:zoviet*france:
Gris

The ritualized physicality interspersed with catatonic chasms penetrated into the subconscious, like black cliffs, filled with the unspeakable.

What the hell is in this 10-inch vinyl wrapped in paving material painted and adorned with paper decorated with hieroglyphics and icons of Mao?

What the hell is inside “Luft”?

Wrapped in an ashen black and white, a telluric vision of death, like that damn putrefied pig head stuck on a stick in the Lord of the Flies, like the images of everyday city life defaced, piled up, clustered, hyper-kinetic that derail on a lifeless figure in Petri’s numbered days, in the reclusory of the island of San Giuseppe in the dark and sweltering isolation cells, in the total silence, the only sounds audible were the booming of the sea crashing against the cliffs and the vile screams coming from the adjacent asylum, surely if you opened your ears well, the explosion of “Luft” was perfectly audible, that morning, just before waking up, in a muted and anguished half-sleep certainly in Gregor Samsa’s new auditory system resounded the shattering “Luft”.

The opening of the record was entrusted to a brief, listless, and pearly “Moresca,” almost building an aerial and floating anticlimax, with “Shekinah” tasked with closing the first side, a sort of murky and amorphous pool of tar in which the now bloodless “Luft” would have flowed.

“Gris” thus becomes the ritualized immateriality, the chasms close into boundless horizons, consisting almost solely of treated, unrecognizable, swollen, frightfully indecipherable voices, the piece overflows into jolting smoky and acute fragments, a livid hovering in a state of apparent death, nullification.

What the hell is in this record?