GX Jupitter-Larsen. Hollywood.

Like a blast of hot air blowing off an unfiltered smelter, GX Jupitter-Larsen’s filthy noise sets the cause of cleaning the air in the Hollywood Hills back to the days when he first got started. They say that smog sticks around in the lower atmosphere because it carries more weight than its environment; in this case, I think it’s because GX just likes to linger like a stain left on a couch by a party’s last sloppy drunk.

It doesn’t take GX long to pour out a murky stew which is up to his standards, and he definitely takes the time to savor the mix and see what bubbles to the surface. An apparent withholding of method or technique in putting this together – unless throwing a bunch of cats in a bag to sort out their differences counts as technique – creates the genuine possibility of a sign of life actually emerging out of the primordial chaos. But ultimately I’m guessing GX takes as much delight as I do when he starts subtracting pieces from the mix and shows them off one by one, thereby gradually bringing everything to a close.

And who can argue against the pleasure of this stately Hater? If I were cruising LA, I’d stop by his dome and give it a rip, although I’d probably plan to crash at the pad of someone not so enamored of the outward shell of entropy.