With the sodden Scottish rain between its teeth, industrial hip-hop has undergone a sizzling transformation in this frank introduction to the memoirs of an outré perfectionist.
Fizzy Milk, not quite an oxymoron but a vivid piece of imagery nonetheless. While entirely possible, injecting C02 into a pasteurised concoction of cow juice would result in a curdled and unpleasant mound of coagulated mess; a complete converse of this eerily electrifying musical experiment.
Grappling against transient insomnia, dynamism meets ambiguity as Tzusan attempts to batten down the emotional hatches of a long and gruelling period of quarantine, all the while sheltered underneath an oxidised chassis of corrugated iron. The narrative curls and contorts through the complexity of the human psyche, serenaded by the perpetual flood of raindrops that fall sombrely like solemn bricks.
One hungover afternoon in the midst of a forgotten January — it was something I channelled a lot of myself into. I wanted it to reflect the surroundings it arose from, the sharp contrast of the old town’s gothic architecture with the run-down rigid brutalism of Leith docks.
Within the anthropomorphic embrace of the old soapworks lies an egg-box lined studio, harbouring an inflamed wordsmith channelling his zeal from the dusky bottom of an Irn-Bru bottle. Inside these four walls, alternative wordplay bites at the fingernails of coherence, eroding down the notion of lucidity like the worn bucket of the dilapidated diggers strewn across the abandoned construction site.
Fizzy Milk is a figurative landscape of brooding contemplation and crippling apprehension, cradled within the sanctuary of tattered brilliance. Gripping like a mechanical vise, it’s a well orchestrated and meticulously engineered descent into insanity, constructed by the meticulous brainwaves of an artist who has captured the doleful essence of present-day britain in perfect, albeit hazy clarity.