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Rating: A gigantic monolith full of lead in the ears suddenly crashes down on Earth. It's the Air Conditioning spacecraft falling somewhere in Rhode Island, rotten womb of America, cancerous metastasis of a disease plaguing the most perverse basements of the world.
Two at the top of the world, two songs, two depleted uranium bullets fired into the hands of two perverse minds corroded by the nervous paralysis of a creative stasis nearing absolute zero. They assemble the most devastating asbestos pillars supporting the wobbly bridge of creativity in dates close to 2008. You won't find them on the maps of any ghost city, no gentle-handed farmer will point them out to you, no Mary Lou will have met them at parties: they are completely off course, stubbornly fixated on their sublime-stiff battle against reason; at least 9.16 minutes of staggering ultraviolence like the sound way way down to the end of the world, refrigerators broken down with gas emanating toxic fumes everywhere, the loss of sanity reverberating in a crazy drum, flooded by a hundred tons of feedback, the guitar chasing trajectories similar to the nadir, arabesques at the limits of the inaudible that engulf cities, empires, crucifying modern cardboard Christs with nails of wonderfully-unprecedented metallic asthma.
Welcome to the end of music, in the land of nothingness between TV radiation, children with tails, and mothers with green eyes. Don't drink our water the voices (voices?) of the two zombies seem to say as they occasionally emerge from the waves of this hell of scrap metal, cold death and trash-harsh-ultra-core distressed. But let yourselves be dragged into the sick whirlpool of mutation, 9.16 minutes of "Hell Is A Solid, Heaven Is A Gas", break the lines of your normal miserable life: you will join the ranks of the chosen ones who have endured the unbearable, with shattered eardrums, crushed to the ground, clotted blood edging the collars of well-behaved children but you will ask: "more, more!", you will invoke the two Air Conditioning to continue their unsustainable Sabbath of foul-smelling vibrations, perverted metallic whips, you will be enslaved.
This people have still circulation, crazy hands, the incurable evil that pervades every single, extreme gasp: this is the most perverse "music" album that has come into my hands in recent years: it contains the shadiest nonsense, the most disastrous obscenities. The magma is scorching, it screams of bitches in heat in a broth of dung, asphyxiation, paralysis, nervous neuroses. If you too are nailed to the Air Conditioning torture chamber, then you will suffer from Stockholm syndrome and you will scream at the jailer to continue, to deal you another slash of iron dust on your saturated appendages, while every glimmer of dignity drains away: you will be possessed by the work of art, by an album you will not stop listening to, in the silence of your headphones, in your most intimate and yet perverse dreams, and you will deny to everyone that you own it, as if it were blasphemous, simoniac.
The true cult. For all those who do not confess their sins, even the dirtiest ones, even with hands still dirty and greedy.
Album of the year.
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