Máma Bubo
Planeta Haj

Sleek in the Central European dragging of a "monocle bow tie champagne" trinity, sipping while letting slip a few Austro-Hungarian words, they handle a dark-synth that caters to ghosts bored by the ease of taking possessions in action. Dance-wave that lazily digs into our indigence, pandering to the eternity's banality just to boast and mystify Austro-Hungarian specters converted to a Czech urinal stimulated by mugs of Pilsner beer.

And the proud dragging is in its dynamic, interesting, and tempting tedium to awaken further zeal in pursuing more impersonality, because from the smoky life one aspires to a fog that makes us disappear with it at the first ray of sunlight. Squeaks, just to make clear that we are here, guide us into storerooms where darkness explains more than glimmers and concealment is sought with brilliance, highlighting flashes of spurious sharing of considerations.

Alone and unaccompanied, an atmosphere is created that soothes in the latency of a memory of anguish that brings a little smile from the past. One no longer plays with shadows, when the gay obscurantism paradoxically instead of suggesting an end, suggests an opening to a real world that manifests close by us but rarefied in the exchange of an ancient game where the protagonists love their own boredom.

More than an awakening, the appearances of that trumpet sound like lures to potential new acolytes of this attractive shadowing to guide them towards trials of vanishments, of assignments of masks (see the cover) of momentary deceptions where one moves on a chessboard that exponentially, square by square, exposes the disinterested abyss of the infinite.

I had the fortune in 2017 to see them live for a reunion in a club near my home, the Kaštan Unijazz, where I attended a perfect concert. In the post-performance appendix, speaking with the musicians, followed that "mockery" of synth-disco clichés strummed with millennial nonchalance "just to do something," which throws us into a materialist revisionism heavily re-evaluating (for our psyche) that thing that "the last will be the first," so great is the gap of absence from the tangible that these dance airs calmly attract, always perceiving a thread of Ariadne that alleviates the fear of not returning to base.

A casual pathos is reached on the final piece that gently yet irreversibly accompanies us to a friendly suggestion of the sound carpet, reminding us that we always judge ourselves, it depends on what we have sown.

Astute, abstract, aseptic rituals that produce a timeless arrhythmia of glorious past experiences that bury the beauty of an organic casing that intoxicates himself with failures, hitting the target of recollections of obscenities applied in the past, mocking the monstrous, ephemeral instrument, with illumination punctuated with those samples and programs where the burlesque advance of electronic drums gives rhythm to a deliberately unfinished performance, yet also frolicing when it ignites the mystical disco in us.

MÁMA BUBO: Karel "Bubol" Babuljak, Vlatislav Matoušek, Jiří "Bubochar" Charypar, Jan Máša.

"V Cechach najdes pritele", in Bohemia you will find friends...