Human Heads are an electro-pop sprechgesang duo from Glasgow. Human Heads deliver a whopping sensory twofer; a vial of fragrant oil for your proboscis and six doses of throbbing-synth-extrusions and poetry-speak-sung for your inky flappers. On listening, it’s the overall heaviness what mugs you first – narrative and synthetic. ‘You shouldn’t have met’ is a slice of crafty street recording, school kids on the blab rapping on death, that’s soon dive-bombing deeply like Sabbath picked up a couple of Korg SB-100’s rather than them dirty guitars. As the tracks unspool we follow stories (possibly reflections, possibly prophecies) on the full-body foxtrot and crucifixion. Pixelated piano is preceded by the delighted squeaking of a small child, a train’s rhythmic rattle and Scott Joplin’s entertaining hands. R.D. Laing is in a nostalgic mood so things end with the sort of dry-rot clunk Kanye would have chipped a tooth for on his self-titled Yeezus opus. --- Ben Ellul-KnightHannah Ellul --- They reverberate,they also absorb dregsthat came from our teenage diversionsCold and stony, the rubbery shadowBrought to lifeWith a whiff of a dank man-made holeAnd now a brightnessFeels higher and more determinedFuller now, gathering to block out extraneous letters, sightsMy own fingers trawling and trailinglips overstretchedRid the flavours from the mouthA narrative fading - goodMetallic churning // reaching out,receding again and overlaid with a negative etchingTryingA breathing cogNot circular but returning// familiar but not minea sweet spot between nape, pit, popper, pear //TryingA breathing cogNot circular but returningDo it with your eyes closedForA sweet spot between now, then, the rear of a dreamTrapped Doppler,Metal is cooling, becomes corkyLips overstretched, adjective snatchedSucked and blownTo reach equilibrium //Thinly domestic nowA drawn out teeter I can no longer perceiveBut it came from somewhere massive and hardA slow shock// A pattern cut from a metal sheetand now it’s on the movelays itself down over spoken undulationsuntil they form a new pattern, called a beat //received, pressing, driving,old and flammablesneaked up from within a refrigerated boxanother slow, pleasant shockThickly domestic now as we sinkSurvey the scatterManipulate the jointTiny and early, the echo ate its tailRebecca Wilcox --- Fractal Meat Cuts, 2021