VII.
VII/1
Entertainment through pain is a very idealistic alternative to regular TV state-sponsored to hurt the vulnerable quite automatically. Any hard artists try to torment their behated public, it’s nothing of a prison guard’s doing his routine. Self-torture is another issue but every sect likes that. Not as much of a novelty factor as the Crowleyan Faction has it. This is the hard core of the dichotomic curse and I’m not going into it within this Bardo. It’d be an infinite river of no return to explore and I’m not so curious as told to be. I have no space for psychotic analyses if I ever want to finish this letter of vain indulgence. And I really do – I’ve never reviled writing anything more than this. Defining the undefinable is the most gruesome task for the Word whose citizens we are. A mystic overburden only poets may undertake. Not a subalien antitalent like myself. One misstatement and I’m destroyed by the angel of light forevermore. My delusion of importance is sickening. I am the hunted one out on my own since 1984. Darn that Duke! Yet there is one topic I must briefly touch down to, on which the Author’s stance is most unwavering. It is about the devastating demise of underground femininity since THE RUNAWAYS grew old, in spite of the illuminati’s ongoing fetish cult. It started earlier, back with ARI UP let’s say, but PATTI SMITH was yet a genuine whore at heart not just a devoted wicca, if image matters anyone. My focus group, you see, are what’s best represented by darkwave couples. Like the rooster of PROJEKT RECORDS’ Jewish conspiracy. And half of the dark symphonies of Viking supremacists. It’s all over the place and won’t cease proliferating in our chosen generation’s lifetime. Reconciliation is strongly cautioned indeed but something’s very wrong with me. The women I love belong to the main stream of rotting pop producing dead music for the mortal majority. When I first saw KYLIE MINOGUE on a video I thought ‘Hail, Hail, the female Messiah has landed.’ That’s what I’ve been waiting for. She’ll deliver us at last from the suffragettes’ grip with the sword of tease. I’m always looking for a Joan of Arc; it’s one of my original symptoms, y’know. But I’m very easy to deceive. I change my idols more often than underwear. And I’m not loyal; I like to betray. Since music television brought sex home to the underaged, you are fucking with superstars. The bitch is enthroned far beyond porn valley. However, it has vastly failed to control its missionary assignment to curb the crime rate along. Just on the contrary, as we know. To mingle wheat with chaff is conditional to the business of music – if you want a big company better get muted. Or start an own little label for your friends’ favorite genre. The Kapital sets us free like nothing else – don’t believe those communist faggots. But the chasm between rock and roll is viciously deepening after the golden age of the rush. ROCKBITCH won’t overthrow the SPICE GIRLS, any sweetly they try to provoke the patriarchal system. It is virtually impossible to make a scandal yet – tolerance is a basic human right with limits extending. Money from joy is the only worthwhile motivator for Baphomet’s prostitutes the UR wanna be. The leftfield is immune to shock therapy since the revolution’s won. Goddesses are reigning over the multimedia but there’s hardly one song out of a hundred that’s listenable with ears unplugged. And everything sounds better on video now that we’ve learned to see the content. So the fake passion of gothic divas pale and overweight leaves me quite detached from the current. Again, here the music is good – seems it won’t get together again. The cock rock boys, Satan’s faves, weathered the storm better for a last while but no new MELANIE on the horizon. It’s a shame if STEREOLAB loves her.
VII/2
The world has come quite mad at its unhappy end. Sometimes I believe I invented The Party for primitive escape solely. NOVA AKROPOLA, Reconstruction of the Demolished House, is very apprehensive when it comes to something female–fronted so in industrial as in metal. I’m as allergic as a misogynous rapist, just for a different woman. Let me represent it here by FISTFUCK: I hope it’s still an extreme. 1982 never dies. It was a female duo of pain transmission from Britannia, abusing electronics for a cabaret of Hell for the bloody doomed. Good at it as anything but very annoying if you have a better problem. And being a dialectic pop lad by education, I much prefer ALICE COOPER’s tainted bloodsplash to real women’s menstruational keg for the Grail. The witch has always been striving hard to deserve her share, taking on the heaviest part of Man’s destiny redemption. The suffer of innocents is the ugliest suffer. That’s why the ladies sang the blues. The exceptions are great and numerous of course (Cristina, Anneke, Tarja) but no CRÜXSHADOWS could prolong the glorious fall of Generation Y. The androgyne source of the overflowing river is substantially obliterated by the resurgent battle of the original sexes. That thou shalt live in perennial argument is no literal dictum of the sentence. It could be overcome like THE MEKONS did. The great divide is between GITANE DAMONE and EVA O. Most Antichristoes couldn’t tell the difference. Do you know DORO? She’s really very funny. But the rarest bird of all. And praise the Unlord for HOLY MOSES or WYKKED WYTCH – nothing can corrupt the evolution of taste, that’s true. But what goes on on the dreamside is screaming for the stake. Vampiria infested the dark terrain she calls home in our age of disconsent in a frightening unison from black metal to white noise. You can’t put all the blame on LITTLE ANNIE ANXIETY’s shoulders, she’s got her sisters with her, but it’s a family of no values unlike the CHEMICAL BROTHERS. That’s precisely their greatness in the chronologic compare – we’re drifting towards the negative slowly since JANIS MARTIN. But pro is the new contra: disengagement is the crack where nihil’s coming in. Which is indeed a hotbed of black magic. We cannot advance without quantitative revolution that bears no alternative. There’s no space for lost souls between two sides. It’s a shame but we don’t have to be so shy. Since NINA HAGEN became a Mutter, we are lunching with Lydia. There won’t be another CHRISSIE HYNDE and it’s a pretty lamentable outcome. Let alone DEBBIE HARRY for that post-matter. SIOUX SIOUX, though rather mezzo and rich in vibration, opened the gate before an infernal invasion of emotionless sopranos at their baritone boyfriends’ robotic service. It is the 24’s good empire rising on the wings of a nightingale into the most pathological spheres of the dark sky. Where has SUZI QUATRO gone? That little careerist bitch. And the SHANGRI-LAS named after a resto? When the rrriot girls moved in on the trails of POLY STYRENE flashing a hope of feminine fascism was the last time I thought it’s gonna be alright. The last time I got fooled. At one point I wanted to buy the right from 7 YEAR BITCH to use “Dead Men Don’t Rape” as The Party’s campaign track. The idea was aborted but they surely wouldn’t have joined friends of the fur trade. I don’t prefer non-blondes anyway. Catpower don’t wanna kill the crime – it’s only an antic of the babes in toyland. Unmasked they would abolish capital punishment in a jiffy. Cosi fan tutte. At the bottom of their cheating heart they’re as pro-tolerance as THE JEFFERSON AIRPLANE.
