Demented Mutation

by Recyclone

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about

From Jon Hutt:

"In my view, Demented Mutation is the proper follow up to Numbers. Within the nine years since Numbers was released I've made a few guest appearances and collaborations, and renewed my passion for playing live drums with the band INSTRUMENTS. There was always a plan for another proper Recyclone album, but the timing was never right. This album had many false starts and challenges along the way. Things fell into place when J. and I returned to the way of working together that created Numbers - recording and resampling most of the instrumentation ourselves. Scott Da Ros and Rob Shedden added their skills and enthusiasm along the way. When recording the album I soon realized that the songs shared a common structure. They all began with a verse and ended as instrumentals. I didn't feel the need to fill the songs with lyrics from start to finish. I wanted the music to be strong enough to speak for itself."

credits

released May 24, 2011

Recyclone is:

Jon Hutt: vocals, drums, samples, noise, keyboards
J. LaPointe: guitar, bass, piano, samples

With guests:

Scott Da Ros: production on Demented Mutation
Rob Shedden: drums on Refuge of the Damned

All songs by Recyclone (SOCAN/BMI), c. 2011

Produced and engineered by J. LaPointe at The Archive, Mineville, NS, Canada, 2007-2011.

Artwork by Jon Hutt.

No serious applause please.

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Recyclone Truro, Nova Scotia

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Track Name: Three Knocks
Here’s a reaction to the times. The Reaper ringing the chimes. The wind of change is Napalm and a bomb to rearrange molecules and anti-matter. Life evolves to destroy and take out cell phone plans and scatter dreams in the form of gun splatter. Computer programs redeems our points of a mythological deal of free will. We’re all on a hook that’s being reeled in, the slow kill. And there’s a dye on the lawn to keep the grass green, chemicals in our water and ten thousand degree sunscreen. And it’s pathetic, this vampire epidemic. While we create frequencies to mimic organic drums. There’s so much sexual tension resulting in the bending of thumbs. We live in the slums, that’s where inspiration comes from. And as we struggle and bite our tongues, crawl through the sewers and slip on the rungs, things just keep getting worse. Eighty-four per cent of us are under a hypnotic curse. Consume and die before you retire, feed on the young and watch the world expire. Now we have to deal with slap stick torment, tortured by machines belching obscenities and cancer that lies dormant. So we pray for rust and decay, look for answers in a world gone astray, industrial landscapes void of beauty. We walk on the cusp of Hell and do what we must to do our duty.
Track Name: House 11
A curse has fallen upon house eleven. Where the tension is so thick it’s like an apparition, you can almost see it. You can’t kill it. Make an incision and it grows stronger as the days of indecision grow longer. And at night the air presses down upon your chest like an anvil. Demons sit at the foot of your bed. Floating eyes materialize a floating head. All this doesn’t seem real except for the pending doom that you feel. The heavy weight nearly crushes you alive within walls of a house that house conversations unrevised, until blackness covers every surface of the building. Shadows grow longer, grow deeper, grow darker, stronger.
Track Name: Refuge of the Damned
I built the refuge of the damned only to become a fugitive myself. Hiding in the shadow of the illusion of the world, falling through the gaps between the sidewalk blocks. The only place that I was living in was fear. Troubled with the unfinished, the unstarted. I diminished my belongings to fit into a large orange sack that slung across my broken back. I used to own an ’81 Cadillac and a gun. Even rented out my room to a criminal hiding from the law. Major flaw, to place trust in a thief. Now I just sit back and let the cage take care of it. At my age I shouldn’t have to be troubled with the absence of home. No place seems suitable. Places without kitchens, sleeping chambers without walls, housemates without feelings. My lost kitten doesn’t come when I call. Constantly bothered by nightmares and the sadness of loneliness. Sleep doesn’t come in abundance when guilt plagues your existence. Whenever a phone rings my heart jumps. Collection agencies and overdue bill payments. Bad credit, bad person. Criminal now, criminal forever. A dark cloud over my head. Shameful human being trying hard to do right in a world so wrong. Struggling up the hill that I constructed. So many loose ends turning into a noose that bends to kill. Stress, pressure weakens the will. Deadlines and ultimatums. It’s the uncertainty of another. Life on pause with no known note. Had to abolish curiosity to keep my sanity. My excitement for life has been drained out of me. Now I have to fight to get it back. Nothing to own, nothing to lose. Can’t place restrictions on a life that I didn’t choose.
Track Name: Demented Mutation
Rampant nihilism pollutes the mind and kills realism. Reality is depravity. Apocalyptic visions seem like the only substance to fill this cavity. Nature creates a solution to reset the bone, to annihilate the virus which is Homo sapien. Left alone we spread to infect and destroy. We’re the only animal on Earth that preys upon its own. We deploy missiles and killing machines, raise monuments to open wounds and gangrene. Our lives are slasher films in slow motion. Everywhere we go is a wide open sore, slow death corrosion. Creating more problems than solutions, sucking the life blood out of the Earth and replacing it with pollutions. We’re nature’s rejects who’ve dug our own grave but refuse to lie down, enslaving one another and igniting bombs underground.

We shouldn’t be allowed to live
And yet we go on like we have a right to
We’re nothing more than a failed experiment
A demented mutation of something worthy to look up to
Track Name: Self Exploratory Surgery
Skeleton on the outside looking in. Finger painting has turned underneath the skin. My eyes roll back. All I see are the things that shaped me. All the horrible things that I’ve done, their weight nearly crushed me. I was part of the misguided, the hopeless, the wandering lost souls. So I split myself in half to see if I was rotten, raked myself over Hell’s coals, stirred up the deep, dark things that were forgotten. I realized you have to be very careful on how you bury things. They may come back to haunt you. You might not want them but they’ll want you. They’ll claw themselves to the surface to Live Again. If they don’t have a proper funeral they’ll be at your door and you’ll have no choice but to let them in.

Can you dissect yourself and still live?
Can you throw away everything and still give?