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Rating: I was lounging comfortably in the garden, enjoying a beer with my eyes fixed on a book, when suddenly a Japanese woman armed with a katana and a blue-packaged CD appears. It’s Sachiko M, a lady who made sound avant-garde her life's mission, soon ending up as a joke. And I get startled.
"I'm fucking bitter" she says, tilting her eyebrows.
Damn it. For once I can relax, and here she comes to mess up my lazy afternoon plans.
I ask her: "And why?"
She answers: "I found out you want to review my latest album giving it just one star. I'm appalled, shame on you."
It sounds like a threat, but I have a ready answer: "Miss Sachiko, I assure you I have nothing against you: it’s just that your last album, if you’ll allow me, is a real piece of crap."
She points her katana at me: "But you didn’t rate those idiots who cry for two hours, did you! But you did for me!"
"Look... first of all, we are in 2004 and you shouldn’t know I reviewed that album there, because it will come out in six years. And moreover, if that record contains nothing, unfortunately, in yours, there’s something."
"You talk like this because you understand nothing of avant-garde and sound research! If you don’t know, Japan is the homeland of harsh noise and bad sound. Do I need to name a few? Masonna, Merzbow, C.C.C.C., Incapacitants..."
"Sure, exactly, all names with which you have nothing in common."
"Enough now" she yells, lowering the katana facing the lawn on which, a little earlier, I had rested my feet wrapped in colorful flip-flops, "Now I will force you to listen to my entire album... so we'll see who laughs last!"
"Unfortunately, I have listened to your album and..."
SHE INTERRUPTS ME WITH HER COLD, YET HATE-FUELED STARE: "No! You listened only to the first five minutes. Then you turned it off! My album lasts an hour!"
"Again with these useless records of a single track that lasts an hour! Do you think anyone listened to it completely?"
"Of course, the elite music critics!"
"Miss Sachiko, think... if they praise you it’s just to give themselves an air. I don’t know your other albums, but this ‘Bar’ is terrible..."
No chance. The dialogue with Sachiko M doesn’t work: she forces me to listen to the entire album, and I suffer. An hour plus of a single sound wave: a shrill noise repeated for what seems like an eternity. The ideal torture for the deported. She tells me that certain things, in their simplicity, can be fantastic. And I tell her this is murder, that even Merzbow finds this pretentious, violent stuff without a reason unlistenable.
And now I am curious. I ask her: "But Miss Sachiko, did you listen to your album in its entirety?"
"Of course not." she responds, strutting "While I was playing it, I also used earplugs! Actually, to be precise, I started the note with my laptop and then went shopping."
"Ah, there you go."
"But that doesn’t mean everyone else shouldn’t listen to this latest gesture of great artistic effectiveness."
It ends up that Sachiko points the blade at my throat, forcing me to write an enthusiastic review of this mess. I, however, remain impartial and simply recount what happened during this lazy afternoon ruined by the intellectual nature of minds wasted in the fields.
Onkyo? Noise? Let's not kid! It's a bore and eardrum torture that will never find a place even in the discography of those who praised Sukora without knowing it.
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