Nervous Gender
Music From Hell

I am a bit of a freeloader. In this life, I sense the imminence of an end of the world, something that didn't even cross my mind in other lives. I take advantage of this and replace my millennia-long hyperactivity with total indolence: in other words, I don't feel like doing a damn thing, and I really bank on it. I love my boredom and I live off ancient memories, constantly refining the arrogance of superiority I used to show. I'm no longer interested in competing. I regress into stillness to grow, and between scratching my balls and further procrastination, I'm surprised when, in a state of empty apnea, I manage to recover the volume of work I'm capable of producing, and with wonder, I realize I've achieved the goal. But then I ask myself: was it really me who did that stuff? Is it necessary? Without an answer, I return to my cherished idleness as soon as possible. Subtracting to acquire.

Parasitic on myself, I float on my ancient glories, sucking up as much interest as possible accumulated over hundreds of years. Cleverly ecological, I comfortably claim that all this fuss is worthless, adopting the maxim: "If Muhammad does not go to the mountain, the mountain goes to Muhammad." And if the mountain doesn’t come, I don't pull my hair out; rather, I couldn't care less, so much so that I have the strength not to open if it were to show up screaming (me): "Didn't you see the sign outside the door? Do not disturb! Damn!"

And that's where Nervous Gender comes in, and as I like it, they send you to hell one-way only and sanctify this expectation of the Last Judgment as a soundtrack. It all fits, the Californian ensemble unleashes the anti-matter abyss. The short circuit of this black hole is exemplary. Every handhold is denied, and the hand they offer us is repulsive. The Supreme won’t be magnanimous or accommodating; when our turn comes, He'll bluntly ask: "...so tell me, what the hell have you consciously done in your life? Come on, come on, let me understand if you got something this round. I’ve asked you the question of choice, come on, make me laugh." And He'll do it with this music as background. Only a gravedigger dressing the dead or a vaudeville actor from Ambra Jovinelli could calmly face listening to it... and certain creaks that only corpses know how to produce are found in the pieces offered, like the refined sounds that the unfortunate comedian received from the audience. Whiffs of breaths on the brink of putrefaction, yours.

The total revolt is commendable as immediate production. I am sadistic with myself about my cynicism, and this work perfectly fits the destruction of good intentions that attempt a goodwill in me that I do not possess: austere and compassionate, I walk straight to combat temptations of holiness that make both myself and reality vomit. A dialogue from a film comes to my aid where the infamous protagonist pretends to be a French student at an American university and, chastised by the janitor for smoking, replies: "But I've been here for three hours smoking... You can't smoke here! Merd! I don’t understand, sir. But how don't you understand... Merd is merd!"

Precisely, this by Nervous Gender is the right shit that gives us a key to access those truths we try to avoid but are there. Make no mistake, life is not all roses and flowers, and while most people do whatever it takes to avoid tension-filled situations, Nervous Gender are there to create them. Since 1980, the "nervous" crisis is guaranteed. Even the unpleasantness of foot odor is part of life; it's up to us to welcome everything with open arms and, like good alchemists, transform "everything" into gold. "Fucking normal people come to our concert, and we'll throw your bones into the cauldron of your lies! Let's make a nice broth..."

On the first side, the "martyr complex," the music literally manifests the meat grinder and suffocation where we are crammed, the disgrace of our condition appears hysterical: yellow bile synth-punk. The second side is a bit more ceremonious while staying tense, reincarnating as Beelzebub Youth, the rush to persuasion becomes more subtle and alienating, and as hidden devastation, it satisfies the canons of punishment, transitioning to black vomit atmospheres. An esoteric praise arises from seeing real chaos manifested: splatters of spoiled aborted fetuses demonstrating the real Merry Christmas! The confusedly sophisticated shit smears our façade, but it's still shit, and there's nothing we can do but accept it as acceptance of existence itself.

Individualist anarchists unleashing unprecedented nihilistic violence that manifests from within as if they had discovered those pieces of shit of parasitic astral entities inside them and sought a first fierce battle to drive them out by breaking flesh-made mirrors. The strident materiality of the sounds is tangible. The purity of the child on drums acts as a psychic shield against the induced thought attack. The singer’s "voice" misleads the possessions by confusing assumptions. The keyboards’ dissimulation diverts negative energies, birthing the screech of deceit and reproducing it amplified: fear is defeated with a scream that scares it. Hell's soldiers reveal themselves as an outpost against the occult invasion. The front line doesn’t retreat an inch, opposing a black transparency that nullifies perdition's advance, defeating it on the very field of damnation.

They remain on stage, alone, filthy yet redeemed, and that ugly light they emit is just the dress. The twilight of dawn illuminates the arrival: proud wretches share with us an area that, willing or not, we will have to visit sooner or later. A "special" holiday that requires special sunglasses where the darkness is blinding. Torture is guaranteed. Best wishes and may you have sons!