Throbbing Gristle
20 Jazz Funk Greats

THE REVIEW

I associate with these "phenomena" words like: aseptic, odorless, formaldehyde, synapse, changing, fustian, cobalt...

The industrial par excellence that misleads with its molecular clangors, distant yet complementary to the superb mechanical-psychic atmospheres of the Second Annual Report.

Mortiferously impersonal, robotized-lobotomized-taxidermized in the yearning for the transformation of organic parts but not thinking of replacing them with mechanical-metal elements, but by evolving biological tissues to become more "antennas" to receive more beyond.

It is an alienating sabbat that with their hypnotic prayers ruthlessly seeks to reduce the distance between body and soul, stripping the psyche as much as possible through bloody mantras where dwells an ohm of resistance, impedance, and reactance that gives nothing to consoling new age justifications and does not feed the reflections of lies with its operational short circuit.

A deception that is combated by deceiving it with nonexistence, where those group smiles with souvenir photos from the moorland-cliff of the cover, cut the ties with superficial good sentiments and an impending putrefaction announces that truth does not always smell like roses.

And the pleasure in listening is new, where that part of enjoyment we know to be similar for so many lived experiences is missing here, and the association we need to materialize the feeling on this "music" does not coincide much with that "jazz-funk" we thought we knew.

The aseptic Christmas gift of '79 is served, the extent of the produced mystification surpasses the mystification itself. Literally leaves us with a pleasant bitter taste in the mouth that does not trigger reflections.

Obsessive in the purging of attractiveness and in fleeing predictability, they delight us with an impalpable softness where challenging the darkness that possesses us turns into whispering to the psychic whisperers recited distortions of liberating psalms from random rigor mortis.

Being flooded by this fluxus, without prejudice, puts us in the saddle of a UFO that promises us the memory of the abduction and guarantees us the vision of our internal organs. Our consent to this is mathematical given that the band's members themselves have eviscerated themselves to show the mystical guts.

The macabre tranquility produced only further electrifies this sex change, in the bloody intimacy of the androgenous revelation of each of us. A conscious tear coldly falls on the cheek as we realize the nonexistence of free will that suggests living life even if at the expense of others.

But life is not made with life, just as music is not made with music, that is why with these "fulminating erections" we are in an iron barrel of perpetual indispositions towards the identifications that surround us.

TG "bring you" nihilistic inseminations. The obscene and the pathological all together and all at once: Cosey not really Everyone...