�� Back in stock. Thus far the only full length album to come from this crushing avant doom project, 2-4+1 is also the latest release from Dead Peni, which surfaced back in the late aughts as a new project from Dave Phillips, one of the founders of the highly influential Swiss grindcore band Fear of God. After Fear of God's dissolution in the late 80s, Phillips would primarily focus on more experiment projects such as Schimpfluch-Gruppe and the aktionist influenced noise of his solo work. Nut with Dead Peni, Phillips returns to a truly crushing sonic assault, paying homage (in spirit, at least) to both weirdo death punks Rudimentary Peni and composer Gy�rgy Ligeti, while excavating the subsonic potential of doom metal to bring us some supremely fucked-up, mutated low-end heaviness.

�� This disc starts off super minimal and sparse, a deep subterranean rumble combined with what sounds like detuned guitar or piano strings. That minimal drift slowly expands as deep, tectonic rumblings begin to materialize in the depths, and gong like tones hover in the darkness. As that low rumble grows in volume and intensity, it becomes apparent that we're hearing a human throat producing that sound, as it suddenly rises into a guttural bellow just as a wall of massively distorted guitars crash in. That lightless dronescape is suddenly immolated within the clusters of metallic guitarcrush droning, the space filled with strange creaking and scraping noises, at first sounding like some static Black Boned Angel track flecked with recordings of farm equipment being calibrated. But then a steady slow cymbal crash enters, and the guitars shift into a fuzzed-out, ominous two-note riff that repeats over and over, the drums beginning to form into a glacial pulse. That amorphous riff grows and expands, the sound building into a massive formless dirge, and as it peaks in intensity, it echoes the barbaric machine-crawl of classic Godflesh and Pitchshifter, but infested with all manner of diseased electronics and buried guttural roars, creeping inexorably across the blasted landscape.

�� The second track, dedicated to Gy�rgy Ligeti in the liner notes, begins with the soft sounds of rainfall and distant thunder drifting in over a wash of voices and minimal drift. This eerie layered field recording stretches on for several minutes until the sound begins to swarm with peals of feedback and amplifier buzz, a howling din that builds to the arrival of a simple crawling riff that becomes caught in a locked groove, a massive grinding dirge cycling through the entire track against the backdrop of those murky field recordings and the hiss of rainfall and smears of high end feedback, finally ending in a haze of howling electronics.

��And then the final track crashes in like a wave of black rumbling bass, buzzing black drones crashing over an equally distorted drumbeat that is so slow and distorted that is more resembles the detonation of artillery, blasts of distorted cymbals crashing like an avalanche of sheet metal over the malevolent droning noise-damaged doom, spreading out into a final volcanic blast of black sludge, emitting waves of acrid amp noise and extreme distortion that burns off over that crushing percussive plod. Those monstrous guttural voices reappear, deep unintelligible growls drifting up from the black depths, a bestial roar subsumed into the crushing ur-drone, surrounded by that high end feedback and electronic detritus, and other, more mysterious sounds lurking beneath the surface, barking dogs and muttering voices, the whole sound melting down into a foul black murk, slowly shifting into an even more evil pitch-black mechanical bass pulse beating beneath the wall of blackened heaviness.

�� Then there's the video portion of the album, a nearly twenty minute long short film titled 1 that features a whole other track, an equally blown-out and skull-crushing slab of noise-infested deathdirge, speaker-shredding low-end drones oozing around the suffocating bomb-blast of the drums. This one is even noisier and more blown than the other album tracks, over modulated and oppressive, joined by super murky abstract visuals directed by underground experimental filmmaker Moju and shot at Alcatraz, intercutting full-color stills of the exterior of the prison, stretches of jet-black video murk, and footage of bombed-out concrete decay delivered in an extreme high contrast black and white style, and blasts of Technicolor viscera that burn right through your eyeballs, like some insane, nihilistic Stan Brakhage film set to a soundtrack of filthy black industrial doom collapsing in on itself. It's all fucking punishing, falling within the bleak, blackened realm of glacial heaviness populated by other Crucial Blast faves like Gnaw, The Human Quena Orchestra, Black Mayonnaise, Grave In The Sky, Ural Umbo, Habsyll, and Wicked King Wicker - if any of those names get your blood boiling, you're going to want to hear this album ASAP.

�� Limited to three hundred copies, and presented in digipack packaging.