The Residents
Meet the Residents

The Faust in their first opus were still compassionate, fleetingly considering those heresies ("I can't get no satisfaction, All you need is love") that undermine cohesion, warning of the overmind created by these cancers of melodies and rock cacophonies, and inviting a quantum vision, in the series of "leave everything and follow me".

The Residents, on the other hand, waste no time with warnings; they start right away with their transcendental cynicism, paving everything, thank goodness, and brutally lay out their Mithraic platform, consisting of a pantheism that directly burns the deceptions of refrains on the altar of revelation that do more damage than the MK Ultra project.

For heaven's sake, Not Available is untouchable, but to be really nitpicky, there's that perfectionism that becomes mannered, an impersonal vanity fine-tuned by an unsettling King, whereas, in the first, I catch more refreshingly princely bizarre destruction that perseveres in missing the mark to forget the result, there's more youth... It’s as if they come from the nest of a psychic childhood, solid in its projection toward future putrefactions.

The scribbles on the cover are as if they depict "Mithra slaying the bull," finally putting an end (a cut to the throat) to those musical impositions which, in their "simple" repeated three-minutes-three construct, kill us with their filthy broth. Let it be tauromachy, Olé! Self-destruction, yes, but disintegrating in the obvious is too much.

A helping hand is denied to no one, and indirectly the "toreros" steer the cult towards a subjectively impersonal solution, attacking that insidious excuse that endorses our reckless musical choices: de gustibus non est disputandum is relegated as a sordid shortcut to discovering the vices of people who followed gurus who, for manifest inferiority, didn’t even play live, hiding the flaw by retreating into the leitmotif of a break-up for "family reasons" after the epochal pyramidal scam, even forging the parents' signature, despite being of age, on the justification of an absence that is in fact permanent. Where do I put the helmet, baronet? Where do I put it? Such fear of being "crushed"...

Without saurian influences of any kind, and devoid of urobore EL(dea serpente)IZA(io sono)BETH(casa)ian honors, here is the magnificence of a Christian "smooth skin" that does not foresee scaly lying conveniences but abrasive "eternal returns," beware... There is no winking tolerance, there are no companions in crime, a wink is given to the unexpected. Unfair, you say, but with such esoteric superiority, they immediately gain the right to life and death in front of most musical abortions, especially those notoriously complicit, which have produced a deplorable proselytism that has distorted reality.

And like Victor (le nettoyeur of Nikita), they dissolve with muriatic acid the millions of copies sold of sterile crusts of semen: quanno ce vo’, ce vo’! The agape seals the triumph, and a source of purification flows in us towards the seven planetary spheres where the soul meets the Æternitas: "a canvas without painting in which the message is moved from image to sound".

So the record... "decorated with ribbons" from Zeno of Elea to "free oneself from the circle that causes distress and heavy pain".

The shark goes far offshore... Donuts without a hole. Jumping from bonus to branch. The hen today, the egg tomorrow, or is the third thing better? Whoever does it themselves does it for crustacean. Here is the mountain going to the Mamluks. No tricks, no justifications, no considerations. No admittance unless you have the last phalanx of the thumb long, with the elliptical and flat nail, an anathema towards music "melodies" of regime.

Here we die with 'this' grown herb, it was time. Here everything begins again, differently. Here the high cherubic charges are seen with their light of great sons of a bitch. The river flows uphill, the ice warms the Hereafter. Non-earthly humans who make fun of you and then you need to book a psychiatric visit, including an electroshock compendium, after hearing these little raspberries.

We no longer bite on the hook of barking at the moon; we sail briskly towards the catastrophe of sinking to finally drown that melodic snake we have in our bosom. Liberation necessarily passes through disaster, going full throttle to smash into the void and disintegrate those leaden feet that dragged us around like unwanted guests. And we glide smoothly while crashing a smoke of nothingness. Everything goes to hell here.

Seize the opportunity of this manna from heaven to avoid turning green with bile, the probable effect of having opened one’s eyes to a reality that tore apart the maya of vanity. An understandable tilt of wanting to ruin everything by giving up that climbing on mirrors, shut the beak and abandon yourself to the thrill of the change of "residence" that magically avoids the noose you were tightening. Shall we have a couple of spaghetti?

The Residents await you at the crossing, do you have the guts to face them? Is that blue noble blood or fear? Enough of these eyes wrapped in ham, let’s start realizing we have a knife pointed at our throat and pull out the balls not to fall into the reassuring trap of "everything will be alright." The ace in the hole is not having chronological hallucinations and listening to the mouth watering that these lullabies mount. 'A nice cat to peel...

Let's not slack off, let's not grope in the dark, the bone has been thrown, let's go pick it up in California passing through the Louisiana swamps. And if listening ends up with having had your fill or being fed up, it's advisable to take a look at your skeletons in the closet before passing the buck on this work: are we men or corporals? Let’s dive headlong into burning our wings and we will rise "more beautiful and prouder than before!" If you've understood the message, it fits like a glove to fall from the frying pan into this fire, here the donkey flies. The team’s clean swipe, counting like two of clubs, crumbles duality and gives us the magnificent solitude with ourselves.

"We are the hermetic of an unlikely mirror musicality, up and down, down and up. Functional gymnastic. As soon as we reach you above, we call you from below, and vice versa for infinity. Easy, right? You believed it, velvet face!"

"Oh my, what terrible anxiety. But why do all these happen to me? Brigands! You see, they've got the madman’s eye, you're no joke either. I'm surrounded, don't hurt me. Who sent them here? Now I'll remain with this doubt... Will I sleep?" Let's forgive ourselves, the guys are "frivolous"...

Cultured and ignorant, primitive rascals, invisible androgynous bums in short, also a bit smelly of holiness, these lineages. They play an estranging golf and simultaneously put "club, balls and hole". Games like: "Do you feel the finger up your ass? Here are the hands". They singe phantom penetrations, but the finger was huge... Here the "monstrous" regains its uniforming archetypal form.

They chant for years music inside drawers, tan taxidermic corneae outside the pyramid, stuffing columns of dissimulation... and if they were there they slept. Shall we "meet" these guys?