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Licking the back of the Bufo Alvarius I can finally chew the Present while projects and reminiscences dissolve in the sizzling acid of guitar spirals forged by Hephaestus. A cacophony of sensations twists my unsteady guide.
Where am I?
In the stomach of a pantagruelian space-rock, tingling gastric juices corrode Time, and the psychedelic cyclicity of hyper-noise radiations horribly disfigures the line of the horizon.
The cigarette I bite between my lips burns quickly like a summer love, and raw, ruinous percussions beat in my head like a desperate love.
Through the windshield, I see clouds swollen with feedback where a yellowish light filters, foreboding an electromagnetic storm; the air is sultry, stasis is palpable, and unmistakable Sonic Youth discharges rumble.
Where will I be?
Overlapping coordinates fused in a psychic magma that paralyzes movements like an incandescent lava flow, and leaping sound shards burn the flesh like crazy lapilli spewed by volcanic eruptions.
I stop the car, get out, it's not over yet. I swallow the toad and, diving into the maze of perceptions, I await “Amen 29:15,” I await the final liturgy and dissolve Space under my tongue.
And then I finally see. A leaden otherworldly sea where a litany stretches and congeals, gives and takes, loses and gains; an apparent staticity where the sacredness of Popol Vuh is dissolved in the interstellar miasmas of Ash Ra Tempel, creating an orbicular sacredness worthy of the fixation of a God's eye.
Where have I been?
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By Festwca
The sound is beautifully dirty and raw, so undefined and crude that the guitars can venture into the most psychotic cacophonies without detracting from the music’s overall sense of harmony.
Bufo Alvarius cannot leave you indifferent: it is extraordinary, at times intolerable, almost nauseating, imperfect, hypnotic, exaggerated, erotic, rotten inside, decomposing.
