��Formed by a guy named Joe Merolla, this powerhouse outfit dropped out the sky earlier this year with a crushing live improv performance captured on the band's first release, a self-titled LP issued on Weasel Walter's ugEXPLODE imprint. Somehow, Merolla managed to wrangle some of the NYC area's finest purveyors of avant-skronk and extremist jazzblast for his new project, assembling a lineup that includes (for this recording, at least) Flying Luttenbachers / Behold The Arctopus drummer Weasel Walter, guitarist Ron Anderson (RonRuins, The Molecules, PAK), and alto saxophonist Nonoko Yoshida (Pet Bottle Ningen), with Merolla himself handling bass duties.

�� The band whips up one hell of an unholy racket on their debut recording. Den Svarta Fanan's blood-soaked buzzsaw improv mashes together trace elements of free-jazz, No Wave and extreme hyperspeed hardcore, and perfectly captures the sound of the worms living inside my brain. The foursome engage in three extended bursts of violent improvisational music on this LP, the sound a churning black core of Walter's grindcore-style blast-beats and chaotic improvisational drumming, Merolla's rumbling formless bass and Anderson's squiggly guitar-carnage, and squirming clots of demonic sax that come flying out of Yoshida's lips like gouts of black bile. The group taps into a similar strain of extreme improv blast as the earliest Painkiller stuff, and anyone who craves more of that Guts Of A Virgin-style ultra-skronk and grinding free-jazz insanity is going to looooove this record. Yoshida's sax is out in front, bleating and honking wildly over the din, his blowing intensely harsh and utterly chaotic, veering from frenzied runs up and down the scales to eruptions of fire-breathing howl, while Anderson spews an endless volley of atonal pointillist leads, rumbling amp noise and nauseating skronk, and at times appears to be in the process of violently dismantling his guitar while the rest of the band hurtles forward at breakneck speed behind him. Occasionally, the group will seem to lurch into some sort of deranged off-time groove, or slip into one of their infrequent passages of subdued skitter and scrape as they lay down some nervous clattering ambience or sinister atmospherics, but that shit never lasts for long. They break a really intense sweat over on the b-side, which features one long jam that shifts between more of those maniacal blasting tempos and blown-out free jazz spasms, and some seriously seething slower rhythmic workouts that allow Weasel to really crank his double-bass drumming into high gear.

�� This is one vicious fucking record. You'll definitely want to check this out if you're the sort of skronk-addict who can't get enough of those aforementioned early Painkiller albums, Last Exit's extreme free-jazz, and Torture Garden-era Naked City. Super limited, only one hundred copies pressed, and packaged in a hand-assembled, private-press style jacket.