Melvins
Honky

That barely whispered beginning, it’s as if they’re doing a Floydian bloodletting to the keyboardist... all the master’s vein extracted from that arm slowly, to the rhythm of hard clashing shields colliding surrounded by their Echo, the singing nymph... in the distance, the work of a forge set up in a cave and the lament of something deep coming from within, upon it weave those anguished voices demanding the violent martyrdom of a crowd or a cluster of men who must be gutted... All of them, they must be slaughtered... before or after the sun will have caressed them with its shining blade... in the mute gaze of the camel, in its dejected swaying on the scorching sand, you’re tired of crawling on this beach of hell, aren't you? The father, the son: they guide the lowly goat... the executioner lets fresh water flow over his body and looks at you from his death mask... you are his prey, his children, and his delight... he doesn't laugh, he watches you as if he needs to find a rhythm in your movements, a precise cadence, from a pendulum a balance that swings, drawing in the air curves of perfect geometries... The mind, it takes to end a plea, he wants the best for all of us... you have heard. It is descending, you can breathe the sound it makes when it touches the ground, when the white wood of his stick strikes the step and makes the marble vibrate... delicate as a celestial rose it moves with the waters of its robes that paint waves around its body, immaculate and imposing in the rocky gorge it is descending, the father, the son: they guide the lowly goat... an old desert sorcerer who blows sacrificial litanies upon his hoary mantle.

He blindfolds his eyes with a black strip, continues to descend the stairs, his feet let themselves be adorned by the sand, he sits cross-legged... he wants the best for all of us... all of them they must be slaughtered... Asbestos wings for a butterfly flying over a minefield, bristling with thorny roses and scarecrows that drink it with crows that besides drinking it croak it like Billy Corgan... a minstrel who breaks into it with a drunken riff without any sense of measure or decency because do you want to stop at some point or not? You try flying in the middle of this mess... In the house next door a territorial war between mice: two grayish sergeants stationed at the ends watch a covered trap, prepared for the courier who should in fact have already passed... they start to sweat but they hear noises... is it the usual Luba passing by to clean away the dust, or maybe not... each speaks with his own mind, waiting... a game of delicate thoughts, sophisticated and sharp sounds, of patient waiting a little nervous, the basses: an endless series of jerks proposed and immediate responses, a sound necklace of guerrilla pearls... She looked at you with a female mouth bringing it close to your eyes... the glass of saliva that stretched for a moment from lip to lip then opened in a lightning vanishing... Morpheus's long white beard, the broad and hoary chest crowning the two crossed arms, intertwined to hide something that made a strange noise... air inhaled and then spread in ethereal diffusion, the air colored purple crossed by words chanted in such a sweet way... the ethereal dust that enters your nostrils and caresses them, a sudden numbness melts your limbs, and then while your sight is about to close the furious scream of the God invades the area around, creates a void around itself, you feel dead in a blurred sleep, you see better, with the respirator on your face... The Melvins must have been inspired by I don't know which artistic vision, an extraordinary event of the past that has manifested itself in a thousand forms, enchanting them into a sublimated delirium through a sacred psychedelic drinking of several glasses of substances of indeterminate origin that have begun to circulate in their nervous system distorting it, because there have truly been very few records like this, gentlemen, it might remind one of an Ummagumma played by a certain Hotspur, a drunken singing elephant, or little else, perhaps a flash of kaleidoscopes...