Missing And Exploited Children Compilation – A Sonic Wake-Up Call You Can’t Shake Off
Let’s get this straight: the Missing And Exploited Children Compilation isn’t your typical album. It’s not something you throw on for a chill evening or to vibe out while cooking dinner. This is heavy stuff—like, emotionally gut-punching heavy. Released in 2018 by Breathing Problem Productions (a label that clearly doesn’t shy away from raw intensity), it hits hard with its mix of industrial noise, power electronics, and just plain unsettling soundscapes. The US-based project pulls no punches, tackling themes most people would rather ignore. And yeah, it hurts—but maybe that’s the point.
The album opens with "Like Dogs," and holy crap, does it set the tone. Right off the bat, there’s this grinding mechanical beat, like gears rusting inside an abandoned factory. Then come these distorted vocals—half-shouted, half-growled—that make you feel dirty just listening. But here’s the thing—it sticks with you. Not because it’s catchy, but because it feels wrong in the best possible way. Like, it forces you to sit up and pay attention. By the time the track ends, you’re left feeling hollowed out, staring at your speakers like they owe you answers.
Then there’s "Samantha Runnion." If “Like Ducks” slams you over the head, this one sneaks up behind you and whispers horrors into your ear. There’s this eerie synth line looping through the background, almost hypnotic until you realize how broken it sounds. The track builds slowly, layering in static and fragmented noises that feel like memories falling apart. When the screaming kicks in near the end? Chills. Full-body chills. It’s less of a song and more of a haunting—an auditory memorial that refuses to let you look away.
This isn’t music made for entertainment; it’s activism wrapped in distortion pedals and feedback loops. Tracks like "Pedophocracy: The Gift Of A Child" and "Megan Kanka" hammer home the message without ever needing to spell it out. These aren’t just titles—they’re names and stories demanding to be heard. The anger is palpable, but so is the grief. Every screech, every pounding drumbeat feels like someone shouting into the void, hoping someone will listen.
By the time you reach the final track, “For Matilda; Five Parts; Five Years,” you might find yourself exhausted. I know I was. It’s long, sprawling, and chaotic, but also weirdly tender in moments. Like catching glimpses of light between storm clouds. It’s messy as hell, but isn’t that kind of the point? Real life doesn’t tie things up neatly either.
So what do I take away from all this? Honestly? Discomfort. But good discomfort—the kind that makes you think twice before scrolling past headlines about missing kids or turning off the news when things get too real. Yeah, it’s brutal. Yeah, it’s ugly. But sometimes ugly needs to be seen—and heard—to remind us we still have work to do.
And hey, if nothing else, it’ll definitely kill the mood at your next house party. Which, let’s be honest, might not be such a bad thing.