VII/3
It is every knight’s heartfelt desire to see his lady revered, but love, any downward it spirals, should not be deaf too. DEAD CAN DANCE and the COCTEAU TWINS remain heart–wrenching memories of the fluttering phoenix but after the copious proliferation of fleeting simulators it is hard to suffer even the originals. Thus the settlers incorporate the pioneers’ spirit. I couldn’t select my playlist if only listening to the sound of music – everything depends on who did it and when exactly. That’s what basically differs rock’n’roll from the classicist notion. We are what we dance to – only the ephemeral shall prevail. Nevertheless, in today’s mix–age blending retro and futuro in the strangest ways of the burgeoning subculture, to identify perfect clones may be an ordeal even for sampling experts. The judgement must become exceedingly individual beyond trend and trade. JARBOE was an interesting idea but it brought us to MORS SYPHILITICA with the speed of a disaster. I’m a natural–born enemy of the Aires – all those “ethereal female voices” are driving me plain insane from every corner of the sonic map. My initial allegiance is vowed to STEVIE NICKS. She was my first love and might as well be the last. I haven’t heard something better yet, though still listening. The craft is concentrated in the usage of the whip. The right balance of pleasure and punishment – the take and the give. It needs a real witch to beat the devil. This post-social consciousness makes in the end SWITCHBLADE SYMPHONY superior to L7, not the electronica solely. The case is very dissimilar with the binary couples of the Torah. White men in black have come a long way to serve their dominant muses’ artistic passion. It’s not the JUNE CARTER Story any more but a battle of egos even between lesbians. Let alone gays, of course. True love is pure manipulation. Every other routine comes from the evil one. That’s where ANN MAGNUSON goes out. Psyche annihilates the soul when the revolution stops. Productivity degenerates to the curse of the vampire. Man becomes a deplorable machine wastefully consuming its own energy till the overdose. Kurt and Courtney didn’t form a stage unit and that’s what saved both of them. Rock’n’roll is more than professional genius. It’s a spirit manifest to testify. HOLE was always as good as NIRVANA, to talk about genders. 2x1 ≠ 1+1. One plus one is often half. MARIANNE FAITHFULL’s anabaptized grandchildren don’t do no justice to ROSE MADDOX and her brothers. Even PORTISHEAD annoys the shit out of me. I want my finity back. Not black tapes for blue girls. The trouble with the second sex has grown Apocalyptic, and it’s important ‘cause mankind’s future depends on it. The immortality factor of death is jeopardized. Music and what it conveys has a distinctively feminine character as opposed to its prosaic opposite. Even dance is a more feminine move than sports are. March is from Mars, Disco is from Venus. If Adam stands for verbal authority, Eve is the voice of temptation – their common strife is to reconstruct Eden from our ruined memory through mutual work and love. As Thanatos is death, so is Eros life – there’s nothing to update on the monstrous cliché. We live and die in L.A. for ever and ever.
VII/4
The decline of the rock‘n’roll empire follows the traditional historic formula. The onslaught of frigid sirens upon the Disco burning was a lethal blow to the Seventies’ girlschool with no reunion precipitated. To choose between the rapping white lady and the prettiest emancipator (ANNE CLARK vs. PAT BENATAR) would have been extremely difficult if necessitated in the early 80’s full of grand expectations. When the dolls were still alright. Both THE HUMAN LEAGUE and B52 were alright. Lest we forget STRAWBERRY SWITCHBLADE. The watershed installed in 1984. What has come thereafter might be superior in arrangement but is largely lacking DONNA SUMMER’s innocent charm. ELIZABETH FRASER got it yet. Any better the reproductions are, they only degrade the value of the original. Consumerism thrives on the oblivious – every generation needs its own moment. Memories elapse and followers come forward – we are but racing horses of the Eternal ridden by wild ghosts. TORI AMOS is good for something but it only makes her more disorientating. CHICKS ON SPEED are at least plain awful with their artificial arrogance targeted to hurt anyone most democratically. Recently they call it ‘electroclash’, another terrible term to learn, but this afterwave began way back with THE WAITRESSES from Akron, to put the blame on someone. Parody of the burlesque is the biggest crime against taste no HANIN ELIAS will recompense. She’d rather join the Cat Pack and go under the cover. You don’t criticize the competition when you’re a minority badly in need of the likeminded at all. The Atari teenage riot is anyway wiped out. It was an anachronistic empire with nobody to fight back. They came from a conjured future just to lose another revolution. The foundations CHER and NANCY SINATRA laid are unshakeable. Those babes showed the way three decades ago and it’s still ahead. Something terrible has happened to time. What we got is ANI DI FRANCO pissing on TAMMY WYNETTE’s grave. ‘Lilith Fair’ is a fair gratification but not the revolt I’ve been used to. SARAH McLACHLAN is wonderful, I must admit, but has no room for revenge in her luscious heart. You know what was revenge? AMANDA LEAR was revenge. A fascist painter’s surreal puppet. NATACHA ATLAS is an adorable traitor but a most orthodox pacifist. And EMMA SHAPPLIN only a wandering ghost in Gotham. SAINT ETIENNE is not even underground. The situation’s somewhat better balanced in the country–side where solo’s still a star and honky-tonk tantamount to sin. The blue grass of Celtic Africa roots deeper than the drastic plastic of deluxe be-bop indeed. In spite of no depression, the dark side of the prairie moon still emits miracles of the oldest tradition. LUCINDA WILLIAMS, ALISON KRAUSS, or NEKO CASE could happen any time and place. K. D. LANG is more activist than PATSY CLINE but no less pop. And SHANIA TWAIN brings me to luxury tears. Never the less, EMMYLOU HARRIS’ resilient sacrifice won’t have to be overdubbed. The strangest about the cold war babies’ electric ladyland is that all who happen to know her worship NICO like she was their godmother. Although she had no children of her own and would vehemently deny every association with the false disdain of the devil’s sisterhood. She was an individual animal who only cared about herself, unlike PJ HARVEY. I’d better be running back to CONNIE FRANCIS where the boys are, I guess. And forget about BJÖRK like never existed.
