Zeigenbock Kopf
Nocturnal Submissions

Just to close the circle. No discography is "absolutely essential," and this one, you understand me well, is less so than all others. Records like these, be aware, can alternatively be used as a wedge for the table or as toilet paper.

The debut album of our Schutzstaffel is, if you will, more pop than the subsequent one. Now: pop is quite a big word, so make yourselves comfortable and let's begin: "Sex with a man" programmatic part and without a shadow of a doubt, something halfway between the OMD after a hundred electroshocks and Dave Gahan in line for methadone, the real hit of the batch: glimmers of disco Nagasaki and splashes of plasma on the doors in a Dortmund atmosphere in February, all heroin and the desire to rewrite techno.
Moving on: "This Bass is too loud" is a direct kick in the balls; an unwarranted line at a frequency close to sphincter release, an unsustainable beat filtered in a washing machine on spin cycle, flashy flares of tapes and syphilitic synths (synths?), a carnival parade of queer voices as if those from the asylum had taken the Bee Gees hostage at studio 54, just to warm up the party.
And then "Bobby by my side" is a slowed-down spoken piece asking for ransom, clear abuse of sleeping pills and rave ketamine; "Leather Glove"...what are they for? It's another sonic autopsy with a drone solemnly crossing the piece, as if to decree the end of something, filthy dawns, vomits, a blurred, confused, and dirty picture.
Palme d'Or for "Get Your Dicks In the Mix" furious stomp from the Reichstag, with officers lined up to take it from behind. Final urination (!) for "Blinded by Lust" where our guys seem to reach the peak of Down syndrome: 3.16' without a reason, without a change, without an alteration. It's the train to Auschwitz and, as we know, it doesn't stop.

Do you want the whole truth? These are incredibly difficult records to appreciate. However, at the bottom of the murky blackness of their vile uselessness there's something primordial and uncontrollable that makes me move, a prehistoric drive that drags us to furious mating, to unprotected sex, to drooling, to dance, to trance, and to possession.
While the dobermanns look on, all of well-meaning electronic Mitteleuropa sinks into a toilet full of syringes. And Mr. Johnny, as always, cashes in.