Mostly cacophonies, but if you want, I can also produce less comforting excrements. An illogical anger and an unprecedented need for silliness dig into me, down there, in the hollow of my guts. I'm tired and illogically angry, yes, and for God's sake, don't ask me who or how or why or how come or when and least of all the historical-socio-cultural context, the usual pretext for reveling in the paratextual and the metasemantic. Someone will say: I protest, you're the usual arrogant cleric, intent on inflating your ego, there you go. May they damn themselves along with harmony, counterpoint, counterbalance, retribution, and common sense. The Beauty and Art with capital letters, the disgusted critics from their armchair of artistic products reviewed by ondarock with sevenpointfive, who do not disdain compiling rankings, complaining about customs tariffs, and following Sunday appearances of bloated and embalmed rockstars, they, after all, have already damned themselves. Noise, nothing but noise, is needed by the procrastinator. Old, moldy stuff, of course, by the radical chic in search of extreme and shocking music, from independent labels, moleskin, and Velvet Underground post-grunge avant-noise, who at lunch sip a very fawning cool jazz digestif at their trusted bistro, among a mixed platter of cheeses and a tasting of risottos, about historical revisionism and influential bands, stuff that you live on with snippets of alternative web magazines. Bootleg Underground anti-system, nippo-anarcho-punk ante litteram. In short, a crap, but a crap that works one-time, like a gastric lavage for the auditory cochleas.
To hell with it.
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