‘You’re scared of room 237, ain’tcha?’
It’s October. The autumn days are beginning to look like nights as the low-level light comes close to failure and ultimate shut down. Just in time for Halloween, Stephen King is terrifying millions of constant readers with his long-anticipated sequel to The Shining. Lowlifes & Degenerates is its own creepy sequel; the sophomore to an earlier demo.
UK underground artist Pervoloss picks up the pieces like fallen, blood-red leaves. Lowlifes & Degenerates is a ride through a neighborhood haunted by both the fear of the paranormal and the fear of human attack; the two kinds of fear share striking similarities. Dirty backstreets and less than savoury characters intersperse the music, dragging the beats down into the gutter.
Influenced at first by Kubrick’s spin on The Shining, the cut up samples of film dialogue bleed into repetitive loops. The cut ‘n’ paste, haggard laughter is the closest you get to the door opening. Trust me, you don’t want to know what’s in room 237 (in the novel, it’s room 217) but the menacing laughter of an elderly guest and the suspicious sound of water splashing in a lonely bathtub may give you more information than you’d want to know.
Driven by hip-hop beats, a glint of early UK Garage and some infectious, looped melodies, the music could be the soundtrack to a late 80’s or early 90’s horror B movie. Masked intruders jump into backyards and broken bottles lay by the side of the road. Social Outcasts. The teenagers, sold to the studio for popcorn entertainment, will come face to face with the enemy sooner or later; they are the victims to the crime, paranormal or not.
The hip hop styled beats cut the air like a knife opening the flesh. Red wounds send out the message for other scavengers; the fresh blood of the day. Teenagers litter the street corners, latest Nike’s on their feet. You can’t help but feel the delivery was made through suspicious means. The trash on the sidewalk that you may normally find in the Grand Theft Auto franchise is visible all over the town, littering the street like an empty McDonald’s bag. Spectral intervals shine through the repetitious beats like chandeliers that have decorated a once-beloved ballroom. The rhythmic repetition is the key to understanding street culture; the repetition is the sound of the dead-end. It’s the street with no alternative, losing the light of hope just as easily as the autumn day loses its precious sunshine.
The loops rotate through endless cycles of desolation and broken promise. And as the beats recycle themselves, they strip away every other musical element, undressing the music like the pretty girl in the seedy joint down the street, until the core of the track is left – the hard concrete of reality. You may find the beats close to the sewer pipe, radiating a sickly, radioactive green in a brilliantly gloomy way. Graffiti is sprayed over the pavement to the sound of the beat. Hoodies strut by, with pants that are way too low; a vain and, let’s be honest, a pretty unsuccessful, attempt to look cool. There aren’t any hotels around here.
Later beats rattle outwards in a fierce spurt, like a ferocious bullet vacating the nearest weapon of choice. The inner city sound of the urban crawl decimates the tranquility of the shore. It’s wiped away, like the violent face hidden beneath the black bandana. You’re a long way from home. (James Catchpole)
a closer listen 