The Residents
Duck Stab / Buster & Glen

THE REVIEW

The Residents from Los Angeles (?) have built an entire career on the deformation of the ethereal face of the Gioconda-Beatles. For the eyeballs, the "good" passively acquired is like a big unconscious anal snake, destined to hypnotize us inside the bowels of supermarkets around the world: without the melody, that stroboscopic nothingness, being able to cease according to our will.

Is it not madness not to be able to refrain from knowing? Is it not madness to suffer repeated information on the same subject for 40 years? Is it not madness that memory must retain subliminally acquired data? Is it not anal madness for Lennon's face to become the god of bankers, lawyers, and housewives? Is it not madness that in the naivety of a child one must ask "But is it Yesterday or Satisfaction the best, most beautiful song ever?" Thus the Beatles as a non-derailment of the human mind, as a sexually bloated status quo, as grotesque in power re-painted by the media into an everlasting masterpiece. And here come the eyeballs to water the Liverpool four with a mediocrity-hunting powder, in the music of the Residents remains only a slide of the average Elvis fan, with an idiotic mouth agape, in all its coitus admiring a dehumanized television idol and object of blind fetishism.

The Residents represented the exact opposite, symphonies for mentally unbalanced individuals in existential hallucinations in the dead of night. It is the music of ambiguity, of the grotesque, of the misstep, of despair, of remorse, of the adult mustache on the Mona Lisa. A big bucket of multi-original paint against the luciferian orgy between TV, religion, and politics.