Moin
Belly Up

According to Lina, track four evokes “a slow return to the body after a panic attack,” but to me it sounds more like the useless mantra of a man reduced to a thing or, if you prefer, an attempt at escape with no way out. We’re in the realm of the darkest and most experimental post-punk: a mathematical quid, rhythmic obsession, the presence of ghosts, a flair for bizarre ideas. Add to that vocals that are eccentric at the very least and a fine saxophone on page twenty. But, in the end, amid this mix of science and madness, what really wins you over is the philosophical clown—that very peculiar kind of hero capable of turning idiocy into intelligence. He appears on page six and, over some bizarre music, says things even stranger. All that’s left for us is to thank him, hoping perhaps to meet him, not just on a thin twenty-minute disk, but also in the bar downstairs. It’s nice, every so often, to have a chat with someone.