X

Paranoised returns. With X. Whatever X is. Once again, the mysterious entity drifts through its own peculiar strain of textured, psychedelic, surrealist avant-noise—electronically decalibrated, contaminated by musique concrète, proto-industrial machinery and some primitive/primordial form of electroacoustic sorcery. An album you dream as much as you listen to. Like wandering through the forests surrounding Chernobyl with a dosimeter in one hand and some obsolete recording apparatus in the other—capturing, recording, re-recording, re-re-recording, reshaping every invisible particle of information received, conjuring it into immortality, tangling the data into an austere mechanical tango of rust, static and irradiated electricity. The song of wounded machines. Penumbra. Light. Shadow. A clearing of molten metal. Ghost in the machine. Something is boiling underneath it all. Telluric chemical reactions inside the cauldron. A thousand cosmic detonations. Corrupted signals breeding with corrupted signals. Antimatter rendered into sonic perdition, bubbling, mutating, refusing to settle into any recognizable shape. And somewhere behind all this— the architect of inhuman vertigo, quietly contemplating its creature: deformed, splendid, evasive, alive. Yeah. It’s Paranoised. Uncatchable, as it should be.