I’ve flipped this one over so many damned times I have no idea what’s side A and what’s side B anymore. Not that it especially matters, nor is that to say that each doesn’t have a unique set of textures and weirdo non-forms of its own. Indeed, as the minutes tick past throughout my work day (what time is it anyway?) and I continue to keep this tape in my Walkman, Ahnnu creeps forward with his mutant, constantly mutating meta-world of free jazz, hip hop, pitter-patters of peripheral noise and ambient music. It all coalesces into a twinkling star on my horizon: the end of the day is just a few more flips away (I think). Yes, there’s a brief light at the end of the tunnel, a glimmer of hope to be found within the cloudy misery of my miserable, cloudy day. Battered Sphinx glides along an oil slick and bubbles like a boiling tar pit. It bleeds maple syrup and … and it’s been drinking. Tones yawn and stretch like they’re waking up after a night of heavy clubbing (at the club, or actually being clubbed in the head with a club — either works), eyes blinking open like they’re coming out of a cough medicine-coma. And while I sit here and try my hardest to figure out the significance of a title like “Battered Sphinx,” Ahnnu’s representation of the beaten effigy is all cigarette smoke curling around pianos and double basses, which leaves my massaged brain tired and confused. Best to leave the symbolic significance stuff to Ahnnu I guess and enjoy this dose of cosmic relaxation for what it really is: One nice, nice dose of cosmic relaxation.
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