Post Contemporary Corporation
Patriottismo Psichedelico

- Wartime propaganda (anabiosis) Greetings from the People's Republic of China -
Know yourselves, be infertile and let the earth remain silent after you. (Zapffe)
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Gotico Padano ist Haus der Dunkelheit. The North is stern, dark, grim, sinister.
The allegory of ascetic life is the allegory of a clerk’s life.
The acute sadness extracted from Canti Orfici by Dino Campana:
O Satan, who place the night whores at the crossways, o you, who show the infamous corpse from the shadows, o Satan have mercy on my long misery, along the day of a neurasthenic.

Valerio Zecchini defines himself as a right-wing radical chic or a fascist with red lace underwear. Most likely he is none of the two, choosing a third, fourth, fifth way and so on, so as to anger everyone from the left, center, and right, and making them all go crazy is for him an ethical, aesthetic, and disciplined duty. He sits on the side of the wrong and like a zdaura tries to cook them all, at least those who will have the audacity to listen to or read him. Mister Android of the Year, well-known sex symbol of fetish and bionic bomber who loves accompanying himself with strolling ducks, Zecchini lashes out against the gods’ muteness and human indifference, and hears the trembling and panting sigh of accountants in May. He senses the libidinous ardor of regional councilors who, with a profound sense of hierarchy, take a run-up to sodomize municipal councilors who in turn screw over provincial councilors and also neighborhood ones, reinforcing the ideal of the trinity, god, homeland, family. Yet Zecchini keeps wondering why the foul breath of the moralists keeps pestering the bedrooms of the popular neighborhoods.
Zecchini is troubled by the Nostalgia unghiuta di Kuala Lumpur, and even pilgrimages to Bayreuth do not console him. Not even in a Palingenesi Tardiva. Valerio Zecchini is the leader of Post Contemporary Corporation, and passionately writes: Heimat, mein Herz, mein Geist, das Fest der Lebenden, das Fest der Toten.

Patriottismo Psichedelico is the second chapter in terms of album concord that has been guiding for over two decades, following an eighteen-year hiatus after the 2006 debut Gerarchia Ordine Disciplina. The coming of age for the second work testifies to significantly divergent sound qualities compared to the debut, a new meditative sense of measure overlaps with the cognitive overabundance and production hypertrophy of that past episode. The affinities lie in the revival of that already manifest explosive attitude, which continues not to be disarmed by elite provocations but is equipped with a purified and sophisticated need for reaction, perpetuated along their still arduous communication routes and their degenerate art. The attacks from the sky and the ground of the first album perch on a roost and assume a seasoned sniper mysticism. Zecchini, as always, appropriates the street mythology of the Velvet Underground, transvestites, whores, transgender, and moves it to old Europe, because Europe remains inexorably old despite the cyber-technological and technocratic dress it tries to slip off, up to the Philippines, even through video channels and image aesthetics of artificial intelligence, hypnagogic and chill wave. Like GOD, Patriottismo Psichedelico is a listening experience that resembles an allergy test. Refined in musical forms, desolate and shielded from the sun and protected from rain, it presents itself as something that somewhere might be seen as becoming the folk of revelation, because today’s European Neofolk is certainly not acoustic strings in bucolic environments, but classical, industrial, chamber, erudite, avant-garde music amidst machinery, cement, synthesis, and metals, akin to when Luigi Nono brought experimental tapes to the forefront among workers, challenging the intellectuals born of abundance who argued that people couldn’t understand. And if fate is against us, too bad for it! And being whole in the fragment.

Despite the title of the work, this would be an album to listen to perfectly lucidly, in the early morning when looking through the windows of the great cities or small localities of the same old Europe life and its productive activities are just restarting, in a city awakening of Russoliana memory. Numerous are, however, the references to the musical scenarios and certain writing solutions of the first album from which clear revivals of Profilo Impassibile, Onnagata, Streetwise, Corporate America, Wake Up and Dance, Madre de Dios are evidenced. Bob Marley was a bad person and here he is killed in the proclamation. Apparent seem to be inspirations traceable to realities like Konstruktivists and Splatterpink. Patriottismo Psichedelico is in its unfolding an industrial reading of the dolor of Estremo Settentrione and of Teutonic poetry with Bologna-inflected sandwich roll rotacisms from the Via Emilia, conducted by an anchorite on the banks of the Rhine, aided by electric textures of acute physical pain, accompanied by intolerable piercings of existential and spiritual suffering, intense, lacerating, harrowing, terrible, those of the discomfort of Dario Parisini, whose artistic apparatus remains a war machine, one who never cared to become a transmitter, which is what society makes through education, one, who as an Italian with a normal Catholic background, had an innate sense of the tragic and gloom, an artist touched by grim and sinister grace, who trembled, for private reasons, in front of the post-human works of Gunther Von Hagens, and who now rests in war and cursed abandonment and isolation here, in the time of pneumatic darkness.

