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Banshee street-preachers and industrial-accident outcasts, Chicago’s harrowing HIDE harnesses sputtering ruptures performing metallurgical surgery with visceral incisions, swift insistent precision harboring harsh sonic carnage and bowery embattled cataclysms. Teletypes, iron spikes, crackling static and shattering glass become primal time-keeping creatures groaning and grinding beneath the distressed, “Terror;” edgy dread fed deafening existential polemics, looming pariah gloom and controlled psychic erosion.
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