Warsaw
Warsaw

THE REVIEW

The explosions of violence, moods, mystical and filthy sensations. 
Extraordinary black and white kaleidoscopes, crumpled photographs, burned polaroids. Smoke, earth, mud. 
Grotesque and astonishing exhalations of libido, sweat, glances that trigger the Stendhal syndrome, simplicity and complexity.

The music of the Warsaw, before the Joy Division adventure, sounds just like the complexity that turns into spontaneity crescendos, in chases on sounds, notes and ruinous refrains, on punk attitudes that lay the foundation, roots and earth to the sound that will come, to the splendid sonic tragedy beneath those records, "Unknown Pleasures" and "Closer", that I have never abandoned, that always accompany me, like shy and angry parents, like childhood friends.

The music of the Warsaw is raw and violent, but also hypersensitive: Ian's genius is already all here. From the new-wave chant of "They Walked In Line" to the frenetic punk of "Failures", powerful and intangible emotions disintegrate, marking soul, body, and heart. A wild plunge into the dirtiest and indelible mud, like a memory, like a failure, like a misfortune. Not everything sounds perfect, but that's the beauty: the absolute lack of terror, in favor of a shouted and exhausting terrorism, of sharp blows of guitar and drums.

Of the continuous and intense wandering of an unforgettable voice.

"Warsaw" is this: a burned and invisible photograph capable of striking like no other. 
Not just music.