Unless you can read Cyrillic, any attempt at deciphering who this band is will be stymied save for a scan sent to a comrade in Russia to work out exactly the band is, or are, in any attempt to review. Further, the liner notes of the album in such a code are limited at best. With a gas-masked pair of calm brothers-in-arms on the cover, one inspecting the other for radiation, surmounted by an explosion of either flower or abstract atom, hidden from recognition, hidden from reach: it all amounts to a disassociation, intentional or not. Listening to the garage pottery of Vagranok further testifies to this.
Blatant low-fi mono radio taps recorded with the effect of being underwater rustle in bubbles, with the rapid Morse code hammered as if from some coffin of a submarine. Leaping out of this ambience is the unexpected barf of swollen, warm splatter noising the insides before the patterns of finger-hope rap.
The noise is low-fi and the second track stodges the middle of speakers in a stew of muffled Russian voices, sweeping tone bands, and the switch of some machine left on.
The first two tracks are short, leaving the third at forty-five minutes. This last track differs from the first two in its fidelity and hints at live performance. Here, Vagranok use crumbling loops and the fuzz and feedback of old machines to make raw their noise and experience. With this last track being of different mettle it is unfortunate that it is the most interesting of their work. Noise screams, tortured like some victim in a Giallo film, vocals are warbled like a demented psychotic at work over the board of twisted sounds that make up the three-quarter hour exhibition.
It plays a little too experimental and erratic, though is certainly an unnerving sound-track, but with such poor sound transference less than inspiring. With a little more due diligence in the studio and experience live, however, Vagnarok show signs with a dark primitivism and mentally imbalanced ritualism that could well thrive pressing against banks of breaking glass.