Rebecca Black
Friday

Thirteen-year-olds can only be understood in their natural environment (quote).

Those moments come. You wake up and see a beautiful sunrise and stand there stunned for a few seconds, but then that bastard Morpheus reclaims you among the sheets and you fall into an alcoholic coma: another Friday night has passed. The effects of the alcohol and euphoria are still very palpable, as is the absence of any start to the day, still nothing. This time you have to wake up. A cup of cereal. Or maybe not. Cigarette lit.
Wandering through the corridors of your apartment with the ocular blinds half-closed. Tripping over everything. Patapum. Patapà. And then Rebecca Black arrives, you don't even know why. But she is everywhere. An ugly thirteen-year-old like your neighbor, as charming as an empty refrigerator and as in tune as Gemma Del Sud sodomized by John Zorn twenty kilometers away. Her music? Pure shit. The worst thing you could listen to. Something that makes you miss the androgynous/androgenic Aqua. An unfillable void that initially makes you even bow down at the feet of Lady Gaga and all that unlistenable pop trash going around these days. Well. Manna from heaven. 

Then. Maybe it's the Friday (Saturday?) night alcoholism. Maybe because she is so mean and victimized that it weakens you. You start tripping. And it immediately becomes a symphony, with that frantic rhythmic processing of the percussions, avant-garde rhythms, cut & paste à la Warp. Aphex Twin in the background crying valleys of tears. And then her voice becomes Diamanda Galás and a brilliant text.

Friday. Friday. Friday

Apocalyptic deconstruction of language, mass nihilism collapsing and emptying of all human meaning. A text on which you could write encyclopedias of stuff, that you could shout in the middle of a deserted field, or in one of those TV talk shows, which are no more chic. Quite. And then off you go. To discuss it with the intellectual friend, who devours Herman Hesse and Pasolini, who only listens to Laura Veirs and doesn't disdain Nietzsche. And the video. The crazy life of teenagers, their generational malaise. The hyper-saturated colors of a morning trip.

And then Party. Party. Party. 

Sonic deconstruction à la Pan Sonic. Autechre in the background. Hypnotic symphonies in the shade. Four minutes that encompass the art of half a century and carry it away, towards the horizon. Far. Where my gaze becomes sunset. Where Aphex Twin immerses in his own tears and I am moved. The cereal cup is empty and I have discovered the unknown.

Or maybe not. Fucking shit.

Back to sleep.