It takes Brussels duo Y.E.R.M.O. about four minutes to really get going on this release, but once things are up and running they settle into a queasy shimmering that hungrily sucks you in. Like some forcefield consuming matter with indifference, it reminds me of the opening track Michael Gira’s frightening “The Body Lovers” project.

Around the ten minute mark the music foams and bubbles over like rabid spit; a pervasive and pathogenic fizz that corrodes away the composition thus far. As the caustic froth compounds it begins to seem like Y.E.R.M.O are erasing their tracks. After they’re done foaming at the mouth, Y.E.R.M.O hose off the wreckage and usher us into bleak industrial terrain.

At first a slow, reverberating pounding over a distant electric drone, the industrial portion shifts into a thicker but less bassy sound. This transitions into a rolling, oceanic section of immeasurable churning weight. Coupled with the factory feel of the prior movement, we could be talking waste treatment plant. From here, hold for a minute or two to rig the explosives, detonate, and record the echoes until they recede.

This one track CDr picks a sinister mood and stays there, but there are several identifiable movements (cosmic, ill, grimy, abyssal) that could stand alone as individual tracks if Y.E.R.M.O. wanted slice it that way. The fact that they don’t carve it up seems to insist the album should be listened through in its entirety. It’s a compelling journey. 8/10 -- Mike Pursley (21 April, 2010)