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Rating:
The first thing that comes to mind, looking at the cover of this album along with the slimy vibe it musically emanates, is the hoax of the 1984 discovery of three sculptures by Modigliani in the canals of Livorno.
Certified as authentic by eminent art professors, they were actually created on the spot by three university students (one) and a local artist (two). These pranksters blew the lid off a sensationalism of exceptionalism based on a "wait and hope" of vacation art from the 1900s, institutionally supported to scrape the bottom of the barrel, to continue at all costs the perseverance of bringing home the "bread" without a hitch, with a "cross my heart" that those heads were authentic, staunchly defended by the certified "intelligentia" even after the public debunking by the goliardic Amedeo imitators: the masks were fake.
The prank highlighted how people’s beliefs could be influenced through media hypnosis, old and familiar stories that unfortunately continue to function spectacularly to this day.
The album, however, is no joke, and throughout its duration "the King is naked," and its funerary masks best authenticate what the music uncovers about the psychic whisperers who deceive our lives, instilling thoughts that are not ours, leading us away from the straight path and making us believe in blatant counterfeits as opposed to the original, meaning the work of art that we all are, hidden by complacent egoic falsehoods.
Label Subterranean Records, meaning true underground guaranteed, that with a deadly sweep made catalog is dynamic and masked by a murky yet attractive sound in its fluid quicksands, where California is the sandpaper that scrapes away the hopes of a salvation we find convenient to believe comes from manifesting good feelings on the surface, but which in fact only feeds duality.
There is no danger of encountering counterfeits in this musical journey where, "from San Francisco," the factotum Patrick Miller guides us (in 1981) dryly into a curious and dangerous journey at the same time, as the hidden backhand strikes suddenly later, with an effective mix of experimental dark industrial post-punk.
The paralysis of turning the other cheek is the only passport to open up to those unacceptable visions, where one realizes the presence of an unknown horrific communication, where ghosts have no sheets, where vampires do not suck blood, where monsters are kind and good-looking but still give you a stomachache.
The whole is thus seasoned with a vividly aseptic atmosphere, of a bright white, keeping us on the "who goes there" of a transversal approach to the reality that surrounds us, not using the mirror's reflection, where we play off sparks that uncover the deceptions that surround us and try to temper us in sudden temperature changes that train us to uncomfortable and accelerated friction of some invisible shred that surrounds us.
What guts do you have to try and see and touch?
Tracklist
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