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the all too logical descent into madness

by it-clings vs pneumatic detach

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Exiles Outcast
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Exiles Outcast I personally can't pick a favorite track, they are all so kick-ass. rants & raves of a spiral descent into a dark psychosis, each track is like a further slip into a demented insanity. and all on a relative level to the listener (at least by my impression... please don't think I'm a psycho. lol).
you want a new sound with a new style. It-Clings is it.
this album, "fuck it all", and "I'm the biggest fucking thing in the whole fucking world"(yes, that is the album name) are worth a listen.
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    it-clings was never a musician, was never a poet, was never a hero or someone to look up to. it-clings was always the worst. That bad part of you? That's the part of you that likes it-clings. That the part of you that thinks that it-clings has some reasonable things to say? You should be worried. That part of you that thinks that it-clings is onto something is the worst part of you. Somehow it-clings released two albums, one of them a double CD. He also appeared on the recordings of 18 other musicians released in North America, Europe and Asia. What makes this achievement so amazing is that he did all this all without any talent, without any ambition and without any purpose. In truth, he did it all out of spite. He's performed in front of crowds of thousands and they’ve cheered and clapped at his contempt for them, they laughed and were shocked. These people heard but did not listen. They listened but didn't understand. it-clings feels nothing but disdain for all of them. But now he's released this book of poetry. He has as much repugnance for poetry as he has for music and art and the human condition.

    96 page book with exclusive never recorded rants.
    Comes with 2cd it-clings - I'm The Biggest Fucking Thing In The Whole Fucking World in dvd styled digipak and immediate download of it-clings vs Pneumatic Detach ‎– The All Too Logical Descent Into Madness

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    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Friends in the New World Toilet, (IN) Digestas, Charming Wax, Beautiful Karen and the Coming Plague, The Worst Song in the World, Saturation Bombing 3, There's No Going Back, Endless Meaningless Unhelpful and Uncalled for Drivel, and 26 more. , and , .