VII/5
The feminist crusade against MAURICE CHEVALIER slaughtered everything in its way up to JEWEL. The Playboy Mansion prevails like a medieval tower but in the surrounding world of political reality beauty’s still a crime and denotes ethical deficiency in the person if it’s female. It’s largely considered as a rare form of contagious disease all ugly women of freedom should vigorously protect themselves from. The society of fashion is the sole domain the witch could not penetrate; though demoralizing it from the outside is her central mission. Unattractive women in vogue are rarer than sexy nurses in fact. In our heroic age of image consciousness, the mannequin finally obtained her domineering status along artistes and moviestars. The new-born myth of the supermodel established natural hierarchy and gave back femininity its exclusive rank. A model anybody can be by lucky birth – it requires no particular talent or virtue. If she is a nuclear physicist in the meantime will only add to the flavor of the gossip. Once discovered, she cannot be miscast: she is her own role – a mastress of destiny. No need to perform another character if not wanting to. The top is enough for NAOMI CAMPBELL. Models are the cover of the book of the living reflecting the idealist surface of the decaying content. They are to deceive you. Life for life’s sake has become a redeeming vocation in the media kingdom under Eros’ socialist patronage of gene democracy. Fashion is the new opium for the Atheist masses. Royalty detached from the bloodline, everybody can create his own emporium by mass producing elitarian decadence. The people reduce to the subsidiary fiction of the consumer. The abstract target of an absurd market. It is a very subrealist experiment but entirely lawless. It’s the whims of the hazard that’ll decide the outcome. Status is nothing but a shattering symbol in the land of proliferating alternatives. The beauty queen’s crown is figurative and ephemeral. The third way surely is a loveliest path through the jungle rot of urban exotica but the chances to reach the unknown destination are far below zero. Fashion is a circus of the capital sponsored for its entertainment quality and certainly not a political forum for working class heroism. Vivienne could not change on that – not as if she wanted to. Anarchy is the ultimate showtime but fashion’s dictatorship is a misappropriated metaphor solely. It may incorporate but has no intent to influence the quantitative course of history neither in war nor in peace. Wish without will is a crippled angel. Fame and fortune remain but trademarks, and triumph an inconclusive fairy tale. Biographies with nothing to learn from. The greater the individual is, the lesser can he serve as an example for anything. That’s why people go to preach when witnessing Jehovah – to belong is the major drive of Darwin’s socialized orang-outan. We need gods badly to keep us divided – one world is not enough for none of us. Those that belong to Time though, at least first of all, are quasi redeemed. Not better protected thereby but we shouldn’t ask too much. The quest for intelligence is a pursuit of deception. The UR do not pray for forgiveness, it doesn’t work like that. We pray to ourselves, fuck Jesus. Or learn karate. I’m sorry to talk like a jerk, but that’s what I am. At least I’m aware of it. All of my life I’ve been spying upon the secret of nuclear reincarnation. Trying to find the G-spot of my soul. Which is excruciating if you’re not a gay man. Since the operation is a virtual wedding, I’ve spent all the little energy I could steal on reproducing the original couple out of the genetic and mental misery of my subreal existence. I’ve been doing it with an identically imperfect woman by exploiting her like a dog – not your average love story. I am guilty as Hell but don’t have to be excused. Since I can’t afford, nor could handle, children, I turned my attention towards artificial rebirth: restoration of a single unit out of the two opposites without spreading life. I thought we’ll become our own child in the end in our private theatre of cruelty. That’s what ‘The Ballad of Aleph and Ta’ was meant to antithetically testify. My life with my wife might be the total madness of a pair of ghosts but I’ve been embellishing it into a rehearsal of rebirth out of the pitiable wreckage Me and Her subsequently are. The experiment failed big time but after twenty years of welfare marriage I have attained considerable expertise on this pansexual domain of gender specifism. In spite of her faults, or exactly by them, she trained me into an accredited witchhunter. I can hear the voice of evil through any distortion. Those medieval she-goats filling the neo-post-modern air with their fake chanting about dark forests and corruption are taking my last breath away. And believe me, Sir, it’s got nothing to do with chromosomes and the like. It’s one of Purgatory’s latest nightmare: the blind diva weeping the devil’s tears. All sexes are wrong quite equally and RuPaul couldn’t help it if she tried. Glam rock’s Androgyne reconstruction was very promising for a brief spring of glitter but did not heal a symptom of Gravity’s bipolar disorder. Now the dykes want to marry their partners. And the manpower too. The Stonewall should never have been demolished. People don’t deserve their rights.
VII/6
In an area where you can’t tell police from criminals, no civil war can be waged without a strong alliance of the lower third. Amidst abused children and human trafficking only celebrities care about, all those wonderful SM games degrade to infantile simulation of the Luciferian passion: a most irresponsible evasion of veracity. Nothing I hate more than to preach Atheist moral, but artificial ignorance will sooner conjure up than fend off the demon challenged. It’s not only the silliest of all adult plays, but the most dangerous as well, superstitiously speaking. It could be proven if statistics were a science. The vibes of sex’s reunion with violence pollutes the entire atmosphere of sin gothic gore so magnificently purified. Eros has no power over Nemesis – they aren’t even foes. Let me smuggle into this confidential letter a hidden warning to whom it may concern at this occasional point. Worshipping the demon won’t scare it off. No challenge remains unresponded. You may get satisfaction but you’re sleeping with a strangler. Since the subhuman is enthroned, it rules the rivers of Babylon. The booming of brutality, mainly against women, that dominate internet porn today is exactly as Gloria Steinem fantasized it – an Apocalyptic backlash on premature liberation. Violence spreads violence any transmissive you are – art won’t fool the fool any longer in the land of rape and honey. Exploiting misery won’t take back the streets; reality won’t turn fiction if televised. Video crime’s grown environmental. Cameras should be controlled, not guns. Don’t accidentally think I’d like to censor the common market – I’m a proud deviant and don’t want no reversion. All I want to change is the way we’re happily treading. Everybody who’s seen the future knows what it was, and I really took my share having nowhere else to look – sorry for bragging with it all the time. To read the daily news is more than enough to keep you insane when you meet no one but your neighbors full of hate for ages. I’ve got no illusion left about me, and you, from Bardo to Bardo. My profound impression is that we lost the war, Sir. The borders, they’ve been blurred. You can’t tell performance from document, can you still? Abused teenagers have more cyberspace than horny co-eds. Freedom is infinite, that’s what we always forget. That’s why we must be kept under tyranny not to go berserk unlimited and burn down the landing ground. Since the invention of the wheel we’re toiling to reconstruct the vehicle of return to the City of Eden. Taking as much liberties as affordable. My ideal of wedding is an orgy of sinners – not the abduction of Europa. And entirely feminine-dominated by its sacrilegious principles. Not the most lucrative enterprise in a man’s world. As far as theory goes, I am a passionate traitor to my gender. Ego is a male entity and that’s what we ought to kill for sake of impartial justice. ‘Grosse Idealistische Naturschutz Arbeit’ is a counterrevolutionary undertaking. The end of parole and prison. Divine terror and moral dictatorship. Martial law and holocaust – nothing more, nothing less. At this crucial moment of global capability you have to be a moron to stay skeptic. None is not the god of nihilism. You can’t take a stand in the turbulence of chaos, the 24 argues. You’d better play it safe in the nursery. One for the angel, one for the devil. No revolution did I respect more than the campaign against Miss Whitehouse. It is still ongoing but largely insignificant since the Iron Lady’s removed. Yet the damage they have indeed successfully done won’t be repairable sooner or later. Satan verily owes them an enormous kiss of death. When pop has dropped the seventh veil to reveal its emaciated body, music renounced to play for pleasure alone. In gothwave’s elegant synthesis from electro to metal, beauty is no slighter weapon of pain than assaults of electronic power. TILO WOLFF and WILLIAM BENNETT are righteous brothers in a clockwork orange promoting different ends of the same world. Incurable romantics of the supreme cataclysm.
