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Xmetov

"The fact that we barely checked the musical instruments had a lot to do with our sound."
Even though they are Slovak, the grim Kafkaesque horror atmosphere they conjure up with their compositions fits perfectly with the distorted aura that permeates the invisible of Prague. The sound vibrations can blend with the voices you hear escaping from the walls of those old buildings that once recorded the passage of the Golem. "All we knew was that we didn't want to sing the love and peace lyrics everyone sang back then." And who sent you?

The voices can be heard, I assure you, especially at dusk, when shadows stretch like claws and all surfaces become an endless mirror room. Vertigo clashes with the half-drunkenness from beer that doubles everything into post-Hussite hisses. Everything is gold and black. There is the anguish of an awareness of a parallel reality that commands us, the surprise of observing our thoughts and not recognizing them as ours, the disintegration of our certainties upon noticing assumptions made by unsavory entities. The music makes us participants in the ferocity of the induced mental anguish, the perfect trap, the misleading ego that deceives the straight path.

Rhythmic and cacophonous music and fiercely metaphorical lyrics, dissenting to the core, that through pure underground elevate a categorical refusal to the "normality" of a life heavily influenced by behavioral dictates: "Píšte všetci modrým perom, iná farba nebude" (Everyone writes with a blue pen, there will be no other color), in a song from the album. Messengers of warning to counter calls of perdition, the "without harmony or order" chase you, hunt you down, uncover unsettling presences that appear proposing a subtle surrender: it's a tactic to lure them for a liberating defenestration.

Neurotic ballads unmask the possessions in progress, bright tar watercolors sand down ephemeral securities to throw us into a real vision of our lies: "If you want to meet a person, give them a function," is heard in another piece. The spectral carousel of horses adorned by our vanity drips pitch, which increasingly sticks to our illusions and glues the mirage of a phoenix's feathers. We rise again in foul-smelling swamps, the distortion is striking, we swim in a drowning sea. Like perpetual asthma, we thirst for air but only have the fetid exhalations of millennial sewers left to breathe.

We are enveloped by psychic atmospheres where hope is a stranger. And like an alienating cabaret, the voice speaks to us of the veil we should tear away, hallucinatory and hallucinogenic is the prospect of the worsening fall. Mythical lullabies accentuate the sinking into induced quicksand, while remaining not far from a semblance of rock. The only option is to simulate a negotiation and distract the executioners, so as not to feed them anymore with our suffering. To always keep present and feel those involvements that keep us in the negative and try, with the help of that anarchic saxophone, to become more annoying than the unwanted visitors. Turn the exhaustion onto them to provoke abandonment through despair, proposing their same hypnotic suggestions through a pathological sound.

That "sickness of living" that the music conveys, the friction of noise's presence, is an essential compendium to screw over personal whims and proclaim a ruthless war on the possessions that identify us. A good sharp wake-up call is what is needed, and these guys ring it loud and clear.
Nejlepší československá kapela!