Non Fidelity Dope Massage: A Chaotic Masterpiece That’s Not Quite Music
Let’s cut to the chase—Non Fidelity Dope Massage by (In Spite Of Flaming Creatures) and Prick Decay isn’t your typical “throw it on while folding laundry” kind of album. Nope. This 1996 UK release from Chocolate Monk is more like an auditory acid trip disguised as Sound Art. And yeah, that’s a genre—or at least something close enough for us weirdos who don’t need everything neatly labeled.
First off, this thing screams non-music, but in the best way possible. It’s not here to hold your hand or give you catchy hooks. Instead, it slaps you with untamed experimentation and leaves you wondering if your ears are broken or just enlightened. The standout track? Well, they’re all untitled, so we’ll go with… uh, let’s say Track 3 because why not? It starts off sounding like someone dropped a piano down a flight of stairs, but then layers in what I can only describe as industrial-grade hissing mixed with faint whispers. By the time it hits the two-minute mark, you're either completely hooked or questioning every life choice that led you here. Honestly? I love it.
Then there’s Track 7 (still no titles, sorry). If Track 3 feels like chaos finding its groove, this one’s like being trapped inside a malfunctioning fax machine during a thunderstorm. There’s a rhythm buried deep under the noise—a sort of hypnotic pulse that makes you feel smarter than you actually are. You might even nod along and pretend you totally get it when really, you’re just vibing with confusion.
Now, here’s the kicker about Non Fidelity Dope Massage: it doesn’t care if you like it. This album exists in its own little corner of the universe where rules are suggestions and artistic expression runs wild. Sure, some folks will call it pretentious nonsense, but those people probably also hate abstract paintings and poetry that doesn’t rhyme. Me? I think it’s brilliant. Or maybe I’ve been listening to too much Sound Art lately. Who knows?
Final thought: If you ever find yourself stuck in a conversation about experimental music, casually mention this album and watch people’s faces light up—or crumble into existential dread. Either way, you win.