VII/7
Rock’n’roll, we may conclude it by now, has been the most successful experiment of the Elohim’s processing a civilization in the time-zone. From teenage revolt against authorities it amplified into a total war against heaven and hell. All it had to loose was its innocence and it did it with innermost grace. The exploding void made us mature. Music is concrete enough to be believed in. It can create and destroy with the same attitude. The best of all that jazz is when you cannot tell instant renewal from the ultimate obliteration. Stance and sound are changing together in a mutual influence. The best year to start the countdown from is always 1984 for the children of new speech. The clandestine fulfillment of our favorite prophecy through the retrospective looking glass. The borderline of before and after. We are sailing in no time’s space ever since, speeding desperately up to reach the shore before 2014 – we’ve been given these extra thirty years by the amazing grace of Osh. Six times more than I was bargaining for when I was 33. Very generous but no deal. We’ve made the better half of the journey but did not get any closer to the destination, to face the truth. It’d be most advantageous to see where we’re exactly at but the revelations are god-awful non-sense. That’s why the Buddha is laughing unlike our Christ. We are trained only to pull the loaded carriage of burden the smartest way we can under the big beat’s forcible providence like stallions with no name. The goad is perfectly sufficient to shepherd the sheep towards the goal our brains could not grasp anyway. The Pentagram will do it, just invert the cross. From industrial angst to darkwave spleen, the masters are dying to serve. Whatever happened to GLENN MATLOCK? Technology is a great equalizer of talent but its isolationist tendencies would easily taint the artistically challenged. When music moved in the bedroom from the vacated garage, the spirit of rock got discarded from it. The digital boys with their tattooed women are wired to the teeth but are working on the soundtrack of a movie that’ll never be made any darkly fancied. And on the 242 Front there isn’t a soul who’d care about guiding anyone anywhere. Too busy with defending democracy from the threat of tyrants. Only the disintegration increases without letup. ZOS KIA’s brotherhood is so little even within the realm of industrial noise that could be transported in one ship to Solaris with their fanbase included. The schism between quality and quantity has fully replaced the ancient gap of generations. The DJ domain, on another hand, is more afraid of spotlight than vampires of the Sun. Behind the fanciest nomens and omens of their altering superegos, they prefer to stay in the shadow of the maxi-minimal house. The ceremony’s silent ministry seduces through control – it’s a brand new PR of the elite. A notable opposite to the personal cult of R’n’R’s ancestral empire. The raving masses of the robotomized arena are ordered by skulls without features craving for nothing but professional rank like philharmonics. They do not need that fascist charisma to induce an ecstatic state by scratching the groove. And got nothing to explain, for it is a basically instrumental experiment. What’s the difference between acid jazz and death metal, the sphinx may ask the lost traveler. Any way you answer, you only can be wrong. Creating atmosphere is the greatest artwork no doubt, biomechanically transporting initiated passengers into the sanitizing trance of an epileptic reverie, if that’s what the intelligent dancer needs. The world in and out there is only a gorefest to sample from, with an inexhaustible library of horrors. It’s always very funny, even scary sometimes, and spares the composers from controversial lyrics. In the catacombs of the post-velvet underground stars aren’t supposed to shine. In the meantime the once outcast rock machine has become a friendly factor of the violent environment. The awakening’s turned into a nightmare. FRANKIE KNUCKLES did it.
VII/8
The demise of the renaissance superstar is an irretrievable fact of the postmodern kingdom no metal warrior could detain for too long. The big labels are laboring hard but only midgets are born at this momentum in overwhelming numbers. In the fast increasing quantum of the mechanics, the indicators are failing to function. The overall sclerosis of the electronic body is multiple. We cannot exist without idols yet – true readers buy the writer, not the book. The human character as we know it has been developing through competition. Which is our best forte of all. The problem factor is the inevitable jubilation of mediocrity concomitant to overproduction. The outstanding must fight for domination against the lowest of the low and it’s a shame RAY DAVIES did not have to experience. Going solo won’t save the judgement day – any infinitely the spectrum widens, everyone gravitates towards the center from PETER MURPHY to IAN BROWN. Which makes the place crowded like Hell but there’s no life without it. Hiphop genres must gunfight for presidency like in the wild wild West. Those that wouldn’t do it for the money will remain outcast. The urban vibes are strictly about pre-eminence, in spite of crossing over and destroying everything on the trails of DR DRE. Gangs have always been the foundation of human societies, but in the uptown ghetto where the apostles of rap would kill for a glitch the race-riot reduces to an uncivil warfare of artistic avarice unmasked, with colored supremacy as its sole common perspective. At least they are sincere, unlike the aliens on acid. But their horrible cadence and melisma makes R’n’B as soulless as the frozen canto of the forest witches. Albeit quantity and quality increase in direct ratio, there’s not one goddamn song on the charts to lay down and cry, I guarantee you. Nothing since THE RONETTES. Even TOM SHEAR is too tranquil. We are illuminated and nothing can help it. I’m sure I’m wrong but I’ll be missing the honky tonk blues till the day I finally die. The methods of engineering vary but they’re all based on a deliberate divination of probabilities from BILL LASWELL to RICK RUBIN since sound became the myth of the new church. Idealism after the cold war is a dinosauric remnant and what is a Nobel price to a particular music award! Critics are the new schools of philosophy in the culture of pop. The tumult is so huge, you must stay straight insane like DANIEL JOHNSTON to mark your words. When the audience is insulted if not addressed as motherfuckers on DVD, and that’s unanimous in all kinds of the afterwave repro by now, there must be an ill in communication even DEAN MARTIN would take hard to adapt. “You give me shit, I give you shit” – that’s a FELA KUTI quote from the old continent that’s not even freestyle. I appreciate it unconditionally, but if that’s entertainment then drive-by shooting is a sport. I’ve always been digging for the extremes because I’m impatient, but the phantom of freedom frightens me to a sham rabbit amongst the real wolves. Revolution will roll back into the abyss if cannot rise above the pinnacle. Progress without direction will surely deviate and run the tunnel without ever reaching an end again. I certainly wouldn’t try to convince bloodthirsty cannibals about a more civilized manner of consumption. You can’t promote self-denial to warriors sworn on brutality and sadism, I’m afraid. I should ask CHRIS BARNES about it if I dared to blog. People buy what they want to hear – the capital’s a very simple beast with no need of sophisticated market strategies. Boys just wanna get hurt – concertgoing’s grown equivalent to self-abuse. We are writing the Psychotic Period of the Electrostatic Era. Or else watch the Grammy’s on TV for a luxurious throw–up in the safety of your home. I’ve realized, I have nowhere to go. Planet Hollywood is not my destination. Wrong time, wrong place. Fortunately though, I’m not looking for clues any longer. I keep my eyes closed, and ain’t going to wake up. From the subdued opposition of a circumvented nonentity, I am waging a secret war solely for myself in my phoneless cell with my mate. I’m a universal refugee of ‘NOVA AKROPOLA’, emitting from my Amen corner as long as they don’t discover it. Ticking like a discarded watchman battery running out. It is sheer suffer to listen to another masterpiece.
