Aufgehoben
Messidor

Could Velázquez perhaps have foreseen that Innocent X, once captured by the neuroses of Francis Bacon, would come out disfigured by the rage of colors, with that piercing scream choked in his throat? Or could critics have perhaps predicted the fate of rock by imagining in Aufgehoben the fatal trap set for their own vanitas?
Certainly not.
But if we admit that in the first case there was nothing to be done, then we must honestly recognize that in the second, while art has moved forward, criticism has retreated backward, with sadistic and naive obstinacy, deliberately snubbing change and taking shelter under the ideological comfort of the concept of "avant-garde," as if it were truly the only one capable of redeeming each day from the frustration of not knowing the name to call “darkness beyond rock.”

Ah, yes, the mistake. While the precise blows of Aufgehoben outraged some, many more easily snubbed them, proposing the usual suffocating theories on sound nihilism and sonic alienation to the frontier and beyond.
The clangors of "Messidor," however, cannot be just a furious reconsideration of the "state of the art"; they are a stain, a renewed threat, of which we are all guilty. “Messidor” is the harsh counterpoint of time, marked by the superhuman scream of “Manotgog” and dedicated to pain "forever," and the unbearable epilepsy of “Urorganon,” it shrieks on the leaden sky of the present with the naïve metallic sounds of "Ends of Er” and "Shibboleth".
A sign of justice imposed by the hand of fate. Nothing of the trendy fuss of kids with "noisy" guitars and low quality, nor the total ineptitude of some chic composer of whining bedroom music of the fourth world. The journey of Aufgehoben is different, concentric, dangerously current and menacingly descriptive of the status quo, both icy and terrible, noisy like evil and truth. It is the non-consoling sound of our time, the rasping prophecy that nothing is beautiful and nothing, not even evil, lasts forever. It is the revenge of rock’s debauchery against its own lust: a martial process of indiscriminate and forced moralization, in which men are as mean as mice and take refuge underground just to ignore the absurd clangor of (sonic) reality.

We are talking about a fierce affirmation, sanguine, reasoned, and updated to the impending end of the game.
Aufgehoben are proof that forms of life exist in the caves of musical extremism, which, unlike the passive lamenting and coughing of the coarser noise, are the elevated point from which to photograph the defeated and render, through a reasoned hyperbole, the sense of post-modern bewilderment in front of a wicked future.
Havel havalim, therefore, because every error in judgment will be punished with an infinitely more severe dishonor.

The rock of the end of the world.