Somewhere between reverence and desecration, Stephen h Burroughs lights a ritual fire over the ashes of Genetic Transmission. Under his alias FRAG, he doesn’t remix or reinterpret the Polish project’s noise - he vivisects it. With surgical perversity and monastic focus, he turns Tomasz Twardawa’s dense sonic matter into a kind of industrial archaeology, scraping corrosion off frequencies until only the ghosts of circuits remain.

Burroughs, known from the iron age of Head of David and the fevered exorcisms of Tunnels of h, has long been obsessed with noise as a vessel of faith - or at least obsession disguised as faith. In FRAG Deconstructed Genetic Transmission, he behaves less like a producer and more like an anatomist of entropy. Each piece (five long, disquieting slabs of sound) moves like a body being remembered - stretched, cracked, reduced to pure vibration. What was once noise becomes language again, though one written in the syntax of decay.

The deconstruction is total. You can almost hear Burroughs in dialogue with Twardawa’s ghost, trading static for silence, tension for surrender. Track “03”, at nearly 23 minutes, feels like standing in a cathedral built of detuned machinery - a mechanical requiem, humming its own demise. Yet even in this ruin, there’s beauty: not the beauty of symmetry, but of persistence, of something still trying to breathe through its wires.

If early industrial was the sound of cities eroding, this is the echo of the ruins dreaming of electricity. FRAG doesn’t modernize Genetic Transmission - he translates it into a new language of corrosion. It’s as if the tape hiss of the past were dissolving into dust and light, whispering: "this is not resurrection - it’s decomposition made sacred".

A demanding, fascinating, and perversely meditative record. Noise as memento mori. Silence as confession.