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Rating: STRATEGIES OF CONCEALMENT.
An orgiastic, sordid and putrid frenzy, a torrid, lascivious funk unravels and implodes on itself, whipped by constantly unsettling vocal loops, thick brass sections struggle and reign arrogantly, fueling the murky, stagnant chaos, Eno and Byrne possessed by the spirit of Pierre Schaeffer collapsed on the ground in the forest of ghosts in a ketamine overdose.
PRIMITIVE SPRING.
A cruel wind, a golden twilight, the law of survival as the only recognized normality, life dictated by the rhythms of an inhuman and impassive nature, an existence forgotten to which it is impossible to return, at least consciously.
Half an hour... half an hour to connect unconscious forms buried for millennia to those radical, ancestral, pure, ruthless, and severe sounds like that nature, the sound of magnetic tapes massacred by continuous changes in pitch and speed of the sound spectrum seems increasingly unstable, ever closer to collapse, a treated ritual drum still hammers the subconscious with images of extinct tribal life, until the end, until that last beat immersed in dust...a wooden flute intones a kind of death song, a dirty and acrid tear flows like blood on the cheek.
AN IMMOBILE THEATER.
A reiterated and floating sound flow, distorted reminiscences, hisses, whistles...a wandering without a destination, muffled sounds again, indistinguishable, sounds of small bone flutes screech like the cries of birds of prey.
SON OF A DYING GOD.
The overwhelming emotion of these sounds is stunning, these broken, distorted sounds, reduced to an unformed heap, far removed from occult or esoteric rituals, these rites are officiated under a scorching, numbing sun, indifferent to life and death.
The subconscious as the only form of real thought, a primordial instinct prevails over things, rational thought wheezes, now increasingly weak...dying.
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