While many sound poetry albums may sound like a good idea in theory (especially if you've got a thing for flipped out vocalists) the reality of actually sitting with one is often as enticing as a dry hump with a hair shirt. That however is not the case here, or at least not with the jarringly odd A side (the flip side being a bit of a wash unless you get aroused by the idea of someone holding down the FF button on a cassette deck). Miccini was something like the grand old man of Visual Poetry in Italy during his life; an art practice that involved collapsing together words, figures, signs and symbols. A similar set of aesthetic collisions and elisions is in evidence here, as ancient tinny gramophones underpin increasingly hectic stereo-panned recitation en route to what sounds like armageddon in a clock making factory.
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