Mersault
Raimond & Marie

It will be (surely) due to my obsolete/greasy mono-neuronal structure that does not allow me to appreciate the evidently substantial liaison between the clouded Visconti cinematic apparatus (Luchino, of course) staged in "Lo Straniero" (1967) [Anna Karina (Marie), Georges Geret (Raimond), and our own Mastroianni (Mersault, indeed)] with such red-cross [the dense Zurich coniferous forms Their upright habitat] as abominable, indigestible, putrescent, shapeless sound triad*; an unhealthy and not better-identified sound-marshland: the ancestral pantallassa flows copiously and (im)materially, murkily inexorable from the depleted speaker cones.

It will be (perhaps) that one is faced with only trois exacerbating, elusive, tortuous, intimately seismic movements: one more improbably and recklessly (e)scatological [Hello Ené] than the other. Impalpable bass ghosts, inextricable percussions (often not at all struck) scattered among convulsive electronics and treated/grated guitar garnishes for a (medicinal) cocktail that will invigorate Your uninhibited and carefree muzak-nights (provided you positively reach the following dawn).

It will be (also) that not being a psychotropical-aficionado I wouldn't know with plantigrade/pharmacological exactness what types of d(e)rugs need to be assumed (or dismissed) to finally arrive alive and veget(al) at the end (also) of the first "cheerful" half hour constituting the first highly exacerbating fragment-experience that welcomes us [title: "Untitled" (did you expect something à la "Five O' Clock in The Morning"?), obviously no?]: as sober (or presumed such), I candidly admit to having initially paid a painful yet dutiful toll: the avulsively primitive, apparently undefinable improv-abstractionism that opens the nebulously dark yet tetraplegic dances repels and at the same time embraces as hadn't happened in immemorial time.

"Sarà quel che sarà" (Ricchi & Poveri Docet) but this desolate purgatory advocated by the Trois hallucin(n)ating Flying-Suisserlanders (not only the Dutch fly) represents one of the most chilling and simultaneously fascinating sound-totems I have encountered from the deep space in the last seven-and-some decades of (bucolic) lived life.

It will be (finally) that they could (also) be De-Friends of the (Beautiful?)[Madamoiselle?]Kosmella? If that will be the case (I know: it needed to be "fosse": how do I keep You awake otherwise?) they will obligatorily also become "My Friends" (Act IV or Fifth: You Decide).

 
*Tomas Korber - guitar/electronics; Christian Wolfhart - percussion; Christian Weber - double bass