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Rating: "The Death of Artists"
How many times must the rattles be shaken
and kiss your low brow, sad caricature?
To hit the mystical target,
how many arrows must I waste, oh my quiver?
We will consume our hearts in subtle conspiracies
and shatter more than one solid armor
before contemplating the great Creature,
whose infernal longing plunges us into tears!
Those whose idol remains forever unknown,
damned sculptors, marked by outrage,
will hammer their chests and foreheads,
with the only hope, obscure Capitol!,
that Death, rising like a new sun,
will make the flowers of the brain bloom in them. (Charles Baudelaire)
ABBA(n)DON(ate) all hope, you who enter! In two thousand years, after the privilege of having Jesus, this fucking "humanity" hasn't even remotely applied Christ's directives. On the contrary, it has only produced layer upon layer of sludge that has gone on to feed the lowest and monstrous part of hell, the seventh layer, where we find the court of the first fallen angel, the most apocalyptic, the most everything, the least known and least mentioned but the most terrifying, so much so that the other layers of demons themselves fear that area.
The miasma produced has been so much that it has facilitated the ascent of the "destroyer" by sheer force of buoyant inertia. The shit "elevator from hell" has summoned an entity that should never even have been mentioned.
Just as a Trinity reigns in the sky, the same happens with the underworld's own underground Trinity. To be understood, however, with the other two tenants of the furnace, Lucy & Little Satan, there remains a margin for games, one can make a black cabaret while remaining within the narrative of damnation. But not with the third one... No deals, no tricks, nothing at all, when summoned it causes such chaos that one ass to literally shit oneself is no longer enough.
Play, play with fire because with the other two you could provoke honest unavoidable burns in the acceptance of those "contracts", but with the third comes a burn that makes a volcanic eruption seem like an ice-cold shower by comparison.
The detached atmosphere of this work by SPK is "the calm before the storm", where it only gives you the time to go buy as many diapers as you can find before the impending Cambodia, especially if you feel you have marked poorly (but even decently) in this series of reincarnations. Otherwise, for those who have settled stardust, approaching the harmony of creation, the listening experience will be "pleasant" in witnessing the detached observation of cyclical tsunamis that ultimately change nothing for them, being stationed on a different frequency.
Come on, the different vibrations won't meet and from the top of the mountain, the cleansing flood will be felt as a caress in the sacred need to start everything "differently".
The lack of sensationalism of the album is proof that the clash is on a psychic level. The calm mortiferous overshadow induces an expectation of noisy chaos, but it is precisely avoiding the "much ado about nothing" of an industrial sound we mistakenly associate with banging on household pots, the strong point of these (who would have thought) Australians where the soundtrack of a modern dark age stimulates unconscious SePpuKu eclipses, thus the horrific narrative becomes intangible for the coarse humanity that has fed itself to the wrong master. It is not understood what trouble one has got into.
The impersonal, firm, impassive rendering of the musical compositions suggests the conquest of an aura that can explore horror past, present, and future, with a mastery in halting thoughts on command where we sense the majestic goal of steering toward a dissociation from the violence of history, presenting a revisionism on induced surface goodness and decisively aiming for an impersonal that could seem cynical if we used consideration as a tool for judgment.
A sprightly fog emerges in withstanding free will that feeds the deception of life. The pathos dripping with concrete suffering, devoid of consolatory alibis, is disconcerting in its fullness in revealing all the possessions of which we are constantly at the mercy. Comforting is the honesty of the soundscape that by avoiding verbal communication spares us from constructing the filter of lies.
The unveiling of our miseries tuned to "God wills it!" is calming in the attempt to exorcize all this violence present constantly in the air, where the boomerang effect of misunderstanding rewards the "carbonari" with further humiliations, including the pillory. But the sedimentation of this conscious suffering makes a transcendent aesthetic flourish where magnificence shifts from the tangible to the invisible.
The result, transmuted into music, is the living consciousness of those aware of being immersed in a world where the loss of reason has become customary and where judicious people are persecuted by an inquisition that struggles more and more to create suffering but no longer knows which way to turn in its lack of discernment, shooting itself in the foot by invoking "that one".
We will see quite a show, but meanwhile, give a listen (with the third ear would be better) to this monolith that exudes esotericism and smells of mystical roses: "Whatever Will Be, Will Be".
Chi nun more s'arivede...
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