Virgin Prunes
...If I Die, I Die

THE REVIEW

Come to us Music. We invoke you loudly, we are already shouting.
And the sabbath begins. The witches dance. Go away, little gnomes. Go away, pink and mischievous fairies.
This is the Ireland of demons.
They dance fiercely. They don’t want to stand still. If there's Punk in London, there are the Virgin Prunes in Dublin.
They reject, scream, theaterize, whisper. You see the fires, you see them, high, very high, burning those horrible and shameful records, those scandalous magazines.
The scandal is art. Because art is scandalous.
And you hear the guitars soaring.

You hear the drums breaking through, pounding, getting into your head, with the bass that overturns you, overturns you like a sock.
They cry out scandal again. From the Lypton Village in Dublin. From The Edge’s brother of U2.
Far from the spotlight, Friday and the others in the dense woods.
You see the glow of their fires, you see the shadows dancing.
You see that you're scared.
You see that you're excited.
You see that time doesn’t exist, genres don’t exist.
Here two centuries of music clamour. Burn burn!

While we still dance, broken bodies, we sacrifice ourselves to every God... then burn again, fall, crash, because the day is yours because the night is ours.
Get bored in your vain paradises, for we love hell. We love the burning flesh. The smell it makes, the smell we are. If you have to die, you die.

What do you think we care.