Splat goes the weasel! Radical Dutch experimentalist Simonis expounds on a mojo well-vested from the tissues of "activist" proto-industrialists (Throbbing Gristle, The Residents, Pere Ubu, etc.) somehow linked to everything from Fluxus radicals to John Cage/Alga Marghen/dada hybroids. Part performance art, part carnival burlesque, part existential auteur, his "art" reflects all that is focused and flatulent about the "free" scenes that prick up jazz, rock, noise, and modes of comprovisation. Simonis' talents, pitched far and wide, revel in abstract collage seemingly for collage sake; he juxtaposes styles in an unedited frenzy that is scattershot to the point of being inarticulate, stitching together various bits of sonic detritus in the hope something whole might be unveiled; usually this gambit is unsuccessful, but at least one doesn't go away from his "music" unaffected. His is a glorious noise, a mess of protoplasmic constructs turning sound art on its head.

It's nearly as enjoyable trying to discern Simonis' storied influences as much as basking in the delicious toxic sludge of his wake. "Ippesa" imagines AMM duking it out with Christian Marclay: snatched radio-dial gesticulations peek out from bubbling synthetics and ballooning electronics tracked by a mad scientist who's traded his beakers for balls. "Semeij Amge" finds Simonis doing nasty things to his guitar with a fork; he then proceeds to bang its neck so mercilessly the ensuing melée sounds as if the instrument is begging for a quick death. "Swems III," all concussive percussion and masticated guitar chord, whips about in epileptic terror, its garbage-can-down-a-flight-of-stairs cacophony recalling the exploits of fellow obscure sonic deconstructionist Zoogz Rift. "Uts #34" is almost disarmingly sedate, Simonis tinkling on an old mini-Moog or equivalent, though the way he mauls the pre-sets probably doesn't reflect what Robert M. had in mind for his tool.

Battered, bloody and bemusing, Simonis' work is definitely an acquired taste — should the world start appearing too routine, hamfisted, or plain boring, his aural irritants are a sure-fired cure for the workaday blues.