slime - spring tape [ep] - [self-released]


TRY: #1, #2

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Slouching defiantly from the weed-choked backlots and patched asphalt cul-de-sacs of South Jersey, towards the grimy, cobblestone streets of Philadelphia, the members of Slime drag behind them backpacks weighted with discarded prescription bottles and suburban ennui. The thick, oppressive Jersey summers, the mindless thrum of crowded shopping malls, and the aimless, arterial tangle of Burlington County backroads inform their sound. Somewhere between a wail and a scream, Slime echoes from the Skinner Box. Pain and pleasure have become interchangeable. The four-piece creates an indistinct yet strangely familiar cacophony. Rolling swells hide a dangerous undertow. Velvet and glass. A welcome aural powerwash to anyone who has spent too long staring at the patterns in the carpet. Slime share a secret tablature. They don't speak. They smile. They push into the dusk, like injured bats flapping crookedly over crumbling bridges to the City of Brotherly Love they go. And when they get there? More despair. Cold veins. Blank stares. They press record...