Let’s be honest: the project name alone clears the room. If you’re still reading, congratulations - you’re either terminally curious or already on first-name terms with discomfort. Either way, "…dead sessions…" will not meet you halfway. It won’t even send a postcard. What it offers instead is six tracks of undiluted sonic pathology - a study in tension, terror, and power electronics with all the subtlety of a concrete slab to the temple.

A collaboration between Italy’s Davide Tozzoli (aka N., long active in the European industrial underground) and Poland’s Tomasz B. (operating as SCROTUM, because why not burn the decorum at both ends?), the album is a grotesque love letter to the harsh, politically incorrect spirit of early "death industrial". No metaphors are spared, no themes politely veiled. It’s called "…dead sessions…", and the ellipses aren’t aesthetic - they’re the uncomfortable silence between acts of audio violence.

Musically, this is not about layers - it’s about densities. Each track is a slab of scorched texture, laced with analog grime and feedback ghosts. There are rhythmics, but they behave more like ritual thumpings than beats. The structures are linear, but the experience is cyclonic. And then there’s the vocal delivery: buried, distorted, rabid, sometimes like a dying modem channelling a confession, other times like a possessed drill sergeant losing patience with your soul.

If there’s any humor here, it’s of the dark forensic kind. "Salt Water in The Lungs" doesn’t open so much as it "strangles awake". "Prefrontal Lobotomy" pulses with an almost danceable cruelty (emphasis on "almost"). "Desiderio Più Forte Della Morte" is the emotional equivalent of reading Proust in a burning mortuary. And "Come To Me, My Sweety" manages the rare feat of making affection sound genuinely criminal.
But the real disquiet comes from the album's thematic anchor: Edmund Koanowski, the Polish necrophile and murderer whose notorious acts in the 1970s remain one of the darkest chapters in Poland’s criminal archives. The project doesn’t glorify or sensationalize - it simply refuses to look away. Instead of moral distancing, "…dead sessions…" dares to explore the auditory profile of pathology. It’s not a concept album. It’s a confrontation.

And yet - beneath the filth, there's a strange kind of rigor. This isn’t noise for noise’s sake. You can sense the discipline behind the chaos, the compositional logic that knows exactly when to rupture and when to sustain. It's like watching a sadistic chess game played with cattle prods.

The cassette release is limited to 50 copies, which feels oddly appropriate. This isn’t music for everyone. It’s barely music for "anyone". But for those who gravitate toward the more masochistic corners of the sonic spectrum - Brighter Death Now, Mauthausen Orchestra, early Genocide Organ - this is not just an homage. It’s a vital continuation. A rejection of artifice in favor of sheer, unfiltered abjection.

Would you play it at a dinner party? Only if your guests are cadavers.
Would you recommend it to your therapist? Maybe as a warning.

In the end, "…dead sessions…" doesn’t ask to be liked. It simply "is" - a putrefied altar of sound, buzzing with uncomfortable truths. Not a soundtrack for life, but maybe for its limits.