Zomby
Where Were U In '92

"ZOMBY comes from nowhere and is already dead"

I don’t know about you, but personally I have always harbored a feeling of intimate tenderness and human compassion for the poor, crippled, wheezing Zombies: our involuntary (without an opportunity to dispute their fate) bearers of terror lead an increasingly miserable existence, in perpetual search of pulsating, bloody, preferably warm, human scraps...

All the more so when some of them, trying to free themselves from their horrifying fate, courageously attempt to place themselves behind mixers, turntables, and various engineering gizmos, perhaps with a beautiful headgear like a pyramid that neither hides their inhuman, swollen, decomposed, horrific features, have all my most suitable esteem and approval.

Respect that is further fed in this discographic case, given and considered the enjoyable and frenetic elektro potpourri molded by our extraterrestrial mixer: 38 very smooth yet jagged minutes stacked into a composite whole of 14 changing and brief tracks that zombify between electro fragments ("Fuck mixing, let’s dance"), deep dub abysses ("Euphoria", "Daft punk rave"), garage reluctances ("Pillz"), jungle shards ("Hench", "G.t.i."), and post-rave regurgitations ("We got the sound", "Where Were U in '92"): all massively shaken as Vercingetorix commands.

This work attempts to pose a question to us: does it want to trace back the date of His inhuman transformation? The attempt to remember His previous earthly remains? Or is it subliminally trying to suggest the musical-attitudinal influences which it has heavily fed on to blend such a pleasant divertissement?

It is not known.

Poor fellow: I certainly wouldn’t mind helping him... but at the same time I think it’s unwise to get too close: I fear being chewed and horribly infected myself... better to keep a reasonable distance.

To return to the question: Dear Mr. Zomby, I wouldn't know exactly "Where Was I in '92" but one thing is certain, your work has on Your side that certain old-fashioned charm of the records, even though minted for that specific type of use, not exactly disposable, on the contrary the dancing melting-pot seems damn capable of repeatedly arousing the attention not only of the limping Zombies... but also of the musically-alive!

Good Lord! But... what is this putrid stench? What on earth are these putrescent, arterial green spots marking my face... ARGH! Damn it! He must have bitten me during the frantic, carefree, ruined dance!!!!

BLUUUUURGH!