Pitchfork

Whenever I try to go to sleep by my computer's light, I flinch in phantom pain. Let me show you my scars. For nearly 17 months, I went to bed to the unison of clickity-clacks and PHOOM-PHOOM-PHOOD-THUNK-SNAP-SNAP-PHOOM-PHOOM-PHOOM. My college roommate at San Francisco State enjoyed the after-hours pastime of updating his stock market report to the strains of gabber techno wrecking his PC's tiny speakers beat by beat. Now gabber is typically acclaimed as the "metal" of electronica with its gas-huffed, buzzsaw synths and jackhammered, acid-bass beats that don't so much thud as purr. Snippets of trash culture-- from Marilyn Manson bragging about being stranded on an island made of cocaine sand and marijuana forests to video game-esque threats of violence-- often serve as garnish.

The noise could soundtrack 'ole-timey, escapist abandon for a good five minutes, but when someone loops the same damn rhythms over and over for months on end, it digs a fingernail into your soul and tears inch by inch. Plus, listening to drum machines cranked at 300 beats-per-minute can numb the senses into sheer boredom. Perhaps my roommate was responsible for my brief bouts of sleepwalking.

Now, here comes Aaron Funk. This lad from Winnipeg is a fine swordsman on the breakcore tip, often improving the formula of dandy, music-box harmonies razor-slashed with beats that shatter in 12,000 pieces when blown upon. This prankster releases what seems like a dozen records a years, but it can get a bit much when he leaves it to you to clean his mess. He's delivered some memorable gimmicks-- especially Nymphomatriarch, a self-titled collaboration with Hecate on which they sample their own mating sounds. It's one of the most detached, asexual, and alien pieces of dance music ever.

Winnipeg Is a Frozen Shithole is witty by name only. The EP's song titles are various declarations of revolt ballpoint-penned on 7th grade desks, (ex. "Winnipeg Is a Dogshit Dildo", "Die Winnipeg Die Die Die Fuckers Die"). Nothing much is said about the Canadian hamlet other than fragments of folks telling how cold and dreary it is, like a newsclip telling of a high school coach accused of sexually assaulting a student. Yet, wishing your hometown would burn in a blue corner of Hell is a rite for many fellas who are never, never, never understood.

The music is almost straight-up gabber, which is great for purists but a chore for others. PHOOM-PHOOM-PHOOD-THUNK-SNAP-SNAP-PHOOM-PHOOM-PHOOM is the general rhythm here. "Winnipeg Is Steven Stapleton's Armpit" thankfully breaks the monotony with a couple mindlessly ribbeting the syllables in the word, Winnipeg. Fanny's remix of "Winnipeg Is a Boiling Pot of Cranberries" also sticks out for its beats that almost slip from Funk's hands. The most remarkable sample stems from the title track, on which Isabella Rossellini coos, "Listen to the sounds of Winnipeg" and "If you are sad and like beer...I am your lady." Both lines are sampled from a great fever dream of celluloid, The Saddest Music in the World.

But it's difficult to think of Rossellini, her hand cupped under your jaw, and her proposition amidst the PHOOM-PHOOM-PHOOD-THUNK-SNAP-SNAP-PHOOM-PHOOM PHOOM-PHOOM-PHOOD-THUNK-SNAP-SNAP