Bobby Joe Long's Friendship Party
Roma Est

Robert Joseph Long is an American serial killer. An extra X chromosome in the mix. A suffocating mother as if school exposure wasn't enough. Initially, a peculiar modus operandi: responding to appliance sale ads, visiting the home, and if the women were alone, he would rape them. Then he began to kill as well, leaving the women's bodies to be found days after the massacres, in remote areas, in advanced states of decomposition and laid on the ground in unusual positions. On average, one crime every two weeks. Rapes lasting up to 26 hours non-stop. Ten confirmed murders. Eight months in 1984. Bobby Joe Long is serving a prison sentence of 28 life sentences, a 5-year sentence, four 99-year terms, and a death sentence. Casanovism. Bryanferryism. Bundytism.

Bobby Joe Long's Friendship Party or Oscura Combo Romana is in Rome East.
Cold Wave. Sounds from those years but without any nostalgia: voice, guitars, bass, eighties drum machine, bounces faithful to the line, many straight boxes, and sunglasses in a midnight cinema. Masks of Death In June, Front 242 in mind, a less pretentious, but no less proud proposition than fellow citizens Spiritual Front. New Wave and much more calibrated neorealist literature than the grotesque suicidal notes of the Midnight Mobile Butchery. Aurelia 666.
Current Personnel: Henry Bowers, Peter Spandau, Abacab Carcosa, Kid Ciampino.
Initially self-produced and published on April Fool's Day 2016, Rome East inaugurates a vertigo of Coattowave Drama of which it is the first part of an ongoing Trucilogy to be handled by Contempo Records. As of now, only one Live_De_Nascosto and a festival appearance. Bobby Joe is a morbid and fascinated infatuation with various serial killers, for scarred portraits of a defaced Klaus Nomi, then trivializations of evil, relentless and Romanesque citationism, horror films, and a disdainful taste for the horrid, but also a lot of black comedy, inappropriate laughter, fake low blows, and hands on the balls. A grim theater in Rue Morgue where Stigmata Martyr plays, and George Staub, Franco Fabrizi, Jean-Michel Basquiat, David Berkowitz, the Karamazov brothers, Andrea Volpe, Stephen King, William Hjortsberg, Mickey Rourke in the dual role of Johnny Handsome and Harry Angel, William Lustig, the Vampire of Montparnasse, Decembrist writers, Great Conspiracy, Andrei Chikatilo, Richard Cottingham, Lev Tolstoy, and Charles Manson with Family vacationing in Tor Vergata O 59 perform. Turn the corner and see Mort Rainey chasing someone to open their head with a shovel. Turn the corner and find the bodies of maniacs scattered on the sidewalk. Turn the corner and women smile at you with a chilling rictus...
Rome East is a nonexistent funeral and You All Forgot Roberto Pruzzo.

An out-of-context Goebbels pulls back the curtain that opens onto a dancefloor box Tunz-Tunz that sets the rhythm for an unreal cage of immobility on the verge of nothingness:

<<If I were a Ted Bundy, I'd have a bronze '68 Beetle
if I were a Toots Sweet, I wouldn't even have time for a spit and a piss
if I were a Patrick Bateman, my shadow would stand out stark on every wet asphalt
if I were a Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, I'd say Zang Tumb Tumb

Instead, I'm in a Totip Vortex
in neglected Rome East harassed by all sorts of trips
Instead, I'm in a Totip Vortex
where the clown Pennywise gives me Totaler Krieg>>

Daytime photopathy: <<I'm in open conflict with the sun because it has the incurable vice of defining shaping contouring rendering, but it's a lost cause>>, Proud dandyism: <<I've always spent more on wardrobe than I've earned, because if it's true that any day is good to die, then I want to risk doing it well-dressed. How banal is this concept, right? And your life instead!?>>. Quintiliani, which is an underground metro station in Rome on Via della Pietra Sanguigna where no one gets on, no one gets off. A ghost stop that <<It's all a plugin that doesn't respond>>. Then brother Ivan, who brings the invitation of a black cat: <<Bring home the Devil who lounges>>.
Empathic pity for certain authors:

<<I've always had great respect for Vladimir Mayakovsky
Because unlike poor Dostoevsky he was one who picked up the phone
at 03:33 in the morning and at the first "prrrronto?!" from a woman
he would respond sharply "Now I'm gonna kill myself!">>

Rome east songs are the distortions that Bobby has all in his head, a concept all recited, because delirium is not to be sung, it is to be spoken. Fantasies of Slovenian albino dwarfs chasing you with a Stihl chainsaw, Panoptikon Prisons, a mirror in which to disfigure oneself day after day, Polański's luminescent cocks at 6 p.m. with the annoying sun, white and blue latex gloves in garages reeking of diesel in Tor Cervara. Dancing necrophilia to cut the noose of boredom:

<<Today Rome East Looks Really Beautiful to Me
Patent leather shoes, The party dress
Do you know what I'm going to do?
Sex With the Dead In A Coffin Full Of Rats

On concrete walls, a bat flies
An old man yawns, this is the decor of my dormitory neighborhood>>

Pornogore escapes: <<Overpower of sexual fantasies. I Have A Dead Whore Under The Mattress Who Communicates With Me In Esperanto Subtitles>>, Herzog in FILMSTUNDE, nonsense, fatalism, intangible territories, Cielo Drive 10066, True Grime. You can praise or insult him as much as you want, he uses so much bad faith that <<You might understand, but more easily condemn>>. Being intellectual today is a flaw. Rome East is music for a nighttime party in some apartment room in the middle of nowhere. Periphery in silent decay, city sloth, saturnine character.
Rome East, an abstract VIDEODROME of closed-circuit cameras:
<<Rome East, a pulsar of firecrackers, a residue of electroluminescent dirt among the mane of nothingness. I don't know why, but I get lost in a strange anxiety where everything is dark and uninhabited. Time is a flat circle and everything repeats over and over and over again...>>.

Svart Jugend meets its wanderer double Bobby Joe at night.
Adjusting his tie knot, he says:
<<I've always said the first clip is for the Red Cross>>.
Then flies away like the Owl of Minerva through the clear starry skies.

[BLACK MAIL SQUARE: 03:33 Basement]