Zoogz Rift
Amputees in Limbo

The comparison I make with the type of musical suggestion proposed here comes from an abrupt outburst by a friend of mine who, out of the blue, expressed himself with the tone of someone revealing the third secret of Fatima: "Today, I had a poop that was better than a screw."

Here's the point, what is pleasure? Where is it located? Why does an apparently unfavorable situation trigger it? Why do we associate pleasure with beauty? Why does the beauty we've been taught to believe in almost always disappoint us? What is beauty? Certainly, in this album, I find beauty; let's say it's a beauty complicated in its screaming deviations. Leaving aside codifications, it's a reassuring album.

Here, you can have the fortune of encountering sounds that evidently contrast with the education in melody and rational reasoning that we've been indoctrinated with, a rupture that sooner or later will have to be faced to try to break the wall of silence towards visions that are brutally enlightening.

And like a vagabond of chaos, Robert, aka Zoogz, rummages through an invisible trash and creates nourishment from the ruins that benefit more than intact structures. Yet, to keep the emotional tension alive, like an operational circuit, he feigns auto-heart attacks every second minute and creates shabby proselytism by distributing them around. The mockery is solid. With unruly abandon, he ignites legions of anarchy for sheer amusement.

Heart-wrenching like a shaman, he screams his epithets and distortions, rudely chasing away the ghosts of other identities that want to come in to live in our stead, cleaning the stage. Angry just the right amount, he faces, with impeccable travel companions (including a John Trubee), a journey made of fecal splashes that annihilate alien presences, even in his being a peripheral wrestler.

Relegating him to a disciple of Van Vliet and Zappa is as misplaced as his "amateurism." But who knows the truth if not the jester? And a respectable jester wants to mock consciousness by unraveling impersonal exhibitionism.

Here, the delicate is sandpaper, love is a pretension, the cacophonic is our toilet bowl, an epileptic attack our normal condition: not everyone can handle mockery. A nervous breakdown is the most enviable state to try to converse with the "music" that becomes a tool of torture if you're not well-trained for these cynical rides. This time you are doomed to go find out what the hell kind of music this Californian with the Polish surname makes.

And don’t give me grief that it's unclear from what I've written how the album sounds; put some of your own effort and "suffer" in discovering a juggler who's been around for millennia and tells us our miseries while telling us to go to hell. So much stuff, anyway...

Sounds for people who don't flinch at the smell of shit but embrace the stench with a smile. No TRIPpa 4 catz!