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these texts contain the raving confessions of necessary evil. what you are about to hear is unpleasant, and unsavioury, these deeds and thoughts come from what people call a degenerate mind, a mind that is twisted and full of filth and rage. these are evils, these are criminal acts and thoughts. although i will admit that the crimes detailed here have not all been fully realized, it is enough perhaps to acknowledge that they have been thought about, considered, and most certainly wished for. these thoughts strain against reason, they engorge themselves on hypocrisy, pulling and tugging and yet within it all, within this struggle is the admission, the acceptance that yes, this demands attention. unpleasant they may be, but they are something to acknowledge. that these crimes are but the beginning is also something to realize, that they are just the minimum of what is deserved, of what is called for, of what is needed, probably also should be considered. these are necessary evils inflicted upon the deserving. they soak through the images; they creep in from the sides. they are the sewage that runs below the surface of our new beautiful world. and despite this construct of shit, this worthless ball of fuck, somehow, in some part of me i have this fear, this second thought that i'm the monster, that my thoughts are unacceptable, that my thoughts are scary, perhaps they are right about my depravity. i have this constant nagging fear that the reason for it is that deep inside, there is something that isn't quite me, isn't quite human, it wants to be released, it wants to take control, and all there is to protect you from it, is this simple fleshy membrane. what i'm most scared of is that i'm alone in my struggle to contain it. and i don't even know if i want to contain this? this needs to be released, this needs to be unleashed, perhaps this is indeed the only real, reasonable and legitimate thing to do.
and this is important stuff and i see an ad, a billboard, a huge statement. time and thought and money have gone into this. this is important enough to have greater minds than ours focused on its creation, so you realize that it has things to say and this is important stuff and even when wrote this and now yell it, try to convey it to you, try to say something about it, and you can't understand me, never the less, we both know that this is important stuff because you've bought into it, you can't help but acknowledge, accept it and buy into it, and buying is meaning and purpose and everything is commodity and yet you don't care what i'm saying, you don't care about this billboard, this ad, all these fucked up messages, this warning, nothing, because nothing has any meaning or reason beyond the instant, beyond the act, everything is a flash and is gone, all you care about is the flash, the burst, the splatter, the spray, the ejaculation, and all this doesn't really matter except in our temporary acknowledgement that this is important stuff.
i get ready for sleep and tomorrow i wake up and everything is the same. there is no progression. and all this time we've had we've wasted. thousands of years and no effect. tonight is a waste. tomorrow will achieve nothing. and i remain surrounded by the rats and the mold and the bugs and this is all fine, everything is ok, and nothing seems disturbing. but then i look around and all that is nice disgusts me and all that is beautiful is repugnant, and i see that we are the one true monster. and are we to blame? are we evil? and i say yes and yes. because we've done nothing about it. and i sleep and i wake up and everything is the same. i sleep the easy sleep of one who is content. no complaints. i live my waking days with little pain, and no true suffering. i'd be an asshole to complain. it would be like spitting in the faces of those who are less fortunate than me. and yet the horror slowly seeps in. the better off the worse it really is. because i'm better and more empty and void of meaning. i'm entertained and kept busy and distracted and smothered. and i sleep and i wake up and everything is the same.
suddenly i see her and i think she's got a fantastic ass but i don't pause to think about that because her ass is gone now, she's gone and worthless and nothing to me but an ass, and there will be others and nothing like that is important, even though that's all i seem to pretend that i think about. this is the surface world, the world of appearance, and its so simple and it all makes sense. it makes such common unthinking unthoughtful sense that we don't even think about it. sometimes i think its just easier to pretend to be what you think they want you to be, and i wonder if everyone is doing that. are we all playing some sort of game, the game of ease and convenience? we just do what is simple, we just carry on from day to day. we'll change it all from within, we'll try make it a little bit better. everyday we distract ourselves from our impending and eventual death. it looms over us and we fuck around and try to ignore it. perhaps its for these reason that these problems arise, and the ugliness sometimes floats up and pokes through the congealing skin. deep underneath nothing makes any sense and is a swirling mass of absurdity, and the skin has cracks, it has tears, and the muck can seep up, a oozing tear, a dripping pustule. this is the realization of the purpose. this is the deep down meaning of it all. nothing but a weeping tear, nothing but a manifestation of the imperfection. this is the realization of error, of reality's pointlessness. and then the dirty truth of it all slams into me, pounds into me with a repetitious fist. everything is fuck. everything is disgust and everything is fucking bullshit.
public space 03:30
i'm sitting in a public space, coffee shop, shopping mall, park bench, whatever and no one else knows what's going on in my head, i see them walk by and there is no reaction, traumatized by my dreams, my wishes, my hopes for their future, or lack there of. there i am sitting, anywhere and i'm thinking these thoughts. and i do wonder why i think this way. what is it about me? am i alone in these realizations? why am i thinking this way? why? fuck. am i alone? perhaps there are others, sitting where ever they are, public space, coffee shop, shopping mall, park bench, whatever, and they too are thinking this way. why? is it because we have a problem, or is it because they have a problem? is it because we are horrified by them? yes. this isn't about a 'we'. this isn't about me. it's about them. the great writhing mass. they traumatize me. the sickness and the disgust comes from them. i see it and it disgusts me. it should disgust you too. maybe i am alone. it should disgust us all. the disgust should be evident, the disgust should be obvious and something should be done about it. but the days pass and all this is ignored. they ignore it as if they don't even see it. they ignore and carry on the way they do. and i wonder if they have even one redeeming aspect and i conclude no. now i realize that within them is this dark seed, this inherent flaw, and i hate them. what can i do? what options are there? i'm alone against them. and yet, i want to leap onto them and cut it out, slash into them and draw out that which makes them so terrible. dig into their fucked up flesh and rip it out. i want to expose it to the light and hope that this relieves my own pain. but i hold back and struggle for control because somehow i've convinced myself that what i want to do to them is somehow wrong.
