Party Boys
Daddyland

Here, there's no one left for anyone, at least for me. The highest quality of products from the little-known Californian trance scene of the '80s with two or three works reaches impossible heights, and the record in question fits into this podium and my personal trilogy of sound wonders of all time. Released in 1987 as the first product for Nate Starkman & Son, a label we will see release Red Temple Spirits the following year, and it takes us straight onto this stagecoach that transports us into a psychowestern.

There was immediate chemistry between us. The embarrassing cover (and back) reflects the question of where we are getting into, and in the end, we will find plausible the clear coherence of muttering: "The Elephant Is In Red!" repeated to exhaustion. But the mystified delirium does not end here; in truth, it does not even begin, the alteration has persisted since time immemorial. The Party Boys intervene at parties where the unconscious intent in the act creates side effects that push the user to open their personal asylums. Abandoning squeamishness, shamelessly cheeky, they propose to play everywhere to spread a sparse and scathing sonic advance. They do not care to sacrifice the goodwill of others; instead, they wield the need to communicate parallel visions that accompany us in invisibility. The impact reveals a perplexity about behaviors implemented by external influences. The impact is exhilarating as if replacing toilet paper with sandpaper.

Trogolodyte rock, scrapped country, exhausted blues, drowned surf. A pioneering sound as if to say: "How hard did we break our *** to get to this *** California." Regal primitivism, caverns of being that earn oblivion from slipping. Flying carpets replaced by riddled carriages. The percussion brings us back to the infinite past, the singer reminds us that the insane asylums have been open since the '70s but that the practice of electroshock is unyielding, the guitars weave noise generating a trance carpet that spares you from consuming any improper substance, on bass we find Marnie Weber, the Alice of the underground in a Los Angeles of never-ending nights.

Wonder for our hallucinations is the genuine impact that conceals an opening to profound deliriums where decisive tidal waves induce essential nausea to discover some carrion within us. Here the currency of exchange is raving. The singer's schizoid pantomime inaugurates a new dance floor, with used Christmas sweaters for "live" performances, an alienating dance hall: "And let’s tango!" Dancing on the razor's edge of a ground-floor abyss, everyone is invited. All instruments are ready for harsh and invisible drumming. The two percussionists beat the drums rigorously and gloriously erect.

On the second side, psychically splattered vomiting reaches definitive levels of agitating bewilderment, no longer attainable. In the final mini-suite, we find the frontman in deliquium reiterating the trance obsession "In Daddyland," causing us a vacuous indisposition; we slightly open the window for lack of oxygen but at the same time yearn for concealment... The warming up of the first side is already exhausting, the pieces follow amalgamating unknown yet verifiable expectations: my name is Nora, "spoonfuls" "underground," elephants are red... But I repeat, it's the B side that delivers the definitive blow marking a paroxysmal hypnotic look that passes us from the frying pan into the fire of sensory alterations. It's a decadent growth, this B side, dragged guitar riffs, after a while the drums start and don’t let go, the singer delivers the final blow: in the "land of dad" your shivers begin and they will not stop.

The states of hallucination race each other, elevating the reiteration in the red zone of overrunning. The engine has the strength to teleport us to altered lands that throw out the pus saving us from a deceptively harmonic gangrene. Caustic like liquid nitrogen, they burn the last misleading melodic warts, detoxified from the metallic residues of rational vaccines, we can inaugurate our season in the sun of the lucid departure of the cue ball.

As is normal what we believe is normal, detachment in normality is also normal. The indoctrination into the lies of the external environment is broken by sudden openings whose flashes disintegrate induced daze and invite a conscious indigence necessary for disappearance. Three-four listens and when the whole shebang opens, you will witness wonders... Shrieks from the loss of sanity are admitted, and if they do not arise, know that you are robots. Our hypnotists will say when we can regain our matrixified faculties: "you will wake when I say so, when I say so"...

In their own way they love us, they will not tell us. Fly, fly, fly...