I'm always slow to hit you with what Not Not Fun are up to - to the point that many of the releases I dig are sold out before I get out of the wormholes they put me in to write about em. This is the case also for the self-titled cassette from Berlin/Oz collective Ill Winds. It is a gloomy dirge into the backwaters of grey-stained despair, taking post-punk disdain into withering self-flagellating depths. Everything is destructive; everyone is doomed. Everything plods and scrapes at depressing regularity, with Jack Dibben chanting concrete schisms of truth in a world-worn dirge, as if the end of the world happened eons ago and this music is his perpetual penance, an eternity in the making. The weird thing is how addictive this is - creating a cocoon of crushing defeat eventually numbs, plies you with the inevitability of the shitstorm that is life, and you may as well get into the slipstream and make do and mend.
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