i get intrigued by the idea of the healing wound. i make a tiny incision and i see the flesh spread apart, and the blood begin to flow and then i stitch it back together and i know that it will heal again, though the scar will remain. but that's not enough. i need more. and i slice again, and i make more incisions and they become larger and i think that maybe these wounds won't heal anymore. but i'm too focused to really think this through. everything is now a mess, everything is confused and bloody and at some point i realize that the screaming has stopped and that the only sound is that of the knife cutting into the meat and as i listen harder i slowly begin to hear my bestial grunting, my giggles and my breathing. suddenly i'm whispering 'bitch bitch bitch,' under my breath and i think that maybe i should try to remove an entire bone, try to separate it from the mass. it won't come off clean, that's for sure. and i dig the knife in a little further. and the bone doesn't want to become free, it clings and i think that this is going to drive me into more of an angry rage than i'm really prepared for. everything now begins, to start, to spin, to become disjointed but i keep hacking away at the flesh anyway. i am hacking and hacking and wishing to be completely overcome. i'm on the verge at last of snapping.
i stand by the subway and it all seems so tedious and i look around and wonder how many of these people have never realized how terrible it all is. i see them rush about, i see them scurry like rats and maggots. i see they writhe and wriggle into their subway cars. and i see their pain, the pain they think they feel now. and i wonder if they realize how terrible it all is. maybe not just their personal dilemmas, but the whole thing. everything. oh sure, they are all suffering, they all have their problems, their agonies. this isn't what i'm talking about one needs to look beyond the instant, look beyond these minor irritations, and try to reason with an unbiased eye. there is no point painting a happy face onto it. why do they try? they may feel horrible now, but they pretend there is a bright future, they pretend they just need a little time to sort it out, to work hard and buy that thing they need, to fuck that piece of meat they see, to cash in, whatever. personal dilemmas blurring the issues and everyone wastes away in pointless pursuit of bullshit. and i look at them and i feel nothing but pity. a sadness but not an empathy. they've lost their meaning to me now. their own selfish ignorance makes them worthless. personal dilemmas blurring the truth, blurring any progression, blurring some sort of reasonable conclusion. in this era there is no space for reasonable conclusions. i feel my anger growing. no escape from this insanity. everything is worthless. they are worthless. and i look at their empty faces, their soulless eyes, their emotional blankness, and my rage and my pity fuck, this isn't pretty, this isn't lovemaking, rage is pinning down pity and fucking it. rage is the dominator. rage is raping pity. fuck them. fuck all of them. they deserve what they get. they'll deserve what they'll get. rage will get them yet.
spoons 02:28
murderous rage builds up inside me and for some reason i start to think about spoons. spoons, i decide are suddenly the weapons of my choosing, long since unappreciated for what they can do to flesh, what they can do to your flesh, your eyes, your skin as i force the spoon under it. i press you up against a hard surface, a brick wall, and then i drive the spoon hard against the tightened meat and feel it cut into you, feel it digging into the wall behind. i roll it back and forth, back and forth over your skin. i dreamt of scooping your innards into my mouth, just having them sit there in my open mouth, not swallowing this disgusting muck, this filth, but just tasting it in all its horror. this taste in my mouth i've felt before. this is the realization of what is to come. i need to spit this out, i need to catch some of it in the spoon and stare at it, glistening and shimmering, and realize that there is nothing beautiful about it. shimmering in a pool of greasy fluids and vulgarity. do you think i could i use this spoon to force this revolting muck back into you? i don't want it, i don't need it. it fucking disgusts me.
Rat faced monsters. Whispering foul scented dreams. Commands that i ignore, with effort, and i hear them in the walls. Hear them in my brain, they scurry about and draw long dirty nails over worn wooden supports. That tearing sound in my mind makes me wince. i cringe and i hear them now in the ceiling. They speak to me in a tainted language that i can't understand and wish no part of. They have secret plans, plans that involve me, criminal plans that require my own degradation. Dirty filthy plots, whose value is not entirely without merit, and yet are of such a disgusting composition that they insult the very fabric of nature. They nag and nag and nag and they slowly wear me down, cunning little fucks, mixing lies with utter and simple truths, blasphemies with hope. They are, however, a little extreme. The things that they would do to you are beyond anything i could allow myself to be a part of. i'm doing you a favour really, by being their pawn, as the torturous deeds i may enact on their behalf are nothing compared to what is possible. it all starts with a tiny incision. i now push things under your skin and although infection is not the purpose of this, it will occur. The oozing pustules get in my way, to be honest, yet i endure, i overcome. At this point i'm a little too committed, i'm too involved to stop now, might as well see the plan through, might as well see if they have a point after all. Everything becomes corrupted in time, it is true, everything settles down and looses its original meaning. They snicker at me, tool that i am. i'm not proud, not really happy with the situation and you don't seem to have any sympathy for me. You think this is all about you, but