VII/9
It happened about 1984 as well, parallel to SLAYER and INDOCHINE, that MADONNA entered the main stream of the world like a virgin to change it from within. Not as carefully as the demi-goths but moved by the immaculate ambition of her femininist instincts. She neatly snatched the crown of the moment under the newborn aegis of MTV, providing the people of Babylon with an unprecedented abundance of functional glamour as full of political overtones as Salman Rushdi’s sex life. She’s doing it as a popstar but her historic mission has been to ideologically ravage the foundations of the Mother Church in no lesser league with Satan than the black metallica. Not deliberately like a Wiccan but what difference does it make? Things don’t always have to be so theatrical. When there’s no choice, the rivers meet at the delta. Our Lady indeed, with an integrity unseen since Isis, opened the hugest market for blasphemy never imagined, with a diabolical sense of business SINEAD O’CONNOR did not possess. Applying the same method of non-compromising diplomacy that made Bowie a monster. Since I am a dedicated fashion victim in a phony beggar’s problem skin, I never could but consider her my literal Mutti by the book, seriously anticipating she’ll adopt me one fine day time permitting. Although I’m eight years older, but what does it matter? Nomen est omen is all I’m allowed to know. Especially for the self-baptized traitors to their ancestry. Antichrist comes from the Zohar too, doesn’t he? It may sound defamatory, but she’ll always remain the saintly patron of the Atheist Church and the chief Priestess of Bordel New Jerusalem to me. First Chick of the Valkyrian ride. Untouchable by the mortal majority any deeply despised by a few. Fake she certainly is but that’s super-natural. Charity is a tabloid issue really and the most profitable investment under the bargain. I’d do the same if I could afford it. Even now I often give some change to punks so that they won’t aggress me in the street. I’m just an impotent motherfucker, I guess. Hello, spaceboy. I hate to be so associative, but do not have the time to maintain any structure in this infantile diarrhea of a madman. A letter has no rules, that’s why it’s my favorite medium since expressing myself. Let me stop the Hexentanz for a moment, dear Sir, and tell you something I discovered lately about my status quo in the flesh. Another useless revelation to suck on. 888 does not stand for the Will or the Wish I alternately believed, but the Need: the androgynous third gender of my singular imperson. That I don’t need no possession is my dialectic evidence – I feel so relieved since I understood I am It. The guilt has gone – Osh doesn’t mind if I’m poor or rich. Most unfortunately, I should say, but what can I do? My only need is to be needed. Nuclearly reincarnated though, I still belong to the me-me-me generation. Once an afterpunk, always an afterpunk. Time is dead but rock’n’roll lives on.
VII/10
Embarrassingly sweet under his bitter coating, DJ Helmut is a message freak with an outright opposite opinion about the torture garden than the new brood of Tibetists. And that’s because he’s a most coward host of the paranoid on the rented air of ‘NOVA AKROPOLA’, speaking his dickhead off with no emotional involvement. Cynically positivist and ultimately neuter. When isolation becomes one’s choice of prison, he’ll metamorphose into a virtual parasite: consuming the world ferociously but returning nothing in exchange. The creative input was given to SUNN O))). I’m doing my duty like a bad robot but ain’t motivated to learn to play anything like the black sheep. Lo! The enlightened man is standing in the corner, fuck him. The laziest pig who does not believe in life at all – as Vergilius would put it. I’m always open for constructive self-criticism in my private rehab camp but can’t change the character of a ghost. All I’m trying is to keep the project intact whatever it is. What did not happen, can’t get outdated. I devised all the gestures, wrote all the slogans two decades ago. I’m not a cosmic dancer to multiply them or do something else. That’s why I’m writing this letter from you on industrial music I can’t even categorize without offending half of the Olympus. To simulate doing something like all those madmen with their copybooks. The major problem coming with aging is that I am perfectly asocial by now. Everybody hates me and my guts from skinheads to rastas – I haven’t got the choice by whom to be lynched. I fear from everyone in the world indeed, sans discrimination. I could not attend any gathering; couldn’t stay at the swellest party. I must discreetly avoid any social opportunity therefore – I cannot handle a single company. On the other hand, my intrinsic agoraphobia has grown to psychotic proportions. Recurring visions of stampede are haunting me, doctor. Can edit them in my videos. I’m lethally intimidated by the news channels. And more paranoid than Franz Kafka dead. I’d cross the street non-stop to avoid passersby when I have to go to see a doctor. That’s because of the Mohawk, but it’s the same with the rock-operetta. I’m immensely tired of answering the question what am I doing to the curious salesgirls of my small dreamtown. I’d tell the cheapest lies of some artistic background not to seem such a mystic man, but feel very bad thereafter – I am sincerely craving to be somebody. Cannot play this ugly part too dignified much longer. I’m doing it for fifty years now, man, and that’s all I’m doing. The elegant bum. Good actor but I don’t know his name. I’m only home as DJ Helmut at ‘NOVA AKROPOLA’ where the enemy’s at least invisible. Prefer the radio a lot to television, let alone those video-conferencings. At least I don’t have to scream and clap if like something like a zoo-dweller. Live is not my milieu at all. Fancy this disorder: born to be a universal snob I could only bear to be a special guest but there isn’t a thing that’d make me any special in the world. I’m an unseen servant sans talent nor skill, without a CV of any sort at my advanced age. Virtually unborn. How I fucked it so well up is ranking a miracle. I must be an anathema. I used to call my karma Catch-24 but it doesn’t make sense. It’s a genetic trap beyond logos. I am a miscarriage censored by birth. The story of a black star. The Word without a bio, broken by Thor’s constructive metalhammer. I wish I were STEVE NAGHAVI.
