Radboud Mens and Lukas Simonis state very clearly their respective roles in Clone Fever, as the former “takes care of the lower parts” via oscillators and effects while the latter utilizes “looped guitar attacks that slowly evolve into drones as the overtones take over” (yes, it’s another case of quote from the press blurb).
Does the above description help to get an accurate idea of how your extrasensory activity will be enhanced? Not really. We’re certainly into territories bordering with Harsh Droneland, and that is a fact. Aside from the initial stages of each of the four tracks (length ranging from 15+ to 22+ minutes), where the germs of an acoustic cataclysm appear to instantly proliferate, the bulk of this music is rooted in a growing acridness, almost to the point of yelling if you manage to sustain a full immersion without interruptions and with the volume way up. The musicians trust the mechanisms of reiteration completely, inviting us to do the same. Apparently, not a difficult task; at first, the atmosphere is not oppressive, a few Fripp-esque wails auspiciously escorting us towards timelessness.
However, a small quantity of frail ground is enough to start an evil landslide, and this is exactly what happens here. Little by little, fragments of hypothetical melodiousness get entwined in such a manner that identifying structures and shapes becomes practically impossible. The ears notice a progressive alteration of the sonic accumulation, no space left for any possibility of “quietness” whatsoever. The subsonic worm digs inside the skull; the acute gamut offers illusions of normality soon annihilated by a mass of distortion and grime. One imagines arms and legs emerging from the rubble, desperately trying to reach the tubes coming from a rusty oxygen tank.
Call it “dyspnoeic entrancement”.