Cindy Lee
Malenkost

THE REVIEW

I rise, I swallow!

Swallowing makes no noise; it sets the digestive system in motion, food or no food, liquids or no liquids. Every morning I must salivate in the hope that my car will start, in the hope that the starter motor will do its job. I imagine Lou Reed, I imagine he had no problems of any kind with cars. I see a hollowed-out electric guitar patched with tape and connected to a busted amplifier, and with my same thought Lou tries to play it: screeches, voids to lose, crunch, and that '60s feeling where everything was still evolving and under construction.

When I was a pre-teen, I took a trip with my parents to Vienna, and on the way back we decided to detour to Hungary, to Budapest: the border between Austria and Hungary was a construction site, a tangle of roads, some beautiful and complete, others a multicolored gray ending in the void. They looked like cliffs, fascinating though irregular, harmonious in their randomness; chance exists.

So I stay to watch the vinyl grooves, invisible to my eyes, but well felt by the needle. The environment is tight, the environment falls into catharsis and opens to memories that go beyond the womb, maybe living in the time of one's parents or maybe that of parents of other impure kids like us, virgins or ultra-abused. When you have your first sexual intercourse and surpass the passage of virginity, you don't go back, and for me, it was like that with music: My Bloody Valentine, Big Black, Royal Trux, Oneohtrix Point Never; the beauty is being always beautifully virgin every time. I miss the musical virginity, I miss the "Like A Virgin," I can listen to tons of white noise and think - nothing special -. There's a lack of material, a lack of amazement also because nothing is stunning.

The apocalypse seems more and more palpable to me, and I'm at the gym running on the treadmill while Barbara D'Urso talks about the new haircut of Floriana, winner of GF number x and - doesn't anyone think of the children? -, no one thinks of the point of no return; no future to the nth degree. Here it is not about not seeing a future for oneself, not about not seeing retirement, here it's about not seeing the future of one's own intelligence, of one's own humanity, of one's own offspring. Why should I bother to have children? Why should I bother to work? Why should I bother to live? My only hope is to die before dying, naturally, but of old age.

There is no music for an apocalypse, but I don't imagine it as harsh noise, I don't imagine it Hi-Tech or J-pop, I imagine a sonic decadence but which maintains a moral solidity of its own.

Dying ethically in a biodegradable bag.