VII/11
Since a very old student of the alternative school on grade one forever, I’m keeping a meticulous balance between machine and metal in my playlists vastly limited to musics I can affordably find. I hate fragmentation but don’t like fusion either – making it very hard to remain sonically correct. The only thing I appreciate is the revolutionary content due to the bigotry of my uprising perhaps. Yet only deiciders are carrying that anti-flag. Fascist synthpop is too Narcissistic. Which makes them superior of course, but much less reliable. It must be another sad effect of my conditioning that I only can see the scene in military terms like a one-dimensional futurist. Looking through G.I.N.A.’s single eye I helplessly view these tattooed men and women as a spiritual army. Warriors of Ra to name someone, forming their battalions by genres. How very stupid, would the bloggers say. That’s why I don’t want to communicate. Though I’m a living mistake, I cannot stand criticism. It’s probably part of the darned package. I have no muscles but circulate a dictator’s blood. An amateur centaur but alert like a thief. The moment is now any soon it is. Please, don’t take it any personal, Sir, but I need to repeat the mantra one more last time and will never mention it again, promised. Time is dead. Dead and decomposing. And when Time is dead, new trends may be born in abundance but nothing will graciously die as Lady Stardust. The Great Noontide is right above our head. Changes store up and simultaneously multiply, increasing the tension towards the hyperblast. Dusk is Vamporium’s Aurora. I adore Dracula more than Jesus, he is the Buddha of my exile, but I’d possibly kill it if I met one. What cannot die should not exist – things ought to live on in memory. The white pack of black metal is slaughtering the lamb for decades now and it’s still bleeding. Rock’n’roll’s no longer a virgin like THE MONKEYS but an overexperienced whore á la BEHEMOTH – there is evolution in the turbulence. But when every season’s a new generation on the almighty designer’s accelerating agenda, it gets very difficult to flexibly follow the rush. More difficult than to dictate it. Death metal surely is the best example of afterlife reunion against the beating world from Helsinki to Santiago, incorporating all the folkloric elements in the enterprise of domination. As a savage nation we are little bitty pretty one since the core hardened. But for want of a center to migrate towards, everyone’s laying his own foundation on the trembling ground – which is useless like every heroism. We are revolving by multiplying parallels to our African drum patterns. Amidst the overall blackening of metal, new trash bands are formed every day like we were ’84, all as great as EXODUS or more. But the relevance factor, you know, is missing. It’s because of mutation’s lousy control I should say, but it rather looks like a zombification process going on. We’re growing like sown in different epochs all together now. It’s very interesting but too bad. It is in fact an unexpected tragedy that’ll kill the spirit of music blessed to advance. And that’ll be the day when we’ll die. All I can hope is that I’m wrong as usual. I always wanted to be a false prophet like GARY HOLT. But trash is only a metal debris, it’s happening on all the other domains of style even heavier. Punk rock’s experiencing its thirteenth generation. Hillbilly blues is living its heydays. It sounds like Heaven but it’s a carnival of Hell for the undead to use the metaphor properly. It’s not what they call postmodern, don’t they? It’s the end of nostalgia. The death of PEPPINO DI CAPRI. Everything’s reborn again and again in the cradle of spoil and filth – last year’s novelty is this year’s retro. We are approaching total collision big time. The dead shall rise from their graves. And ROB ZOMBIE will lead them.
VII/12
On the common marketplace of the real world at green peace the forces aren’t any less self-aggravating. It’s amazing to see the affinity of the most dissimilar epitomes of old and new, all eager to blend into one grandiose harmony like the Mumbai film music we sample. Though the initial credits go back to Western lounge exotica, the transglobal wave has been surfed and dubbed by mighty tackheads for the new age of interstellar overdrive with a profusion beyond compare. MARK STEWART’s mafia was really ruthless when it came to monopoly. I’ve never been a fan of those all-encompassing tendencies of pseudo-leftfield minimalism Enoist renegades liberated on us in tribute to VANGELIS. I like fascist cinema though haven’t seen yet one. The death industry of ‘NOVA AKROPOLA’ is based on an utterly different work ethic than the unrestricted overproduction of psychotropic ambience. It is RUDY RATZINGER versus SUNS OF ARQA. Where you can’t choose between MELOTRON and STRATVM TERROR. And it’s not because I like pain and suffer but because I don’t. I like black psychedelia because it soothes my soul; it’s that simple still. Music is to heal. But I’m longing for the darker ages like a neogoth vampire out of his mind – cannot learn to use all these new gadgets. I sincerely enjoy grindcore if it’s good but can’t forget when I loved THE PSYCHEDELIC FURS. If trash and glam were a hostile dichotomy I would have a harder time. Fortunately rap rules, so the enemy is clearly defined, though insinuating everywhere. You can tell them from the way they walk. Though nothing I hate more than the color of my skin, they turned me into an individual supremacist. The last of the Mohicans. Unlike JAMS I naturally adore, I’d never play THE FUTURE SOUND OF LONDON without saxophone in it. I don’t have that much sense of humour. Already ART OF NOISE made me very uncomfortable. The width of my circle isn’t all that wide. It goes from TORBEN SCHMIDT to JUSTIN BROADRICK. Flowers of plastic, flowers of ice. That’s the spectrum of G.I.N.A.’s Naturschutz Arbeit. I am a contradictionary DJ with no tolerance for drum’n’bass. We need a Marchant to cut a path through the jungle but all we got is speed and trance. And I’m so damn tired, I can’t even fall. I have to be carried even down. Time changed everything. When Ra became a traitor to the Sun. We should write a ballad about it.
χ
VIII.
VIII/1
To outline the frontiers of industrial music within the music industry on the sonographic map of the fields of Nephilim would be an awesome but pointless job – borders are only drawn to indicate the point of crossover. Nobody wants to be categorizable like TOM JOBIM. Not CAETANO VELOSO for one. Every noteworthy debutant of the rocks is looking for a discernible identity. Same in rapland. Artists’ innate urge is to became an own vocabulary entry, turning from the object into a subject of the comparison. Everybody has the right to write his sentence, that much is true. The creative spirit wants to share what he’s got – it’s more important than money even on FLAVOR FLAV’s agenda. Each person wants to be the main example – someone to be imitated. Income’s only a proof for the message gotten through. People don’t choose their music – the music chooses them. It’s chemical as anything. Everything recorded is an industrial product, first of all. Even Händel when remastered. Even the most obscure field recordings. What we concretely call so since our latest genesis, from the tiny yarn of post-punk reproduction, has grown into a house of many rooms, some of them still empty. It became, probably by magic, the largest spectrum ever encompassed by the alternative underground of latter-day Stakhanovites. It stretches from MZ 412 to FOETUS, to coin a paradigm. It established the vastest realm of experimental bliss for the striking class, extending from ritual noise to hypnotic rave to military folklore: everything that comes with that hint of submissive seduction to it. That’s the only link between SUMMONING and DARGAARD but it works. The industrial people are a cloned nation of None from dark ambience to hard techno. Its tribal proliferation aren’t defined by a particular rhythm pattern like dance crazes of old – anything can be industrial from glam to doom if opted for the right attitude: the quest for a perfect equilibrium of work and love. The river’s flowing berserk but there are great bridges built over the troubled waters of the global whirlpool as usual. So the smartest exit remains to call the whole tumult “rock’n’roll” from UNHEILIG to UNHOLY, ignoring the idiom’s widespread abuse by Britpop and the Indies. One word is enough for all of us at this moment prolonged sine die. Bringing order in the chaos would be a foolish anti-antithesis which is the last thing I’m intent to donate – just in the contrary, I’m set out to finish with this back-and-forth advancement before it all comes to an ultimate halt. Defiance only strengthens the enemy. We must be sly and tender and never capitulate. G.I.N.A. knows; it is entirely my fault that the UR could not be happening. I never could put no theory in any praxis, I have to confess. My fear and hate of violence keep me gravely controversial. Consider me a paranoid man in panic and it’s not a comic strip. I’m shaking my chains but all I encounter is a wall of silence overall. I’m not doing the yellow any longer, Sir; I’m faded to grey as instructed. And it is not a camouflage – it is the true visage of a lonesome refugee on the hide. Blame it on the new wave. I’m an autodidact but do not learn easily. I’m not promoting departure because I’m a suicidal maniac, but because I wanna live unlike the dead. I am here to profit from. The Antichristian redemption is here.
