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What have you won? What DID you win? (engraved on the vinyl).
Bizarre, unexpected, revealing that miserable part of ourselves that we never want to see but which ultimately forms the basis of our existence. The annoyance and antipathy of the unforeseen, the mirror of our whim, the unmasking of the race to be refined that clashes with acknowledging our mediocrity, the voicing of our personal hells, made all the more negative as they are induced solely by external influences that preclude us from developing our personal legend.
And Peter Catham is there playing the jester, demonstrating the reality of the possessions that command us, communicating them through an irritating alarm, playing the trick of creating a soundtrack of the chaos we are immersed in, the hollow sounds surrounding us that we falsely mistake for grand symphonies. Exposed, each of our egos speaks only to the body and the pursuit of material pleasures, the sound architectures uncover the noise of induced thoughts, the jester heavily mocks everyone with his forays into non-thought that, through the blatant symbolism of the "mouth of a man," aim to instill glimpses of pure truth through the noise of logos. A mockery to have some hope of understanding, something that if done directly could only provoke absolute rejection: man always recognizes truth but in almost all cases is not ready to accept it.
Our author, already from 1987, the release date of the self-produced (how else could it be) record, preempts the identity crisis caused by the commercialization of everything, seeking with his music, drops of an invisible psychic antidote that with his explosive trance tries to counteract the black hole where the human being is increasingly ground. The coherence of the musical project is disarming and places the performance as one of the most stimulating works of that more "eclectic" branch of the 80s California trance scene (Cold Blue Records, Brent Wilcox, John Trubee, Carl Stone).
The "songs" result in crazy sketches, confessions on the brink of disintegration, moods where due to a lack of any prospect they bounce off a wall of desolation, stroboscopic collages where an unheard echo zigzags infinitely. Lucidly, the whole record is cloaked with a clownish horror film but anxiously impersonal, nullifying any association.
For the Sovereign, the presence of the jester is fundamental, with the constant noise from the bells of his cap continuously reminding that "the King is naked!" And on this, Catham with his grimace, on the cover and inside the music, fulfills the indigestible proposal of those who can do nothing but roam, as a pure juggler dressed in green and red, "open-mouthed" holding a mask depicting his (?) face: the "musical abortion" generates a mirror against mirror.
Conscious delusions, for strong stomachs.
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