Patriottismo Psichedelico shatters with a grin the illusion of anesthetic peace by making one appreciate the joys and glories of conflict and a raw truth, from the 1952 Scelba Law to Albert Speer from Spandau, from Primo Carnera Italian pride to Francesca Mambro national nightmare, from chevaux de frise to barbed wire, from crime news to pornography, whose border is weak, from the financial dominance over the real economy to the twenty-year period, whose reference is evidently anything but celebratory, from black as a color that retains light to gas masks. Scenes of aberrant daily life, that everyday taken as absolutely normal, are staged, a revenge against the banality of existence in a consumer society that does not, cannot, and does not want to provide answers to spiritual needs, and which is indeed capable of convincing that these needs do not exist at all, a disaster underway, the West spiritually degraded to a bestial condition, a Black Flame that is nothing more than waking up in a bad dream.
Every era, unequivocally, has the Holocaust it deserves.
Where Gerarchia Ordine Disciplina was a panzerfaust, a weapon that fires a single shot, but devastating, Patriottismo Psichedelico assembles things even distant from each other to produce renewed meanings that nonetheless, as in the first coming, have nothing conciliatory about them. Post Contemporary Corporation now showcases an aerial and sidereal after-punk nature, yet equally dimmed by a disturbing angst neue deutsche welle and Patriottismo Psichedelico is a state of mind in a foggy nowhere in winter and anything but identity. A score that is likely the sonorization of a funeral, the end of times, an exhibition of fragility and at the same time a fundamental fragment of European eternity.

PCC • Bold and tumultuous like white hawks in the middle of the black forest:

<<Brother of darkness, ally of pain, and solitary.
The medical record was clear: you are sick,
the oracle of Delphi has declared: you do not know yourself at all!
Therefore, you can do nothing but exile yourself loaded with your shames in a solitary cell on Mount Athos.
There you may become intimate with your neglected demons and finally be reborn.

While dusty and heavy volumes lay motionless on remote shelves,
from time immemorial the most prestigious intellectuals of the nation
screwed each other. In turn. Distractedly and unwillingly.
The children perpetuate the race for status symbols. They go, they come, they stir but seem irredeemably mute. Without a target and deeply aware that every possession is a chain, they wander in the fog.

Putrescent masses, ignoble flatulent rabble, vile paupers, miserable rabble,
foul folk, be proud of your privileged condition exempt from censorship.
Thus ended a life spent fighting against other greedy naives. And no one, no one dares challenge the customs and guardians of customs, conforming to the norm does not console, pause on your pain and scrutinize it carefully and go! Sleep long and dream! Exhausted Westerners.

Abandon every possession and become like the wind.
To achieve power you must first visit the opposites and explore the peaks and the abysses, then conquer the essence. If you want to be everything, you must not try to become something. Kill yourself! And be reborn shining!
Europe, pale decaying mother, drunk with algebraic fluidity, with animistic tactilism.
Sets like this, respectable and shameless, the obscene west.

Brother of darkness. I just want to sleep without any thought on this crystal night, but the angels scream resurrecting the dilemmas. Why is there a divine archive that contains all memories, and every day that drags like a wounded animal to its extinction then adds to the cosmic repository of time?
The skyscrapers stand out on the horizon, perfect towers that read the will of the gods.
Oh, how I regret the mystic solitude of life in the skyscrapers. Monster Zen>>

Society in mutation and reduced to a corporation like today's western society which no longer has any religious-spiritual foundation cannot endure long. No human pity.
Only, should it wish to continue to exist, a dire and desperate need for a newfound or renewed instinct for real solidarity. A stretch of crosses, snow, and ice on the inside, Gothic is the Bureaucracy:

<<United, we shall withstand this wave of cheap exoticism
Together we shall satisfy our most vile taxidermic inclinations
And solemnly I promise you that till the end your mouth shall be my toilet and my bidet
And then I swear the last kiss we shall share at the district office of indirect taxes>>

Valerio Zecchini, Dario Parisini, Luca Oleastri, Roberto Passuti, Giulio Sangirardi,
Antonello Manzo, Lisa P. Duse, Christian Ryder, Carlo Marrone, Reg Rog Oig, Othi.
Brüder Des Schattens - Söhne Des Lichts. Post Contemporary Corporation, 2024.