Fear
The Fear Record

God bless Fear.

The Sabbat is no more, it has lost its primordial instinct, slipped on a peel of downgrade to the edges of the most circular and sustainable reflection; in the end, it goes round and round but goes nowhere.

The circular traffic, the lost melancholy of a transalpine manège, is amusing in its futility.

Even limiting the hourly speed to 30 km/h, from the High Plains irony looms over the farcical fate of these useless and clogged little men.

It's 1982, Bezos is just a nerd with acne problems and his empire still a nebulous dream called Cadabra.com, a stuttering portal with the highest ambition to sell encyclopedias on the internet. On the other side of the barricade, Troma produces venomous masterpieces as if there were no tomorrow, a few years later it’s the time for the cinematic symbol of the House; the Aesthetic of the Flowers of Evil has poured like sticky vomit over the Big Apple.

The Toxic Avenger is the anti Tony Stark, for you to understand, the anti-hero armed with a mop, confused and foul-smelling feelings; that healthy radioactive waste of an era not yet bleached by fertilizing and inclusive frenzy. Toxic waste of an infernal Eden called Tromaville.

Come gentlemen, come and lay down the unconfessable, the grotesque and arcane impulses, the lascivious and perverse thoughts, let them dance “Dance all days –take your baby by the hand” ! - dance before the eyes of those who think well...

It's 1982 and we are light years away from the moderate composure of our times and into this rich table enters a young man called Lee Ving, a refined past of sociology student and jazz guitar who captures the essence of that apocalypse in germination and lets himself be carried away by that lava flow of the dirtiest noise rock of Butthole Surfers and Laughing Hyenas and in that sweet gore declination of Carcass. Angel-faced he dives into the hermetic character of the Villain, in a filthy and tarred suburban Joker, founding Fear.

And as in a dark forest haunted by Lautréamont's verses, exasperation and that Sabbat become a lifeline in the midst of the most absolute degradation.

And as in the wise Narrative of Ezekiel, Alexander the Great, Frankie Goes To Hollywood, and Ben Grimm, welcome to the Bleeding Apparatus of Destruction.

Everywhere in the album blood drips among the worst metropolitan slime, in that frenzy of tabula rasa and no will of reconstruction.

Fear, suspended in a temporal interlude between the happy degrowth of Devo and the decadent lyricism of X but with the ambition to turn the City of Angels into a circular but Infernal circle. It will be the apparition of that fiery comet, which will never shine again. Those wild sounds of these delinquents like a gasoline pump of cheap and bold thugs, as foul-smelling and as unpleasant as it is venerable for that criminal innocence.

And after so many essentially useless words, it is time for Destruction, to let oneself be carried away in the enveloping vomit of I Don’t Care About You, to discharge on the ground at maximum volume and for the spiritual psychic well-being of your neighborhood, to beat and pound against the walls with pots, pans and rare crockery, to arm yourself with blowguns and shatter this dissolving Ego and lose it forever among those landfill slime!

( Let us take life with joy, provided it is not talked about )