its not. You are nothing, remember? Haven't i yelled that enough times in your face for you to comprehend? This isn't about you! This isn't about you! it's about THEM and THEiR plans, their plots. The glass and nails and bone that i've inserted into you is their statement their proclamation and although we can all agree that you are involved, a better term may be 'related', because you merely represent the canvas, who you are specifically doesn't fucking matter. This isn't about you. And you'll be fucking dead soon enough (although maybe not soon enough for you) And then once that's over, perhaps we can move towards some sort of conclusion, and by "we" i mean "me", me and that fucking world that i despise. it'll ignore everything though, always does and i've tried to explain it to the rats, but they never fucking listen either, just looking blankly and make those horrible sounds, just egging me on. No one will listen to what this is really trying to say, not you, canvas, not the world, they only see the horror and you, the agonizing pain. Why why why am i doing this? Why? This is the question, so simple and so hard to ask and seek explanation. Not just seeking who or what to blame, but real meaning? And doesn't it all seem pointless after all?
one day there was torn and mutilated genitalia lying next to my bed and i couldn't remember where it came from. i get a little too drunk sometimes. you know, to be honest, i don't like waking up to find the clues of the night before. slide shows of terrible things remain scorched into my brain and yet without any sense of fluidity. emotions at times, images, i'm laughing now, in pain. i want to hurt myself. i want to hurt others. there's a lot of blank spaces, a lot of dark holes. waking at this point i have second thoughts, thoughts about it all, and i feel these pangs of guilt. maybe i've done something bad. but these feelings will pass, always have, and always will. i just sit it out and realize its all part of life. now i have a box, in which i store some random strips of your meat. box by the end of the bed. but when i feel a little bit better i open it up on my bed and all your horror is laid out before me. i don't feel bad anymore. i look at it and can't imagine why i would feel bad, i don't really feel anything at all. i try to sort out the different pieces. torn and gutted. ridiculous. and i wish this was art, but its nothing, its product the same as everything else.
i used to dream exclusively of murder and fucking. fucking and murder and i liked to lie to myself and claim they were separate dreams, because i didn't want to freak myself out. but the times of lies are over and i must accept what's going on in my head for what they are. no one gets to choose, no one decides the way they'll be. even those who struggle with control are themselves controlled by the control desires. am i controlled by my limp morality? by my lack of structure? my impulsive behaviour? i'm controlled by my realization of the meaninglessness. i react against the clutter they try to impose upon the void. perhaps if their was some consistency of hope, of some sort of universal... fuck it. i lash out. this may be the point where hope should appear, where some sort of ideology of goodness resumes control. in the face of shit, something with honour something with purpose re-exerts itself. but this is all bullshit and nothing of the sort will happen. everything is worthless and in the end everything, ever hope, every dream, every ideology, ever lie, splatters and is revealed as the meaningless shit pile that it is. and all that remains that has any sort of real value is fucking and murder. cum splatter and blood. at last i realize and i am not ashamed. kill and fuck. my dreams are full of purpose. my dreams are good. so i dream the dreams and love them.
and at times when things are all moving too fast, moving in swirling chaotic torrents, things get kind of, well, crazy. and then you just need a moment to breath, a moment to yourself and in this time a calm overcomes you. and in this calm everything that was causing you pain before subsides and then suddenly i feel at ease and i feel as if my period of insanity is dropping again, the great tide of craziness is receding and leaving behind only the barren waste of empty sanity. and i wonder if this is good or bad. when i'm nuts, i'm miserable, but i'm alive; i'm tormented but at least i feel life. i react very poorly to the way my heads warps reality and yet, in this pain, in that horror, there is happiness. what sort of fucked up monster am i? and then you start to think that things aren't right anymore, things are all fucked up. we are machines, empty worthless mechanisms because what we have done and the only right response is to fight back against it with cruelty and horror, with the worst kind of corruption and hostility. everything must be destroyed. in this empty world of nothingness we must thirst for emotion; and all that is left for us is wanton destruction, anger and hate.
is it wrong for me to hate her? is it wrong for me to use her as a distraction from what i am really supposed to be doing? and i've spent a long time just looking at her. does she feel this is a waste of time? i try to search for some sort of clue, some sort of idea of what's going on inside. i've caused her to focus, but upon what? and even when she looks at me she just stares that same empty stare. has anything changed? i've tried to inject life into her, to shock her system into life, and it's all for nothing. then at least i think that maybe her being here has saved some lives, for when i am with her i am not alone, plotting, or out on the street, hunting. when i'm wasting my time with her i am ignoring the waste of time that surrounds us. at times i can even pretend that i'm on another world, another place. i think i've completely forgotten about where i left the last bodies, i've completely forgotten about what they looked like, or what they were, and then i realize this is all useless and although i am not in control either, her containment here is against her will, and things must be done and so happiness, this happiness i've imagined is impossible and i hate her and none of the lives she's saved is worth this waste.
end 06:10
mind blurred. can no longer think and i need some scotch and a long dirty stick that is twisted and corrupt. the scotch numbs me for what's ahead. at last the only option presents itself, and the release approaches. the stick is rough to the touch, its composition chaotic. i don't pierce the skin this time, just rub the stick against it, slowly at first and then harder and i feel the skin begin to tear away, ripping from the outside, the friction breaking it down. rubbing the stick against skin, working it harder. separates.


