Doom Jazz? Death Jazz? Dark Jazz? Jazz Noir? Gloom Jazz? Is Jazz dead? You tell me. Rutger Zuydervelt (electronics), Otto Kokke (saxophone/synthesizer) and Rene Aquarius (drums/noise) are DNMF. They reanimate Albert Ayler as a man-machine crackling with electricity, sparks flying from his beard as he howls at the moon.
The Thing On The Doorstep is pounding at your door and like Poe's raven it doesn't bode well. It lives! But only just, rattling chains and omitting an ominous drone that resonates through the house causing you to retch - but there is no escape! What hellish noise is this?
'The drum beat seemed to be that of some unholy beast, hammering at my heart, or worse, the very core of my soul! My heart began to beat faster as if trying to repel the evil force that had laid siege it. Yet for each beat it produced the pounding grew louder and I felt my resistance wither. Was that thunder? Or noise made by the thing? I dare not open my eyes to see if the room should be lit by lightening. That would be a relief. I began to think death would be a relief as a terrible wailing and screeching sound, like that of a saxophone played by the Devil himself, began to accompany the other sounds.
The sound diminished for a while. Was it gone? I waited. Then I thought I could hear a train, yet the station was five miles away. Besides, this did not sound like an ordinary train; no friendly clackety-clack but a metallic distortion of that familiar mechanical refrain. It followed no regular pattern of gradual increase before fading as it passed. No. It grated terribly in a fashion which no common train ever could.
Then there was a respite from this sonic torture but it did not last long for another kind of drumming began, a thrashing of skins more frenzied than any voodoo ritual could produce! With it came a chorus from Satan's own choir. But were they voices? Or the sound of Him calling? I could not tell, of course, not having had the privilege of meeting Him, yet. I feared that experience was soon to come as I lay paralysed in my bed. The sound was reaching a peak with the beating of that damned drum and such a noise as I has never heard before. I can only describe it as something akin to a cello being scraped in one's ear whilst a mighty ocean liner announces it arrival before crushing you beneath the waves. I was drowning, that is for certain.
I had long since lost my sense of time and place. I imagined myself being sucked deep into a vortex created by the night and there were no stars, only the blackness as I travelled deep into the centre of this terrible cosmic tornado. Astronomers ponder the mysteries of the heavens as I have done occasionally. Now I was no longer earth-bound but enshrouded in dark alien matter. It was as if evil governed the stars and had extinguished every one of them for The Colour Out Of Space is black! When silence came at last it was not the relief it should have been. I felt nothing. I was nothing.'
Moving Furniture Records
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