Vincent Vocoder Voice’ s self-titled debut album is a waking nightmare waiting to consume the UK on 18th November via Sonic Anhedonic. An experimental exploration of the solitary hell of the individual’s psyche, there is a sick and twisted humour to be found in the music. However, those looking for catharsis would do well to look elsewhere – Vincent Vocoder Voice has no answers.

With screeching guitars punctuating lyrics ripped from the depths of a sick mind, the album’s sound is akin to the bastard devil child of Cardiacs and Gang of Four with a hint of The Paper Chase’s dark, twisted melodic turns. There are no safe tracks on this album. Each one will challenge the listener, and not all will come out on the other side unscathed.

The man behind the mask describes his music as the soundtrack to Sartre’s existential novel, Nausea. His alter ego developed as a means to hold on to, and explore through music, the taboo thoughts most people censor or twist into a more acceptable light through self-delusion. He wanted to create songs that contained no hope for redemption. The album captures the second of murderous anger at being cut up at the roundabout or being handed a half-full cappuccino. The shortfall of disappointment between the face you just saw in your dream and the face you just woke up to.

Vincent Vocoder Voice is a construct of fevered hypnopompic psychoses and has neither body nor face, choosing symbolic representation through the form of a weeping Pierrot mask. He is not real. But he does exist. He’s you. He’s everyone.

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