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And it's like the first time you look at a painting by Bosch.
You can't place it in its time. You can't, not the first time, look closely, maybe the painting style, not the subjects. Did he see them? Yes, he saw them before having years of abstract bullshit in his eyes or soul.
What age do you give Scott Walker? In what years do you think he's active? What does he paint with his voice?
It is the metaphysics of silence, the lyricism of an opera singer who vomits his vocal cords, the crack of a machete on a guitar that thinks like an anvil.
What importance the silence! The words that confuse and get confused, that mock and dilate, and still tell of elements that mix with each other and are where they shouldn't be. And they are everywhere.
And every moment is boxed into the nothingness that constitutes it and makes it frightening because it's distorted, never malfunctioning, simply spectral in contrast to its consistency, the hardness of a sound that pierces, the dynamics of metallic murder in a 70s noir brought to the stage and made up as opera, dolled up in black and white, a devastating grey.
What importance the noise! The fart that makes you laugh where there's nothing to laugh at, continuity of the destroyed and mangled guitar, baritone lady of a castle that collapses and regurgitates demolished sounds, or square, or in hiccups. As I listen to a hammer that echoes in the apartment below mine, it enters into perfect union with a crazy work, live remix, operatic of the industrial. Whistles and tensions, percussions from the underworld where Hades, under his baseball cap, tells figures without describing them.
Timeless stories, stretched times, metallurgical horrors, tribalisms from ballet mécanique. Mad carnivals! Hawaii celebrating for just a second!
What importance the delirium! When it becomes orderly and yields to the composure of rhythms, when it is governed by the most democratic of lyrical dictators, when all the orchestrators converge at a precise moment. And then enough. Silence again. Then weight, cadence, martial, electrically fucking suffocating. BASTARD. A swoon that, climbing this electricity, does not falter but opens up into a drone sea. And then "ssssst"
Silence
"If shit were music, you'd be a brass band"
Until the end of the grooves.
Tracklist and Samples
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By Hesmovedon
"Scott Walker did it again."
"Bish Bosch is nothing but a sonic collage, an album deliberately and intrinsically discontinuous, but which, paradoxically, finds its raison d'être in its irreverent fragmentation."