if words are a weapon then canada's it-clings is a one man arsenal of mass destruction. never before has the truth been laid bare with such complex and honest emotions. when this spoken wordcore artist reaches into the depths of his soul he dishes out the harsh reality that lies within.

juxtaposing a very personal perspective with one that is fictionally extreme, "the all too logical descent into madness" is a reinvention of the archetypal industrial album. with a cynicism that borders on paranoia and psychopathy, this concept album drives the nail of truth home into the surface of all that we deem trivial and mundane, and all that we casually choose to ignore. searching past the banality of existence it is a stark look at the world where the only correct conclusions, the only logical conclusions are those of utter madness. and where does the blame for this insanity lie? it lies within everything and everyone. this is perhaps the angriest album you will ever hear.

then whom do you need to help deliver such gospel? at this point in steps boston's own underground industrial legend pneumatic detach. with crushing brutality the relentless barrage assaults the listener, but this is an assault of technical awe-inspiring rhythm and electronic structure. these are percision beats that act as the proverbial hammer to drive forward the vocal offensive.

expectations of what makes an industrial album must be put aside. what remains is a perfect blend of cruelty and humour that will surely go over the heads of most people. a perfect blend of pretentiousness and self mockery. a perfect blend of nihilism and common sense. a perfect blend of all that is wrong with industrial with all that is right.

in this, their first full length collaboration, it-clings and pneumatic detach compliment each other perfectly and deliver mercilessly on target. you have been warned.... listen at your own risk.


released April 10, 2007

it-clings is squid
pneumatic detach is justin brink

all text written and performed by squid
soundtrack composed by justin brink
mastered by justin brink




bugs crawling out of people Toronto, Ontario

With a wide range of music, Canadian Industrial label doesn't follow any trends or style. The point is to release high quality music that goes beyond. From dark ambient, to brutal noise, from EBM to breakcore. Bugs Crawling out of People sees no limit.

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