis. Just as a prehistoric universe exploded into being like a hell storm of raging chaos, so too the sounds of SOLAR MASS leap into existence in the present era before you with five new songs in random acts of ferocious violence across a broad spectrum of sub-genres to escape the mediocrity of the governing Magian death-cult. Listen as the Faustian aristocracy announce a declaration of war and leads a counter-attack to reclaim the right to metallic existence. Hear the atomic warlords impose a new epoch, a nascent culture on a dying world swamped with obsolete Lo-Tek assets resembling mindless automatons managed by the invisible hand of media moguls and alien usurpers. Bear witness to the war cry, the 4-string fog-horns of doom, the clanging of metal armour, the rattle of sabre-lasers, and the sound of air raid sirens screaming across the fire lit crimson skies into night’s dawn as the mechanised battalion marches with savage brutality and cutting edge technology towards the nuclear horizons of the future. A deafening roar asserts dominance over the cowering effeminate INDIE and lo-tek MOBO radio-wave slaves, to relinquish and thwart the encroaching vanguard of invading simian hominids. See how in their confusion and fear the label-stables huddle together, seeking shelter and refuge in the subterranean sewers of pop music, hiding from the 6-string extermination squads sent in to ethnically cleanse the inferior dreadlocked mongoloid WOMAD’s under a reign of bombastic fire from overhead atomic canons, an aural pogrom set in motion as a consequence of fashion’s own making, a cataclysm repaid in kind for their criminal psychopathic altruism of which they have committed with impunity against the music world. So begins an assault and a long cold nuclear winter for the subhuman to endure as deadly amplifiers detonate like one billion megatons of TNT to stamp out their miserable campfires, breaking their linked-hands and murdering their “Kumbaya” mantras, smashing their acoustic guitars over their befuddled heads, snuffing their dreams of an egalitarian planet. Watch as their pop-stars are mercilessly extinguished for singing hymns to a Third World from the Sun. Lift up your chalice and quaff the toxic heavy metal which overflows like a sonic shockwave into the deepest recesses of the eternal space drama. Toast, if you will the good fight against immeasurable odds in the timeless face of a seemingly inevitable order of death… Pseudomorphosis! Fans of Voivod early Stuff