VIII/2
All of my phobic life on the skids I’ve been trying to decipher the hidden messages of SKINNY PUPPY but of no avail. Maybe should play them backwards but don’t know how. Like smart white rats escaping from the sinking timeship, everybody’s construing his own life-boat out of the wreckage. Gathering but for festivals to show up their skills and share the files. To organize a party of controlled evolution that I am dreaming of would outrage even the most scientifically inclined. Art will be art. Everybody better than anybody else. Rock’n’roll is not music for cemeteries only but a rather metaphysical championship for world domination. A post-athletic competition for reproducing homo superior on a wide wide scale. Not only a theatre of pain but the passion of reality too. Rap is sporting the same posture but solely from the ego’s prospects. Except for racist vengeance there is no ideological background to it. Not as if there was such in the metal community. The spheres of sound are hollowed. The real confrontation is between innovators and plagiarists since Cro-Magnon. It is the same beer since 1455. The future can’t be planned – the pentagram was expropriated to delude the proletariat. I was ignorant and misunderstood the situation. Progressive or regressive or both, the hordes of music is not a grey army but gangs of thieves under the Zeitgeist’s benign protection. Though downloadable for free to the savvy, the electric warriors would sooner fight for civil rights than organize for an offensive against the humanist abuse of the monetary fund. They do not know what love’s about. Promotion is the midpoint of the trade – the capitalist equivalent of communist propaganda. In the burger kingdom of materialist democracy knights and pirates are pushing elbows at the turntables. The plumes are legally borrowed since copy became everybody’s right. Talent can’t do without skill, but skill very well can without talent. ‘NOVA AKROPOLA’ is an old-school factory of the industrial revolution where pleasure and labor are a single concept of deification. Only deserters and traitors are welcome: the UR of the solar system. That’s how I select – very pretentious indeed. The sole dividing line in my playlist is drawn by the dream power. I like mercenaries but hate volunteers. When rather violently imposing their messages on their buyership, every popstar is a cultural terrorist from PHIL COLLINS to TRACII GUNS when it comes to the monkey of business. Quality is honorable, but man’s cosmic worth on Earth is measured by his income taxes. Art slaves are ranked by their market value – the magnitude of influence – and it couldn’t be more fair on Gravity’s part. Intelligence is our currency. It also is our wondrous weapon to fend up infinity’s formidable temptation. Though crafting an alternative society is more impossible than to stop evolution, the contrary federations of the beat are firmly held together by the electromagnetic superseed Osh planted in Memphis, Tennessee. A blast that quaked the world, launching the age of nuclear reincarnation. Rock’n’roll, the music, is best perceived as a continuous seism of the Middle Earth, meticulously registered on its own Richter scale. A tectonic transition of the chauvinist mind. It was a long long way from THE SWINGING BLUE JEANS to NEUROSIS. Yet we don’t regret a mile of it.
VIII/3
What is so quintessentionally common in the arena warfare of rock’s global conquest is the clandestine spirit of a paramilitary operation; kept largely unconscious for security’s sake, of course. See what happened to ADAM ANT. The elitarian discotheka, as opposed to headbangers balls, is an Utopian nostalgia only novel in its reconstructivist reverbs. I’m not going to mourn MISSING PERSONS herewith but it’s right there where the new wave split into parallel streams soon opposing, creating the whirlpool we enjoy at the Millennium’s very dawn they say we’re at. The synthpop troops of the pitchfork project did not execute the Blitzkrieg assured but only dug new trenches for a static warfare producing souvenirs for grandchildren. The encounter of the ghost of proletcult with the phantom of gothica was a dramatic bang but did not change the course of the tide. As rock’n’roll turned into a vampire that’ll obviously never die as predicted, the glamorous ones lost their touch with the trash generation and new frontlines set up. In today’s Total Transylvania, where rocky horror’s no longer a picture show, the leap from shock to gore is unnoticeably brief. Zombies are devouring bleeding hearts at every street corner. Serial killers are the new idols of depravity. The neighbors are peeping but baby bride is still afraid of the haunted house. The people as we know them would rather lynch Dr. Kevorkian than reconsider death as man’s basic human right. The judgement is neon but the age couldn’t be darker. If I wanted to change things, I wouldn’t know where to start. Goodbye Jesus/Hello Judas is not my identity crisis. I ought to be a third kind if anything at all; I remember the program very well. “You only can be something if you want to be me,” Osh told me so. It is his message to the UR I’m charged to broadcast. All I am missing is some executive power, but the Bargain supplies me none. I’m only watching the world and my girlfriend going insane but cannot do a step to save them. My chains are heavier than power metal, and I’m so sorry for lamenting all the time. It is so good to talk to you, Sir, I want to profit from it. This eBlackmail is written from Hell to Hell – a strictly internal communication with no response from above anticipated. I’m not praying to the Bargeneers – I am disclosing them both for the benefit of an apolar unity. It’s the reconstruction of the ancient Godhead of None before/after the Monad. The big zero of nothing. The source of origins. The vehicle of treason is driving me home. Since I am writing to myself like the last man on Earth, I can care very little if it’ll ever be read. All the Word needs is to be written. It sounds infantile, but that’s all that I am. It’s my single virtue. The mark of the lamb. Though this is already electric mailing, it’s sadly reminiscent of those empty envelopes you would send me from Amsterdam with the acid under the stamp in the heroic days of SPIONS Inc. If I could get back there and start again! When my juvenile spirit was soaring high over the Wall. How I believed in 1984! And a happy everafter under the aegis of The Party. I know I was a fanatic fatalist, but those were the best years of my life. I thought it the beginning, not the end. But nothing happened to the first five-year plan. Only useless revelations bringing in no money. The same with the following ones. I’m still trying to orientate by The Map but the Building isn’t built, not even founded yet. How long am I wanted to live? The Ministry of Reproduction is a dead cow without the Red Bull of the Party. The prophecy fulfilled itself without my involvement – I should be proud of it but there ain’t no balm for the deep wounds of failure. Everything we got today came thereafter, but in fact nothing has happened since the year of change. We grew old, that’s all about it. FREDDIE MERCURY even had to die. I certainly misunderstood mine, but can’t understand at all the new generation repenting for their ancestors’ sins. I’m nobody’s grandfather. But I’m absolutely sane beneath the costume. I sincerely don’t believe in moral dictatorship – I mean, the possibility of it. Just keep repeating the old slogans like a meaningless parrot. I’ve been drowning in the backwaters of history under the deluge of informations ever since I’m born again dead. I’ve learned to prefer the closet to platform – habits degenerate. Though fighting against it with all my scanty might, I’ve acquired the sweet taste of solitude. I’d only go out if kidnapped by aliens like the fucking Rael, but no such luck. And would never dare to consult the cards. The Atheist Church prohibits mysteries. TODAY IS THE DAY is my only hope but they too are pollution freaks.
