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Rating: Tall, lanky, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, leather tie, slicked-back hair, sunglasses when needed, perpetually with a cigarette in hand, the prototype of the metropolitan poet. But this label has always made me wrinkle my nose, there's much more here than a ghettoizing classification.
The scene is California, the focus is Los Angeles, late '70s early '80s: I've always thought that those born in Rome, myself for example, were born with a broken anal sphincter. For those born in the "Golden State" it's cubed. The strong energy of the place requires this caution from destiny, the awareness of this thing spares karmic debts. The same awareness by Randall Kennedy tells us that even cherubs are already shattered. Even more so because Los Angeles was the last pioneering stronghold, the native is the pioneer par excellence: many things happen before you get to where the desert meets the sea.
"Swollen brain - the snail continues removing personality. Complacent fatigue - which drug loses the clash of meaning with shades. Structure - devouring the whole being, spitting out waste. Fracture - bleating fascinated liberating, hurling jets of outrage. To provoke a resurrection from the ruins" (A Rise From The Ruins).
Having this "friction" mechanically spared, the vibration acquired from birth psychically ignites the perineum, triggering kundalini that rises to the pineal. And so our Pharaoh of a Kennedy, with the hiss starting from his forehead, can meticulously explore the invisible that surrounds him. The work is part of a series of cassettes released for Trance Port Tapes in the early '80s, shining, irreplicable prodromes of that Californian trance scene that would become more accessible in the latter part of the decade.
If you're looking for the purity of the abstract underground here, you'll be satisfied; few works meet this need. Untainted, Randall proceeds in his communicative translation as if he had always been there. Eccentric visions of events for the norm (which (E)norm?) commonly considered bizarre take shape with Sadean reminiscences, millennial nonsense, grotesquely amplified situations, inconceivable but believable absurdities, emotions from those who are no longer satisfied with the visible realism.
"We knew about the morning, hoarding oxygen supplies. Tiny lights create crazy designs with the drapes. Hung from the windowsills with tears covered by yellowed curtains... just step aside, let me show you how it's made. Don't be afraid, don't scream in the dark, don't look away" (Smith's Room).
There is no instinct for preservation, only conscious shipwrecks that never miss the appointment with the "ruins," yet monetizing credits for the Afterlife. We could all be eunuch bodyguards of "Enorma Jones" (a track from the work) in the Italian villa, so be careful about balls around here: "... mixing bourbon, alcohol, cocaine, and quaalude in a final ritual cocktail. She always knew he was an arrogant bastard... the terrible Enorma Jones bought a villa in Italy, ten pounds of cocaine, and eighteen castrates. The happy ending makes up for everything" (Enorma Jones).
The music proceeds in step, the solutions are so unexpected that they fit into every synapse. A detached tramp-like enunciates the dragging of the human. Spoken word and music are indivisible, the hypnotic level is reached through trance reiterations, once using funky as an excuse, other times hallucinatory atmospheres, cool jazz, experimentation, abstract, and the collaboration of Mark Nine (do you remember my review of Ministry of Love?) who with his guitar digs tunnels that take you further into the depths of unspeakable secrets of silence. The readability is apparently apparent, but after a few listens one understands that the doors to transcendent visions are opened. The ray of Randall's raw poetry probes the bass, the fundamental passkey to access the high.
"Grace creates criminals, grace in the weekend's penitence, grace in church, grace does not forgive at all... wasted priests organize exhibitions of heroin tracks... Indecent desires in old dens... fetid hospital, I am underground, no air, only that of a fetid hospital. People pass by and no one has a face." (Graceview Trace).
The atmosphere made vision is Ornella Muti who, in "Storie di ordinaria follia" by Marco Ferreri, pierces a large safety pin from cheek to cheek and closes it without a whimper... Just as she looks at us totemically, so does Randall, in search of an evanescence that could support this new reincarnation. We are all children of God...
"One must sit next to the leper. I will remain like a child in this oasis. Dirty and in peace the leper offers nourishment, a palm wine. My companion warns me not to bring this cup to my lips. Not accepting is a mistake. The libation is dark, shadowy as my neighbor, it's all good. The sages of the night of time applaud in silent understanding." (Dream 3).
It's all good...
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