Bobby Joe Long's Friendship Party
AOH!

Tenebrarum from Rome East: Core de Tenebra ist/est Stuff from Night Stalker.

«They say heroin kills you, and who cares! But who really cares... I'm fine. I shoot up and I start laughing, you know, when there’s... I got no problems, then I take another hit... because this life only gives me anguish... this way of... of... these relationships that exist don't interest me; I don't care about having one more bus... I'll just walk... I'd rather shoot up... instead of heroin, I take amphetamines, so I race, go 200 kilometers an hour!»

Hello! They are Bobby Joe Long's Friendship Party aka Dark Roman Combo aka er synthpop from Rome East aka Peter Seamus O'Toole aka Lawrence of Arabia. And now that poor Bobby Joe Long has croaked and can no longer spit straight into the cameras, with this, you screw a late summer’s end in the car at Idroscalo, or preferably this winter in some room of an apartment into nowhere, because bad news is shocking early in the morning with prescription glasses, but they have more style with a leather trench coat and Persol 649 after midnight. But tell me. How much do you love your woman, and I said your woman, not some whore or a random lover, when she works that Shirley Temple with the tip of her tongue on the head that drives you crazy or with a change of scenery and identity at the brink of orgasm at Lost Prenestina Highway, she sucks the trigger with a fake dong on the nightstand, and how much do you like your man today in a last minute switch while he holds and caresses your balls from behind after a week where he's been a pain, only to slit his throat while he worships your rod, handling a mechanical blowjob for you? Anyway, to make it clear, Bobby Joe Long, he takes and spits directly into the camera in the courtroom, quickly going from a peaceful and friendly emotional state to a resurgence of ancestral anger towards humanity. Robert Joseph Long transfigured by hatred. Bizarre World.

Bobby Joe Long's Friendship Party are a narcissistic personality disorder, they are a ghost band with dark and raw, repetitive, hypnotic nursery rhymes, and live they manifest like ectoplasms. Prose of alienation, raving, unpredictable. This is the 4th album, promoted and distributed in an almost mail art/tape network way, out on June 14th of this year. True Crime Ist Freundschaft. Respectively Bobby Joe Long, Ted Bundy, Charles Starkweather, Richard Ramirez, in that order.
And we’re at four, all on death row.
Because Richard Ramirez aka The Night Stalker wouldn't want you to ever piss him off.

Performers also known as Dramatis Personae are Henry Bowers, texts and hints in the Roman ultravox, Peter Spandau, monolithic bass and synthesizer, Arthur Ciangretta, guitars and new and no wants, here fed in Zona Vampa by the scratches of Dj Myke in a Notte De Varpurga, from programming, sax, synth, drum machine, and Bianchi production and the occasional real tunz tunz by Donald Renda. States of comfort and discomfort in BJLFP today as they seek self-determination for self-realization purposes for self-referential self-celebration, but they've got the car with the hazard lights in double parking and now the cop is coming by. Rome is annoying and in any case once I saw a thug say to another I'll kill you in four moves / while I was paying the check for xanax with acetaminophen. Rome, brawling phonics, Rome, sonic mean.

Who Killed Laura Palmer? is a MacGuffin, everything is talked about in there except her, a suburban nightmare in the ultra-periphery. But beyond being a potential shrewd clickbait on YouTube, the fundamental issue is that on February 24, 1989, between midnight and four in the morning, no girl was killed in Twin Peaks, that night an interception occurred, and that story might no longer exist, a plot twist, a breathless diegetic uchronia... And right after Nick Cave reinterprets The Chair of Grace with a happy ending because at the last moment the power goes out.
The irrepressible urge to steal SoKo's Socks and sniff them covertly.

Psychedelic furs, dead Kennedys, killer jokes. Because the references are not only literary, cinematic, and various and eventual, but also musical. And then you can hear the twinkling keyboard strokes by Fabio Liberatori that turn into a full-blown digital torrent of synthwave in Acqua e Sapone which here becomes Fire & Shit, the liquid spatialist strings of the Alan Parsons Project, bursts of Spandau in a bass infected with acute maroccolite and another that takes from Saint Huck... Achtung! Gated reverb on a fourth of electronic snare drum and bouncy and jumping hi-hats, Luciferian instrumental coda that licks your ass, a The Cure melody above a New Order line, Steve Stevens guitars in Idol, because if you don't like ignorant and illiterate things like Rebel Yell, Eyes Without A Face, Dancing With Myself, White Wedding, Shock To The System, Neuromancer, Wasteland, it might be about time you start reconsidering your tastes, because even though it's said ‘tastes are tastes’ and you only listen to Klaus Wiese und Karlheinz stuka di Stockhausen, if you don't enjoy the IDOL and don't like wild cyberpunk clangs, then you have no taste for the horrid and horror, and you deserved the Genesis because in Abacab Carcosa We Trust, because with Abacab Carcosa we will conquer Aldebaran, so yours are really shit tastes, screaming what the hell is this fucking noise? reminds me that I have a whole Ramones dream where I don't make a sort of professed religion out of certain dusty and aged sounds, I don't seek the pin on the podium of the cross-country race at the post-punk afterschool. I am the dogma in the suburbs, the one who crosses every street, recession and pandemic, the AstraZeneca for your nostalgia, the horrible epiphany that even faith takes away.... So honor to the first Sciarpi, the one of Rocking Rolling, No East No West and Io e L’Es, who has been much more than you who boast the remix of a project x that only you know. I have a whole Ramones dream, where always and only Turkish things and green mice with taboos on the menu, where only beautiful chicks and old-fashioned breakfasts with milk+. Skull cane and reserved prognosis, dog barks and Joy Division and Carbonara and Lonely Nights, I’m an old man lost in an exotic place tequila bum bum...
And then Dark-Funk and Italo Disco and Johnson Righeira and Tengo Duro and V.A.F.F.A.N.C.U.L.O.!
Where on the Santo G.R.A., the no. 23 is the chaos that is creeping and then duelists, robbers and Night Starker! AOH!

