The light at the end of the tunnel – the Spring equinox – is always too far away until it actually arrives. So let's not sugarcoat this glum time of year, and instead fill our heads with the kind of purgatorial filth that would have made Hieronymus Bosch consider painting landscape watercolours.

Gnod are ruthless bastards, and their Chaudelande volumes one and two releases have been out separately for a couple of years now, but some kind soul has finally compiled them into one double gatefold 2x12. Good. All the longer to stare tunnel-visioned and stunned, pinned to your seat or bed or bath or wherever you deem fit to bask in this hailstorm of freeform noise, riffs, and merciless, unrelenting beatdowns. Get out the house, burn Top Gear driving CDs and motor through the dark to anywhere with this hypnotic pound. 'Deriving rawk' isn't fit to lick Gnod's boots. Gnod don't even have boots. Boots are for those worried about getting dirty and Gnod are filth incarnate.

'Opener Tron' is righteous repetitive riffage and utter groove worship, shamanic echoplexed vocals and tone abusing-phaser. 'The Vertical Dead' takes 17 minutes to hammer three notes into your head, surrounding it with a glorious collage as it goes. 'Genocider' does even more with even less. They create mastery out of so little and make it sound like so much.

Familial to Gnod are this column's live act of the year 2012, Queer'd Science, who have a new split 12" out with Year of Birds. The QS side is everything you'd want from them. They've taken what they did with the Girls Gone Wild CDr and done the same thing, but more awesome. That reads horribly, but basically, yeah. That's what they've done. It's everything I imagined 'Death Disco' to really mean. Not pale imitation punx'n'goffs listening to MCR and drinking snakebite, but bloody furious and angular and twisted. Drums are small-bore drills going through your skull. The guitar is so heavily modulated that playing more than one note at a time sends it into a primal scream. It's the low end gutting you out to the high end of Vendela's shriek, all white frothing rage at being born without out that mutated privilege-carrying chromosome.

'Vaginal wrath' is full of just that. 'America's Next Top Modem' is as loose as they get, which isn't very. 'Denbigh Menstrual' follows you down a dark alley just to mess with you. Just to freak you out. 'Blood Sabbatical' would be an absolute party banger if we lived in a fair and just world – and it's proof that if possible, QS are nastier when they show a bit of restraint. 'Requiem for Liberace Wolf' is almost playful. Childs Play, but playful all the same. And then it's over in under 12 minutes, and you're left feeling a tiny bit shameful, like the dirtiness that crawls your skin after the first time you discovered self exploration as a kid. And like that moment, you know you'll definitely be going there again.

A-Sun Amissa, of the Gizeh records parish we know so well here at Black Vase, have their second release out March 18th (though you can receive an instant download with a pre-order), and it's called You Stood Up For Victory, We Stood Up For Less. Let's take a moment to admire that fine, fine title. What's more, it's a thing of beauty. Across two tracks, the record meanders not down many tributaries as their last release (reviewed in this very column) did, but through the different forms of one great long expanse – chopped in the middle.

Part one opens on a gorgeous, shimmering and shuddering guitar motif. It's gradually joined over time by a slow swell of strings – to no crescendo – and meandering, trebly piano, before fading into nothing. Flat drones are borne out of its death that lead to something deeper and more substantial, a rumbling undercurrent whose surface is suddenly broken by a pure top note. Part two briefly contains the only reference to the jilted percussion on the previous album, before moving on to a more understated guitar pattern shrouded in hollower drones, occasionally punctured by woodwind. This eventually gets more serious, as a tenor (I think) sax begins its shamanic wailing over the top. Nothing is well any more, nothing is comforting, and the last 30 minutes have just been nice lies. This, of course, implodes in on itself with a whimper, not a bang. It's a glorious whimper that stretches itself out until the very last breath. It wouldn't feel right any other way.

In a fit of whimsy, I this month purchased two tapes that I knew absolutely nothing about, both from the excellent Turgid Animal Records UK distro ( They seemed noisy, I like noisy things, and this column is often preoccupied with noisy things, so it seemed like a good idea. I was half right. The first is a dense C-60 of claustrophobic noise from A Vibrant Struggle. The Molten Snow Tapes Vol.5 was recorded in a cabin in the depths of Norway's barren back garden and released on Lighten Up Sounds in the US.

Side A, 'Soft Illusions', seems more focused on discombobulation through layers and layers of unsettling things on unsettling things. If the tape is a canvas, they're applying paint with a trowel. It crawls, mud-stuck with arms a-waving to contact-mic recordings of the house in which they stayed. Grandfather clock ticks and tocks, cutlery on cutlery action, what sounds like boots on bare wooden stairs; all of it descending into a manipulated and mutated hazy ether. The insanity of the occupying the dead north in the winter is documented with the ambient sounds of being there, knowing it's futile to venture outside. Side B, 'Perfumed Nightmare', tries a different tack. Two voices are slowly drowned out by the same decaying drone, harsher than any of the gloopiness of the first side, before the cacophony is redoubled with dying eurosynths and the house itself.

The second tape was by Italian power electronics project ALO GIRL, aka Cristiano Renzoni. His inspiration comes from the sexploitation, depravity and gore of Giallo films, and harsh noise as a primal release of "mania that threw out his blood, his flesh… his uncleanness". Why always Satan, guys? Any road, the 2009 c-30 Gently Before She Dies is a PE purist's delight. Two sides of straight, rumbling, microphone-in-a-gale, walls of noise. The only enjoyment I can personally get from these kinds of releases is if I just let it take over and get into my head. To switch off and let it do its thing. Which is apt, as the thrill of submission is horrifically prevalent in this kind of aesthetic, and the line between exploratory and unhealthy violence-worship is a thin and blurred one. And with that, I am seriously out for the month.