•
Rating: In 2003, when I believed that existence depended on a pair of jeans precisely ripped with surgical precision, aimed at attracting attention towards myself, I rejected everything that didn't involve a valve cone (maximum... 2) and four expired beers placed atop the cask, awaiting the tremors birthed by the contraption in question, which I barely understood would have anything to do with my limited future as an aspiring seller of enterogermina or hair spray for balding scalps.
The fact is that when you cross a certain threshold of interest in "music," the communicative massification urges you to find what truly is "the sound 'that best fits you'". And it is here that (if it truly exists) lies the trick. Believing that Pankow wanted or expected me, or anyone on my behalf, to think that they thought I thought they were 100% German, meant nothing. The humble discourse that I am about to recite can only come close to what many would want to read here, namely a review. Here I am then: this album is the exact voice of castration. Voice, heart, and breath, in every glimmer, in sadicity born of a nocturnal metropolitan father, taking shape in each of the industrial districts of this globe, as an extremely anxious sun sets in anticipation.
Stannous-chromatic electrical discharges, traverse industrial quantities along highways of social emptiness, sterile practice of what many name as "discourse." Around here, obscene air abounds, possibly subject to deliberately inductive marching and steering towards cybernetic opinionisms, extremely shabby, indiscriminately acidic. It leaves one puzzled, truly, when learning that the aforementioned album belongs to 1997, a year that saw the producing of techno-philo-nine inch nailsian flops, which is hard to believe when subjecting eardrum and ossicles to listening. Pankow (very Italian, by three-quarters) are the embodiment of what few could imagine categorizing: orderly and filo-metric like the Kraftwerk, of whom they represent a deviant follower, romantically acidic and abrasive in corroding what little melodic element of the aforementioned Kraftwerk can be faintly heard in their compositions, and finally, so decadent, so damn nonconformist, even in the mere mode of production.
A mirror, two, three in fragments of ruthlessly oxidized zinc by cutting vocals in their deep and baritonal clarity. Oxy-hydrogen flames of indefinable calibration looking more and more like synthesizers than anything else, I believe, will succeed in opposing you to the very purpose which invariably sees one crying, with nostalgia for something that is no longer. Leaving Trent Reznor behind, along with his related children and/or lovers, stop: if you have the means, I beg you, do it, at least out of respect for the little good that bands like this have been able to testify with passion, self-criticism, and foresight among them all, really stop. Listen, "inoculate" what Afterhours and Verdena would like to achieve in their recordings, and which they seek unequivocally abroad, selling out in English, without even attempting the beginning of an erection, let alone achieving a result.
If we owe something to those who dared to go beyond the coldness of European industrial, even further to infect the faint Italian scene, even more so in comparison to Europe itself, among these Pankow deserve laudable intercessions. Be merciful, if you can, form an opinion, especially regarding this album.
Loading comments slowly
