Limbo
My Whip Your Flesh

"An old saying goes, 'Wife and oxen from your own country.' One gets involved with the gothic esoteric industrial of other nations when not realizing that the best jam is right at home."

Iconoclastic, ritualistic, templar, Mithraic, it resolves the confusion of twilight and dawn with clear obfuscations and drops of fresh dew that replace deceptive tears. The unsettling majesty of the black march beyond our possessions colors with painful déjà vus where the soul suffers checkmate by the seductive tar of damnation. The ardor for revenge still chains us to materialistic challenges where the cup of triumph coincides with defeat, with the fall.

Burnt and tainted by pitch, we wander sincerely fearful of God, aware that both postponing the clash and the frontal encounter nourish our opponent hiding within us. The splitting, the schizophrenia is fueled by metallic and obsessive percussion that outlines a mass where a primordial dance of falls and salvations takes place. The burns suffered are our trophies on the path of evolution.

Even redemption is treated in a bloody manner, the light that arrives is not benevolent but a sword that burns shames and enlightens while freezing as it pierces us. A dense, tangible tension springs from the layers of a horrifying musical pomposity revealed as stripped bare in the deceit of promised expectations. Genuflection is mandatory in noticing that "Limbo" slaughters impeccable training: to become smarter, you have to "play" with an opponent smarter than you.

And what is growth in the end if not being profoundly humiliated in our vanities? Suffering is ego, making the ego suffer is conscious suffering, the yearning is to thank and turn the other cheek to the slaughter absent of considerations. Extremely effective is the transformative engagement of the airs, there is a need to take a shower after listening, a sauna with a plunge into icy water would be better.

The revered company Becuzzi & Mustone, donning a jingling black velvet headdress, forges subtle dividing lines between unsettling areas, leaving no room for hesitation and justification in teetering "here and there", from below and above, reviving the game of reality of this our childhood of eternity. In anaerobic performances, we muscle psychic changes for visions of real worlds where love doesn't rhyme with "heart". Then we'll see, we have time, how much...

Admirable in poking fun at itself with references to a muddy medieval where surface inquisitions work on the flesh with whips, penetrations, ejaculations, tortures, and through the notion that "pain is pleasure", they flaunt repentance for the salvation of the soul, showing that the Catholic package is just a lovely resurrection of the flesh. What a "scam", round and round, it's always taken in the ass...

Impressive is the rendition of "Venus in Furs" for a respectable sadomasochistic nightclub set in a Valhalla of Nibelungianism that only has a long rod for a "meopenisintuavulva"! The moods of being lust are spiced by mandrake-like screamed orgasms from Roxana & Luisa. The revisionism of the rhythms of orgies and rituals finds its contribution in the decadence of Latin speech.

Ultimately, the turgid state that derives from expectations of definitive orgasms makes the listening experience "pleasant", so that the whole results in a very gratifying big soap bubble. There are no faults in any possible debacles, on the contrary, the "impotence" is even celebrated.

The Italian craftsmanship of Gianluca and Vincenzo ensures historical quality in the delivery of an occultism that mystifies itself in its chanting. Not forgetting to bring the hair shirts, Enjoy!