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There are albums and there are tortures, the most monstrous and inconceivable ones.
In China, there was the leng'tchè, from which Naked City took the title of an album (wow, I know so much, more than caz), but the beat goes on... as I was saying, the aforementioned torture involved removing one piece of a man's body, while alive, at a time until death.
The man in question was drugged with extremely high doses of opium: there is a photo of this person, dismembered, looking ecstatically at the sky... in a trance. Contradiction, huh?
I couldn't care less about the pretensions and affectations present in this context, and getting back to the album, I can say that the aforementioned torture is a walk in the park compared to it, with the disadvantage that opium is not included in the price.
Two extremely swollen testicles end up exploding on the keyboard as I write while listening to this genius work, the brainchild of a mental masturbator that makes the worst pretentious one among these pages look like a delightful companion.
Now, I don’t even bother mentioning the song titles, you know them, onanists!
I'll tell you that to all those who defend it, as caz would surely do, I would make them eat it, spit it out, listen to it, eat it again, and listen to it again... the Ludovico cure of the gastrointestinal system for frustrated music critics who will never be critics, nor anything else for that matter.
An album that is a mix of moaning dragged out to nausea... ad nauseam, ad nauseam clear?
Repetitions, notes prolonged to the point of mitral prolapse and boredom that would do justice to all the dead awaiting the day of judgment since the dawn of time.
So, we too can feel a bit dead and bored to death, with this fine little record that repeats all the time "the gooooood soooooooooooooooon, in, the vallllleeeeeey"... pause and note... another pause... pauses; minimalism that crashes onto these enormously more productive and fruitful spheres than yours, and you know who I am talking about.
Kill David Sylvian.
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Other reviews
By Cleo
His always warm and enveloping voice almost recites a litany over hypnotic electronic distortions for 13 wonderful minutes.
Research and experimentation, his great passions, are at their peak.
By vanamente
Blemish is nothing more than a pure exercise of style for an artist who now loves hearing his own voice to the point of losing himself.
David Sylvian doesn’t have an overflowing ego; he has an ego that spills over from everywhere and that unfortunately has definitively contaminated even his being an artist.
