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Rating: Underground gone rotten, no decay, shadows in the darkness, perpetual pathological, moldy concrète, the flip side of hot air, stomach-turning nausea of eternity, celestial dissonances, animic vagabondism.
Missing the target on purpose, always. Telling the hidden recesses of your catacombs, tanning them with flicks of millennial roguery.
Stories aren't told by the fire, on the stake we burn guilt that never belonged to us. We give voice to the noises, to the voices of the invisible surrounding us where the flash of a shot white light doesn't frame with the smell of feet in the air: "what's below is above" and vice versa, after all.
When we finally resolve that beauty doesn't necessarily come with a pretty face, but can manifest as nauseating, we too can scramble to put together a Greatest Hits of our dark places.
This stuff done between 1977 and 1981, before Californian post-punk...
Summer is anything but vacation, RA lights up all corners. Summer brings out truths that winter slows down. Sunstrokes, fits, strokes, belong to the "beautiful" season. Sunburns, scorching tans trigger states of delirium that the desert of John Black Sahara, Martin Klingac, Vit Fikious J.H. know in its constant reverberation.
The tomb where the Czechoslovaks direct us is without subtitles.
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