Richard Ramirez - rapist, for underlying inferiority, unsettling and bare-chested
he tells you if you are drifting - if you are drifting,
even Ronald Reagan would have bounced back,
he bounced back - he bounced back - he bounced back - he bounced back!

Hello! The flight of the Archangel, he is the specter, the apparition of the late Gabriele D’Annunzio aka VateWave aka the Minimal Duke aka the archangelic flyer who shakes pearls of spit on your sylvan face in a neo-folk/The Smiths episode accompanied by Guido Keller throwing the enamelled chamber pot decorated on the seat of Montecitorio and bouquets of flowers on the Vatican and on the Quirinale, because my woman drinks all my children in millions with a dry vibrator on the undone bed, because sleeping with an intelligent woman with personality is more beautiful, because here you don’t make love, here you fuck, and if you think otherwise you’re a Freudian stereotype, and as for you, I love women like you, confident even in low cut, accompanied by a fantastic chignon, who never say no while you crush her head on your dick and you penetrate her mouth deeply and cum violently in her throat, and on this Bela Lugosi’s Tanz Tomas Milian dances, thinking of Richard Benson and the vintage lips of Natasha Hovey that clutch you flower power and play the rusty trombone that while she moves her mouth I only think if she’s dirty or not, doing role-playing games with Bela Lugosi's desires, that if you don't satisfy them they lead you to neurosis, they lead you to necrosis.
Do you «Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?» or «Have you ever had the feeling of being cheated?». We Put Our Trust In You, Abacab Carcosa.
Body Horror & Winston Churchill. Hail to the New Flesh. Hail Abacab Carcosa.

BJLFP is deliberately misunderstood, as Lasse Braun's work was deliberately misunderstood and mystified, Joe D’Amato's career, John Waters' dog shit, the Mondo Movies.
The asphalt licks, because the loud laughs and sarcastic accounts are the antidote to the virgin of Nuremberg of reality that carries with it grotesque and tragicomic, but also real, tangible, chilling anguish, staring fixedly into the void, speaking to no one, cursing every ugly day of the week. The discomfort, pessimism, and annoyance, the fatalism, the desolation of East Rome, where DDR isn't for Deutsche Demokratische Republik, where delusion is spoken word, shouted in accented accelerated metric mode in rhythm and poetry of the demon of the worst suburbs, that if they talk to you about GDP, make the sign of the cross, and indeed, make every 'heretic a priest because around here the dead walk fast, that here answers Devil’s House, where the light reveals and the dark revelation and also brings out an unwavering loyalty, unstoppable, and an uncompromising sentimentality, even if the Pope gave me all of Rome [...] and told me let go of the one who loves you, I would answer, No! Sacred Crown! SACRED CROWN!

Jonathan Harker days when boarding a carriage to Bistritz with a heavy heart / coming to find me when I’m in the mood tagada, between broken nerves, hit of the moment and sensory confusion. September 29, 2022, this night is the fourth and last night of the retreat, BJLFP is hyper-realist fiction, and this was fiction, a simulation, Sick Sycophant! also because grammar is a bourgeois stratagem [...] if it were up to me on the walls only dicks, pussies, and "shit on whoever reads" / I don’t think it’s a good solution, but I do it for the satisfaction of watching you melt on the walls like the remnants of a curse.

Straight to hell on the Capitoline night.
I come from nothing and towards nothing I swiftly journey,
darkness is my cradle, the dress code of the pervert.
In a Rome East eternally shrouded in thick mystery,
where the fact doesn’t make the headlines, I wear a black cloak.
There is no goal and reason, the camera moves backward
and everything is always further from the center of action… Where:

goth silhouettes, blaring music, smoke gusts, darkness you can’t see shit in
in a totip whirlpool, in the neglected Rome East, beset by all kinds of trips.