VIII/4
Though the clockwork’s out of control, whola lotta shaking’s going on over the ruins of the tower. But it’s only after-hours – no cause for celebration. The safety dance of the illuminati only prolonged the agony of angels – twenty years of time-consciousness and no resolution in sight. Only the geopolitics shifted dramatically; our future dreams are darker than ever. Under the reign of new technologies revolution is an artifact turned inwards. The hole is closing in; doomsayers are always right. Linear time only exists on paper. We live in a negative era when return to nature remains the only escape for dedicated pagans. The twentieth century opened the doors of perception but closed the windows of prospect. You’ll never glimpse God without your head, vainly are you squinting. You’ve got to put the window in your eye, like they say. God is the power of seeing and the farther you can, the closer you get to Hell. Ask Ingmar Bergman if you don’t believe me. Intelligence is a penalty but can make you rich. Sound is the ethereal embodiment of the Zeitgeist materialized by the recording industry. Rock’n’Roll was Thor’s hammer dropped into the Mississippi – the beginning of new selection spreading like wildfire. I’m proud to be represented by Elvis before the Judges – it makes me feel worthwhile. Ecce homo novum. He died like a hound dog too but that makes no difference. The Christ only won by staging his sacrifice. What holds the varied factions of sonic violence so firmly together is the common will of the beat behind its various patterns from New Orleans to Lhassa. The collective longing for the perennial carnival in a non-criminal world. The bridge between the new age and the old one is a dangerous route only the seraphim may appropriately tread. Most MC’s only care about control, leaving the lonely crowd a soulless mass of recreation. Every dancer should always be aware of the steps he’s taking. What are you dancing for is the question from Baptist church to mosh pit. Music has always been a medium of oblivion from lounge to marches. It is our greatest gift but not for free: we are tuned and obliged to enjoy it with a rage. It might secrete something that adds to our flavor. It is our happiness they consume, not our misery – make no mistake about that. There’s no room for losers in the City of Eden. Beauty is the currency and not the beast; nothing’s gonna change the primal deal. Don’t believe what they show you on TV. Bad taste is the sole remaining danger but it can be eliminated. As long as you craft with courtesy and good will, nothing can go wrong. In spite of new embargos and the green Internationale, evolution’s going global with the speed of light. Popular culture has reached economic power as essential for the man as oil for the machine. We are at the great intersection under siege from all quarters – the only way to advance, if we want to, is through a quantum leap. This is the major premise of The Party campaigning for Luciferian judgement. But only the sage get it right and they are the tiniest minority of all. ALLERSEELEN, SKINLAB, SCORN. Even if they joined, what could we do? Hard anguish is a good medicine, but none shall survive the raid without shelter. It’s not enough to kill yourself in advance. You’ve got to be a terrorist or stop playing guitar. The Atheist Church is not alternative to the Golden Dawn but its exploitation. The negation of all that was and will be. Only assholes wanna live for ever.
VIII/5
Blasphemy is not an invention of black death – it’s been the second core of every rebel trend throughout the century. Rock’n’roll’s evil seeds were sown to get rooted in the fertile culture of gospel and honky-tonk. Everything is blasphemous that makes you feel better, according to the children of Abraham. R’n’R did not invent the wheel of time but taught an ideal way to drive it. Gothic vampires and industrial people walk hand in hand when they come to metal. The organism is healthful and prone to fuse, by my opinion. Peoples are sorted by the things they attach to. It is an electro-magnetic tunnel we cross in a stylish reconstruction of the twelve tribes, dear Bardo. But that’s another letter really. It won’t be written, I’m afraid. If you could step in my shoes for a moment you’d see how much bigger they are then my feet. Frankly, I cannot walk in them. Yet can’t take them off either, like cursed in a fairy tale. Clearly, I should never have ventured to try, but they tempted me with cheesecake, Sir, the most furtive way. Standing at paralyzed attendance before None, obsession’s remained my single saving grace so far – I’d strongly advise it to every junky if I were an anti-psychiatrist. Lunacy is the best possible state of the turbulent mind: the most you can be in Sodomian exile. That’s what keeps mankind alcoholic since Noah. Vainly might they have read “Justine” á propos, those pseudo-sadist torturemongers wouldn’t get the slightest clue out of it. And strangely enough in the fetish era, there’s no master to tell them what possession is about. The air’s teeming with evil portent but no one’s keen on uniting the methods under one sign large enough for all schools and fronts. It must be a backlash on individualism. Manic sampling and mutual remixes in three versions are only fun with drugs and guns – after all it’s not a privilege of the hiphop tribe on the quest. The toys are very few and basically the same for all infants of the overpopulation. I am not prejudiced towards any house, but without revolution involved, I can’t dance to it. You can mix the Horst Wessel March in the big bad beat of the organic disco, it won’t bring me to tears. No DJ will fool me again – woe to the nonaligned. I’m deeply disinterested in what DAVID MORALES is up to next and the figures of sales. What do you expect from a retarded ex-punk-rocker wannabe? I belong to the jungle rot forgotten with my dysfunctional compass. Without the actual North Pole – “the Gӫthenburg sound” – I couldn’t orientate at all. Rock’n’roll, the original unifier of the colored youth, has been splitting into multiple personalities ever since BUDDY HOLLY dead. And don’t get deceived, it is no widening of the horizon. Only a multiplication of the gaps increasing the tension within. The progress of the rolling rock is certainly astonishing for B. B. KING but even symphonic black is just the everlasting echo of the original blast. Since the digital kids moved into the grimoire from the garage, we sure understand the Bardo much better. