Screamers
Demos 1977-78

This album does not exist, it has never existed officially. Yes, in the 2000s they released a compilation and a DVD of that live concert masterpiece from 1978 (alas, reviewed by me, Caspasian), but at the time of their vitality, at the end of the '70s, it never occurred to anyone to produce this series of songs that once and for all clarify where the essence of punk resides.

At first, we wonder why this oversight happened and blame the system that sponsors just about anyone and lets slip champions of such caliber. But then on second thought, it's better this way, eternalization passes through the alchemical cloud, eternalization is expanded and not everyone manages to perceive it. The consecration of the appearance of Screamers is their inexistence.

Punk as an onomatopoeic sound screamed for a definitive deflagration: dust we are, to dust we will return. Stages sticky with wooden sweats, stench of a rejection of the "everything will be fine". No, no, everything is fine, here and now. The rejection is total even in excluding guitars, excluding the conformity of listening, excluding presence, in screaming that we are not this body and that it can be sacrificed by disintegrating it on dilapidated altars.

Microphone defallicized is the scepter, maladapted explanation the crown, two keyboards the thrones, the cardboard drums cadence the militia, an audience of outcasts is the nation. And when performers call for "a better world" impersonal success is guaranteed, because here it transcends, and harshly so.

The sequence of tracks is a supernova that smokes those puritanisms implemented by a stupefying education. And it makes you want to slit your wrists and water with black blood those underground creatures waiting for the frantic Word of individualist anarchy that refreshes with its utopia our attempts at conscious self-destruction. And that's what the frontman does, holding everyone in the palm of his hand in a whirlwind that with its centrifugal force sticks us to the glass of our transparencies. The King is naked and everybody shouts it!

The vibrations produced project the turmoil into a floating null situation. An aesthetic slightly out of the conventional is experimented, the torture is without footholds, there are no excuses: hope is treated as a pathetic justification and crushed without mercy like a hemorrhoid. Disintegration is the permanent state, starting from scratch to live differently, recovering rarefied consistencies, having no compunction in opposing at all costs the safeguarding of our organic shell. There is a permanent halo of holiness in the appearance, paradise is not soft, it's punk!

And always in our wonderful bourgeois lives, trust in the human being is disconfirmed, good thing that around here fly spit, yes but real. The disregard for self-love builds a conscious pain fierce in its cynicism where it opens doors to that white light that illuminates the rooms of that soul that mystifies the body mocking it and relegating it to its original role: shit we are, and we've always ridiculed and always will deride the illusion of gold.

Amusing soundtrack of our miseries and lies that packages possessions by mocking them and making them run away with their tails between their legs. Let's Go!