Shining
Black Jazz

How to define them? Gaudy, revolting, offensive, kitsch, trash.

With this record, every insult is glory, every offense is a compliment. Metalheads won't like it. Those serious ones with skulls, stars, and studs. Who take themselves seriously, oh my. The Shining are a bunch of fools, and then some. Mixing Jazz with black metal, saxophones and growls might have seemed a thing for intellectuals at blowup, for nerds, with bottle-bottom glasses, pimples, and people who take themselves seriously, oh my. Instead, it is a total charade, the fair of bad taste, but not in a baroque sense, we've already reached rococo, bauhaus. Hear how nicely random words are pronounced. Postmath-neogoth - blackprog - metalvanguarde. Listen to how much nonsense. Frank Zappa, rest his soul, would have gone into a frenzy.

Here you have a crazy good time, like when you remember having long hair. Do you remember metal? Then you don't know what happens, and all these heaps of hair, mustaches, beards, and kimonos start to bore you. And then and then. Throwing in random words, phrases, in a hysterical way. Like when you're too tired to stay any longer but tomorrow is a holiday, no work, and we babble on a bit more. Come on, let's make it big, let's compete. Do you know what I mean? Random screams. Ramblings, deliriums, liberating, liberating. The Residents in a sadomasochistic version. Innocent sexual perversions with the Crimson King. Which century, which century. Hallucinations. Other airs, other roads, other music. That you must have heard a lot of. And you pause a moment. Too serious, oh my. John Coltrane hanging from a tree. That makes you laugh, laugh till you burst. No respect, no inhibition. I remember a Korg keyboard, once, we were sixteen. And on with the effects. On with the harmonizer with that trick that changes your voice. Broken. Crazy saxes and cybernetic rhythmic carpets. With that trick that DOUBLES your voice. Schizophrenia. It's all fake, all fake. All plastic. Trapezes and fiery hoops and the man who eats glass, the cannon women, with tamed snakes that go everywhere. But so real, shiny, colorful, shrill, oh god I can't breathe. Vomiting, collapsing, a colossal hangover, and tomorrow morning the headache will kill us, but who cares. People who don't know what they're doing. People who don't know what they're doing.

May God bless them, for now we won't get bored anymore.