African Head Charge
My Life in a Hole in the Ground

THE REVIEW

My life in a hole in the ground, you can glimpse a phosphorescent psychic jungle from there, the earth and mud surround and suck like putrid quicksand, but once out, you can crawl through the undergrowth of that jungle, drawn by strange echoes in the distance.

The nature in the psychic jungle is violent, the dry and sharp straw-yellow undergrowth is smeared with blood, crawling like a predator amidst piles of bones on the dry ground seems to be the only path leading to those distant echoes, now closer, they become sound.

A reiterated and obsessive whirlwind of percussion appears as salvation made flesh, the myriad of sounds and the few voices entering and leaving the sound spectrum have the obsessive desperation of flies incessantly banging against a glass, the winds change shapes and ways with concerning continuity, now connected to Fourth World ethnic traditions, now transfigured into elephant trumpeting or screaming birds trapped in a cage.

The center of it all, however, is another: the groove, a deadly and suffocating bass that literally guts you, tears you apart, its unlimited depth instills reverential fear, makes you move your butt and head to its liking, induces a hypnotic stasis, its thundering vibrations numb the senses, and I am its, I will never return to that hole in the ground, a little heap of bones now whitens in the sun on the dry ground.