Diagnose: Lebensgefahr
Transformalin

"Illness has been my god."

The boy with the protruding bones placed his hands on the ledge. He looks with his yellow eyes at the distant asphalt that will welcome his useless body and the dull thud it will make when it hits below. The fog covers his face, the moon bothers him... "Bastards, this time I'll win." The moon no longer has any meaning for him, scrutinizing him insensitively. It is said that he never had a mother; she was half eaten by rats, and in response, defying God, he cut off his hands, replacing them with wires and rusty tubes. He ejaculates, eating his own flesh, claiming to come from hell. Indeed, he has never borne a happy expression on his face, only insignificant, immobile features. The pain, moaning mannequin, cruel gift, interrupted satisfaction... The whiteness of the hospital, being condemned to paraphilic automaton, to attention. The door opens, they have entered once again, their gowns, do not do me any good.

Choosing to have no claims, from here arises the extreme difficulty. It is certain that Nattramn never had any, but to rid oneself of intellect, rhetoric, and at the same time of various frivolities, without resorting to good taste to cover mediocrity (latest releases in the "extreme" music field), one must be unique. One must be Nattramn. The Swedish psychopath undoubtedly knows that the existence of those who can make someone tremble with frequencies, oscillations, comes at a high price. Why? Because he is one of these entertainers, no halfway, it's the only lesson, no reasoning, no mask. In this deliciously perverse, childish, radical opera/farce, there undoubtedly resides the true manifestation of artistic sincerity behind one who manipulates, dissects, and re-proposes a sound by recreating and exasperating it until it makes you vomit: not being an accommodated artist in a scene (by vocation obviously). Practical example, channel "L" voices of tormented souls, channel "R" successful attempts to noisily recreate hell (he, to my taste, succeeds splendidly). This kind of tormentors, they couldn't care less about aggregation, rather the path is to exalt themselves, it is known, there is nothing more exciting than being aware of provoking collective disgust, while enjoying one's work limitlessly, whether it has meaning or not, a purpose or not, whether it is art or something better... And with all due respect to drone music, the nightmares of Southern Lord, industrial experiments, horribly offhanded but acclaimed noisism (which I hate), this is another acceptable form of liberation.