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Reviews for [RL114]
Katrina Stonehart and The Spookfish "Katrina Stonehart and The Spookfish"

  • Tiny Mixtapes
    Like cracked enamel or a wall lined with paint blisters, this collaborative EP produced by Brooklynite drone-slingers Katrina Stonehart and The Spookfish is a construction riddled with lovely decay. Each artist in question has scraped out their complete discographies on a bed of overlapping newspapers, the combined spillage of velvety fuzz-pop forming a clumped mass of pumpkin innards that stains yesterday’s Major League box scores. The pair fill droppers with acid, dot their vegetable canvas with enzyme pellets, and leave the innards out to rot. Humming synths eat into cassette-recorded tissue like circling fruit flies, cassette spools warping beneath breached flesh as Stonehart and Spookfish paint these tragic contortions with impasto acrylics. Hanging on an apartment wall, framed in tarnished metal, their combined efforts sustain decay for as long as the product lasts.

  • Lost In A Sea of Sound
    Submersed in the depths of the ocean, the underwater crust breathes out the energy from the mantle. The turbulence controlled by the dense pressure at the ocean floor. Enormous amounts of heat droning out to the even greater volume of water. This is similar to the delicate balance between Katrina Stonehart and The Spookfish. One rhythm or series of sounds exploring the medium of the other. There seems to be no definitive point, only a listener in complete submersion in the world of two artists. This cassette drones and mutates for just under forty five minutes. Drew Gibson is the creative force of Katrina Stonehart. Dan Goldberg is The Spookfish. This is a composition maintaining a magical consistency over both sides. Playing like one long piece divided by the flip of the cassette. The thick ambient swell of sound carries a bubbling organic component. An electronic field hums and echoes out, like muffled speech transmitted across giant parsecs of space. The listening headroom remains saturated, the consciousness left to contemplate. These sounds push towards the spectrum of imaginable dread, but never reach this lonely plateau. Instead only redlining in a fiery underwater orchestra of impressiveness. A massive forging of sonic complexity, with sparks radiating out from each hammering.

  • Cassette Gods
    You puking frog person, this is what you deserve. Baby Birds Don’t Drink Milk dude Drew Gibson and other dude Dan Goldberg rip holes in dimensions with their self-titled foray as Katrina Stoneheart and the Spookfish, a name made up of two goddamn unnatural things. The tape is forty-five minutes of bedroom electronic ambience as thick as slabs of beef. Beef slabs thick enough for the tiger adorning the painting on the front of the j-card. It would rip right into those things, just like Gibson and Goldberg rip into whatever rigs they happen to be perched behind on this recording. You puking frog person, get a grip! The drones and tones waver and interact, like multiple radio signals from space getting picked up at once on a high-tech piece of government equipment, forming strange harmonic interactions to the bafflement of scientists. The sounds elicit a physical reaction: disorientation, nausea, or sheer joy, depending on how you’ve managed to tune the internal components of your ears over the years. As if you had the biostructural know-how to do something like that! Besides, “ears” rhymes with “years,” and don’t think KS and the Spookfish didn’t notice that little detail. They’ve probably holed up already in a studio, or an apartment, or a studio apartment, or a basement, or your living room to record the follow-up to this bad boy, so intrigued are they by the current happenings of this review. That’s right puking frog person – the sounds of their next record are coming from INSIDE your house! So is this phone call.