MU
Out Of Breach (Manchester's Revenge)

Mutsumi, a Japanese witch catapulted into an infernal dancefloor that has nothing danceable, destroyed and reassembled by the hands of her husband Maurice Fulton, a cult producer and musician, prances like a madwoman between tracks of this "Out Of Breach": an indefinable album, even unmanageable and bastardly. Because Mu, who emulates Lydia Lunch's theatricality without quoting her, lets herself go in spasms among the beats, among the carnal beats, erotic, perverse, and sexual that flow like molten lava.
Anyone listening is screwed: no possible recovery, no coming back from the coma, no heartbeat. What flows can either be a masterpiece of acid funk or a colossal mockery, but it doesn't matter.

You have to get into the mood. You have to hold a bouquet of roses in your hand and let go. Flow. Vibrate. Because this isn't music, it's uncut drugs, it's psychopathic epilepsy, graceless sensuality, vomit under formaldehyde.

Everything but music: it is a delirium. An uncontrolled delirium that grabs you and won't let go. The most frustrating thing is not knowing if you like this masochism or not: from a splinter like "Haters", which flows into a title track almost drum 'n' bass, but strays from the genre like few other tracks, dissolving into a long tail of pulsating beats, through a single deliberately trash, but also irreparably bombastic like "Paris Hilton".

When a piece like "Stop Bothering Michael Jackson" comes around, you find yourself in the middle of an earthquake: a track that already anticipates the emulation of You Love Her Coz She's Dead, who will arrive years later, and spits in their face: because the singer's destructive anger disintegrates with parts of pure spoken somnolence, running fearlessly on a sound carpet that isn't afraid to mix animalistic rhythms, acid-funk raids, and piano chimes.
"Tigerbastard", no less anarchic, is a possible sexual embrace between a Siouxsie in overdose and the New Order, soaking in new wave to ejaculate a lopsided "Gioca Jouer" of the underground.

However, truly devastating is the extraordinary tour de force of "We Love Guys Named Luke": a mouse chase that unfolds amidst chases of otherworldly sounds, screams from space, and so much, so much schizophrenia, which, unexpectedly, tinges with post-rock. "Throwing Up", an ode to post-binge vomiting, sounds just like its text: it is a delirium with dizziness that collapses alone on tiptoe, traveling drunk like someone about to faint and evacuate their soul.

"So Weak People" is a foolish piece that wants to be Balearic swing but joyfully becomes an insult to the listener, who wanted to immerse themselves more and more into the sonic delirium, oblivious that this is precisely the most delirious piece of the lot, together with an indefinable robotic journey in the kitsch-vocoder of "I'm Coming To Get You", an ideal feminist parody of Daft Punk.

"Like A Little Bitch" is a bomb of j-pop 8-bit of the worst trash: a nursery rhyme for sociopathic children, laying the foundations for the concluding "Extreme", which tears and defaces the disco sounds of the '70s, forcibly marrying them with the jungle.

It's the end, and you don't know what the hell you listened to. You don't know if you liked it or not. You don't know if you want to dive back in or throw the CD out the window.
You only know that you had fun, finding yourself as dumbfounded and disoriented as a prude who took the wrong direction and, instead of ending up in Santiago De Compostela, finds themselves catapulted into Berlin's dirtiest nightclub.

That's amore.