So we nicked the title from the horrorhouse mixtapes that Quiet Village slip into choice record stores under the dark veil of the night, but considering what we are about to present to you its pretty fitting.
The wondrous Trunk Records releases another compilation of unearthed treasures, long forgotten in time and space under a layer of static dust. G-Spots (The Spacey Folk Electro-Horror Sounds Of The Studio G Library) collects together otherwordly sounds from John Gale’s Studio G label, featuring the kind of music that could soundtrack ’70s serial killings with red paint for blood, BBC weather forecasts where the bluescreen behind the guy with the moustache was a simple brown card cut-out of Britain with sun and rain-cloud stickers tacked onto it, and the noise shearing through the air when the lights go out on the test-card girl and the clown toy starts to casually chew on her horrified face.
On “Folk Ghost”, Douglas Wood captures the sound of spectres passing through the spindly twigs of a gnarled oak that sprouts from a hill in a deserted field, lit by the frozen Moon and full of unforgiving malevolence. Any weary country rambler drawn in by the picturesquely macabre nature of the image is soon to meet an unnatural end, but only after feeling compelled to cut away at the blackened bark of the tree to view the blood drenched circuitry inside.
T Kerry’s “Foggy Dock” spirals head-first into the echo deck via a gateway hidden underneath a fire damaged amusement park. Here in this phosphorous world of permanent night, all time runs backwards and the juxtaposition of corspes hanging from lamposts while oblivious children play innocently in slow motion silence underneath the gently swaying yellowed sinuous limbs only adds to the white hot fear. A dagger-like pain in your eyes brings on visions of a rusted metal diamond spinning an inch above the ground, before your spat out at the entrance to the smouldering park in the sunrise.
But now we are back in 2009, where all is not right with the world (still) and the brown and yellow Bakelite mixing bowl vs pastel paisley apron prints world is long gone. Now its all cobalt grey mornings/mournings on a shore where beached sealife perish covered in gelatinous black. Good times! Rather than feel bad we’re just gonna feel good, dancing with the devil in the pale moon light, poison ivy strung around our necks, distressed leather jacket flapping in the icy wind and a chalice of pigs blood to keep us warm. If we get bored we can stick SALEM on the cassette deck in the car, or we can listen to Liquid Vega.
Gently corrosive guitar loops draw circles in the sand and the air breathes back and forth to the sound of the strings. Menacing weather formations are waiting on the horizon just outside of this reality, while on the desaturated sands of the beach the shining ghosts of Robert Smith and Kevin Shields are turning their faces away in sorrow at the saddening beauty.