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Rating: February 24, 1980, nineteen eighty! GOT IT? Factrix, Nervous Gender, Uns, and Flipper gift us with a "night to (not) forget" sowing havoc to prevent the growth of the grass of melodies and cancerous choruses within us and solving the anguish of a musical scourge androgyny that is self-sufficient with that gnostic chaos that takes all.
The ferocity of this performance is unfathomable. The plateau of impersonality thrown on the chopping block is a hallucinatory offside complete with a slide tackle and a reactionary kick in the balls. Instead of a red card, upon listening, we place in our spiritual showcase the putrid face of celestial bastardness.
The dense horrific fluid created does nothing but mystify the encirclement whispered by the semblances in our little brain, over time, oxidizing deviant material dependence. The ambrosia of this symposium uncovering future technological possessions is a turpentine that has the merit of being a stain remover for a definitive alienation where we are conscious of this abduction.
The reverb, the recoil, the burst of an echo of return, is chilling in its psychic sinusoidal wave power. Indigestible is the truth expressed by these sounds that leave no escape for any comfortable benign classification that justifies our lies. The purity of this decomposition, even if heavy, carries no malignant connotation.
The subtle, direct, and retroactive disgust it provokes is due to our induced dependence on obeying the idea of our goodness, of "good feelings." And then we associate them with melodic, harmonic, chrono-logical configurations, the effort to forgive, but they have nothing to do with unknown horizons of agitated celestial revelations. So the "ugly, dirty, and bad" can necessarily be applied to the angelic part of the eternal struggle between good and evil. And here, sonorously speaking, there is much invisible present, that invisible which constantly surrounds us, of which we have not the slightest suspicion of how it acts upon us.
The catacomb dug by the cult label, Subterranean Records, with this hodgepodge of unidentifiable sounds, starts a revisionism of our sensations. Like a Kafka book, "I can very well imagine someone finding themselves with this [record] in their hands and from that moment completely changing their life and becoming a new person," regenerating their musical beliefs.
The flaying reaches the bone, the taste might initially shock for its nauseating progression, but the aftertaste is honest in its lack of compromises, where the cry for divine justice, in the absence of possessions, is necessarily suffocating. The immediacy of the no-thought is exhibited with opacifying nuances by the intervened groups. Each of them, in their way, gives no chance; each of the groups is a meat grinder of the assembly of lies where we bask in vanity; each of the groups does not reflect; each of the groups shares violent solitudes; each one performs longing for bloody disappearance.
We know ourselves, we accept the monstrous within us, we are what we are: are we ugly?... it is because we had to be ugly; are you an asshole?... it is because you had to be an asshole, and so on. We do not hide behind façades of brilliance and surrender to the pathology we are.
Did you want the underground? HERE IT IS! In this record, there are "bastard" brothers who accept their personal not quite "normal" hyperboles and throw away the mask of a cowardly hope of sneaking away from the miserable being we are: Ecce Noise!
No returns accepted, except yourselves.
Still, the pieces are danceable... Ahahahah!
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