Terroir Place

On TERROIR PLACE, tape scene wunderkind GERMAN ARMY finds himself in some sort of a hazy no wave roadhouse, impossibly tied up in a wicked cluster of delays. Like a crooner somehow stuck inside of a cassette player, or a ghost rider driving past the speed limit, the contents of this tape do not stray from its mechanical pulse. The drum machine-powered rhythms approach a crumbling doubling that is closer to a lattice of static than truly just drum hits arranged in a grid, where quivering phased snares and overripe bouncing kicks are heaped up beyond all excess, traversing the full spectrum between degenerate lounge and a rattling locomotive shuffle. This rugged spine is spiced up with distorted swamp mumblings, loudmouthed recitations, the pitched pleadings of a saloon filled with lofi cowboys strumming stripped down hooks on a dying guitar, ringing, melting bells and squeezing that final breath out of some fuzzy tone generator.