No good time goes unpunished, and surely as the sun pours vitamin D into our bodies and creates lens flare in the corner of shades on every person, thunderclouds must replace it to cleanse the air and churn the parched soil. Okkyung Lee's Ghil is the sound of those thunderclouds rolling in.

A trained classical cellist, Lee has collaborated with furious proliferation since becoming part of the NYC diaspora in 2000. Her mutant, abrasive playing style has appeared with Nels Cline, Chris Corsano, and C Spencer Yeah to name but a few.

Ghil was recorded on a near 40-year-old tape machine in various Norwegian locales by the artist Lasse Marhaug. In some ways, the rudimentary equipment acts as a second instrument to Lee's playing style. The mixture of harsh bowing and free jazz influences create harmonics that are wildly distorted by the limited frequency range available on the recording equipment. What would sound muted and squeaky in one way is morphed into something altogether tumultuous and shrieking.

In 'The Space Beneath My Grey Heart', the cello is talking to you. A series of growls and moans, full of depth, become ritual chanting – a mantra, but of what, you don't know. 'Hollow Water' is both immersive and subversive, with the sound occupying the large room it was recording in as though it were liquid. 'Meolly Ganeun' could well be one of the mega lo-fi recordings of Les Rallizes Denudes, with the extreme speed of 70s Japanese crust punk.

There are musicians who have such intimacy and understanding with their instrument that they are able to change the nature of the beast entirely, and Okkyung Lee is one of those people. Ghil is out now on Ideologic Organ records.

Dead Wood has been excelling at microsound explorations and the harsher side of noise ever since his years as a junglist. Plotting and Backstabbing is as harsh and heavy as they come, with the weighty mirror-plated tape casing seemingly reinforcing that fact. He does like a laugh.

There's a playful balance between semi-carefully constructed rhythm and all out speaker abuse here, but maybe that's just me. Maybe he just flipped the switches on a couple of ring modulators and fucked off to the pub, leaving the recording gear running, and me to sit here catatonic wondering if that's the sensible repetition of Neu! played through an out of tune wireless, or Pandora's childhood music box. Whatever. It's fucking transcendent.

At the tail end of July I toddled to the Tolpuddle Martyrs' Festival, to represent syndicalists, hunt saboteurs, and the unaligned-yet-pissed-off, and to challenge the tired rhetoric and negative dialectic of Labour voters, TUC apparatchiks and those senseless enough to still be in the SWP. Shenanigans aside, the Dorset countryside was saturated with colour under the July heat wave, baking the ground to a dust pile and making furnaces out of tents. It reminded me of growing up in Somerset, all pastoral beauty and endless summers – the townie's idea of a rural idyll. But you only ever remember the good parts.

Hacker Farm are from near enough the ends in which I got older, but their version of country living is closer to the truth. Using a mixture of found objects, circuit-bent toys and vintage electronics, they give sound to the depression of rural poverty, claustrophobia through boredom and a hint at the West Country's revolutionary past (peasant's revolt, and all that), though post-structuralist theory.

Everything on UHF is as twisted as possible. There are hints of darkwave (and possibly Black Flag?) on 'Deterritorial Army', and a screeching mist on 'Burlington' that is reminiscent of the grimmer scenes in A Field In England. 'One, Six, Nein' is pure brain static bliss that has no place in half understood notions of Badgerwatch and sheep shearing contests. The computerised voiceover is a singular, digital, angry horde screaming discontent from the streets. "We reject your so-called culture, we reject your spectacle, we reject your flat, two-tone, touch phone simulation of the world, we reject your lies, we refuse your bribes, we refuse to participate in this pale simulation of reality… This world is ours." It's your anger at the shallow spectacle of the western world realised in words and sound.

A special mention goes to Grinch, with its jungle riddim that changes tempo every four bars. I've tried it out on four or five people and the result was unanimous – the upper torso and head become locked in a fast slow fast slow fast slow movement not out of place in a cultish prayer scene. All that's left to ask is, if the disciples are in the round, who is in the centre?

A quarter of the Chicago quartet Implodes, Ken Camden has taken the guitar to figuratively stratospheric levels in the new, Kranky-released, Space Mirror. As a concept, the album refutes the popular idea of an extra-terrestrial future as dystopian, instead revelling in the ideas of future exploration of space as something that excites and thrills. There is joy and beauty in the infinite possibilities that come from exploring a possibly infinite universe.

It's a tall order for the sceptics, but Camden realises his futurist ideas with just a guitar and a few (ahem) effects. Wonderfully, there is a complete lack of tacky futurism here – the sort of 'let's make it sound like ray guns and shit' noise that would bring such ideas to a grinding halt. What it sounds more like, is the shimmering duality of technological humming meeting the vast, black expanse of space, tied together by chord progressions that inspire some kind of awe, and excitement held back by the fear of the unknown. You might have to trust me on this one.

This is best expressed by 'Eta Carinae', which pulses to the beat of imaginary LEDs and navigation screens – or the eruption of solar flares in halftime. It is both loneliness and hope, and trying to understand the great expanse before you while still being excited at the prospect of exploring it. Likewise, 'Trapezium' is that hum of dark matter that supposedly exists, its central drone embellished by flourishes of rasping synth. Were I to travel the galaxies, I could but dream that it sounds like this.

Finally, an extremely exciting prospect in the extreme music scenes has arisen. Noise In Opposition is a movement comprising of artists rejecting the right wing circle jerk that noise music can often be. It was inspired by Elizabeth Veldon's statement that "she would never make harsh noise again after receiving threats against her, and those close to her, for the crime of being a feminist in a male-dominated genre." I've already written about far-right ideology in extreme music, and Green Army Faction aside, I have never really seen a cohesive response to it. It is heartening, and beautiful to know that a group of people who share the same ideas about music, yet reject the ideology that pervades that scene are willing to fight for ownership of what they consider beautiful, on their terms.

The compilation is 31 tracks from 24 artists, including the aforementioned Hacker Farm, south coast noise-gazer Chuter, Libe Matz Gang, and The Implicit Order. It is free to download as of July 29th, and can be purchased as a low-price data DVD+R with an A4 insert.

All I can say to this is, 'alerta, alerta… Antifascista.'