Loop
Heaven's End

I turn off the player. The head is a crazed blender, you could stick the Stooges, the Suicide, and the Can with all their instrumentation through one ear and see so much lysergic acid drip out the other side that it would keep you out of this world for eternity. It's so heavy that you could attach the chain of Maria to the top of the skull to tie it to Jesus' foot and forever condemn him to the miserable earthly life.

The culprits are these three Londoners dressed in black, Robert Hampson, Neil Mc Kay, and John Wills. From that night in 1990 lost in the depths of a venue carved into the caves of my ancient Palepoli, like a starless sky, the black grid of a faded ceiling. The sonic mantra forced many to sit crouched with their heads between their knees as if to protect the auditory nerve from the interruption of blood flow to the cerebral cortex. In the pitch dark, I can hear the feedback as if coming from the dawn of the Mesozoic era and it sounds so loud that it causes continental drift. The album tracks are unraveled like a blasphemous litany using colored pills instead of rosary beads.

It's like grabbing Iggy Pop by the cojones and launching him into hyperspace in an elliptical orbit around the Earth, so that once a year he can pass close enough to the Ann Arbor elementary school to allow the children to catch his hand drawing a fleeting and melancholic hello... hello... hello...