pg.99
Document #7

Exhibit the next artifact. Document number 7 of 14. The crossroads halfway, nestled between #5 and #8, the fundamental pieces to dissect the soul of pg.99. Who were pg.99? Perhaps the simplest question is to ask what they were. An alienating project trapped within claustrophobic enclosures to vent their sufferings without any embellishment. Layer after layer of an eviscerating and tremendous sound, unraveling in madness without rigid structure, moves tentacularly in every direction, searching for nourishment, in which the sinister glimpses born musically can strengthen and increase, until it becomes exacerbating. I could name names, but that would be of little interest in a case like this; they were friends, acquaintances sharing a certain nihilistic vision and a raging view of the world, to throw down into the chaos of primordial screamo.

The edginess in this EP (or LP? Boh, it's never been clear, but it doesn't matter) is coldly calculated, as perhaps never before in the dusty vortex of the minds of the band from Sterling, Virginia. It is a slow, yet crushing incision that doesn't shy away from displaying the schizophrenic aspect, which emerges with lethal punctuality, liberating itself in dense and pounding hardcore torments. Alongside this, an atmosphere laden with anguish rises, with dissonances that gradually intertwine and expand those long, chilling screams that have always accompanied the music of pg.99. It only takes a faint gurgle of water flowing coldly along "The Mangled Hand" to further plunge the sound into a stifling oblivion. It's the pain that insinuates itself into the guitar screeches, first abandoning itself among malicious laughter and then in a viscous lava of decadent melodies, much like living in a skeleton of memories and faded realities. It's a feast of atrocities in which our people participate, indeed, they are the creators, sketching unhealthy sounds that have little of the liberating, given their ability to bury what little relief there is in a wall that collapses inexorably under the pointed blows of rough rhythms. They sit there and gradually chip away and crack every certainty, making everything tumble, revealing a fragility that responds hysterically, further intensifying the relentless grip.

There's not much else to add about "Document #7" released, incidentally, in the same year as the most complete and delirious expression of pg.99. It's just one of the many facets that make up the complex personality expressed in a career dedicated not only to total DIY, but almost to anonymity, precisely to symbolize that it was exclusively the music that spoke for them, nothing else, not the individual members, but rather this micro-cosmos, yes, let's call it that, which was created back in 1997, where even though it appeared dysfunctional, it constituted an agglomerate that constantly, release after release, tried to overcome the limits they set for themselves. One could turn the page endlessly, the years pass mercilessly, everything decays, corrodes, and is destined to vanish, but one of the most tangible and indelible marks that resists change will always be signed by the word pageninetynine. Long live them.