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Rating: The pain in the ass of the character of the angels who protect us here can be heard. It is a trade union that directly ferries into our sphincter all the crap we invent, when we are incarnated, to try to escape from facing the eternity in front (and behind) us, and which we, with incredible somersaults of lies and pursuits of petty vices, believe to divert the view, trying to evade the horror vacui that sooner or later, after so many little shits, we will have to befriend to calm millennial intestinal cloaks.
The labyrinthine echo, the everlasting roar, the continuous screeching, the ear-piercing highs, echoes bouncing off black holes, the mirror against mirror that makes you believe in infinity, all these things are shattered by the "grattratempo" ensemble, which reveals itself obscene in its divine loop of archaeologically seeking that "in the beginning was the Word" with a sacred live performance in four movements, which are not the four seasons of Vivaldi, thank God, but a tribute to the French-Greek composer Iannis Xenakis.
And thus the invitation to the immediate is cheeky in its explicit stance as a divine shock that allows the most yielding audience, therefore the most resistant, to attend the unexpected, therefore the truth.
The trick of throwing it into chaos of extreme amplification catches out the sneaky pseudointellectuals caught in covering their ears, when instead the definitive "noise" of the turbo-pumped nine instruments, absurdly relocates us into microscopic zones where we have the fortune to smell our micro shits, which also exist, and it enlightens us that opening the door to this contemporary (chamber music) room opens up an alien sound architecture that teleports us into an enormous vault of an infinite construction of faith devoid of connotations, in the intensity of the atemporal sound mass set up, following strictly an invisible absolute harmony.
The "unbearable" density of the deliberately fierce clamour allows us to taste a material quality that dismays the range of action of our "will to power" and makes us lower the crest of our ego, ridiculing it by not putting it to the test, being content (the material quality) imaginatively absent, like the unmoving divinity within ourselves.
I capture very high levels of ecstasy of the chaotic paradise, there is a sense of home, not like that pizza oven (even electric, those poor sods) of that scam that is the Hades: get back to the ultra rip-off.
So, sit back and listen (it's an Order!), shut up, and don't be the jerk that you are, because if you get distracted for a moment, these guys will (and it's not a euphemism) do your backside like a bucket.
Don't take it personally, your "patches on the ass" won't save you, loudly it is just a question "of KORE."
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