Call it a journey away from nirvana, then: through the explicit sexual imagery of the track titles, which range from oblique references ("Psychomenstrum," also the name of an unfinished Lydia Lunch screenplay) to crude anatomical jargon ("Rectum"), Moss gives a rudimentary shape to an insular, sometimes impenetrable outpouring of aggression. "Eat My Fuck" is a migraine-inducing opener that sounds like drills attacking a pallet of Styrofoam. In a way, it was a charitable gesture to place it right at the beginning: what follows is a dirty, often flatly textured synthesis of acid house and industrial music. If you can't handle it, now's the time to bow out.
Moss often builds tracks by improvising—it's one of the reasons he's so prolific. Here, that approach gives the music a feeling of rapid-fire momentum. The combination of frenzied synth lines with pounding beats can be grating at times, like on the disjointed "Oral Fixation," which sees Moss piling on ornamental flourishes with an enthusiasm bordering on hysteria. Likewise, most of the album fluctuates constantly between tension and giddiness.
But then there are moments that form something weirdly magnetic out of resurrected club sounds, like "Submit 2 Me," an ultra-slow, brooding beat over which a tangled nest of synth noise descends like a spider. Moss isn't quite reaching for the sublime here: the prettiest moment on Eat My Fuck is "Autoluminescent Sex," a queasy cloud of vibrations that emulates physical ecstasy, heavy breathing and all. It's hard to say just what Moss's intentions were for the album, but the music is so focused and fixated on the human body that after a while it starts to feel liberating.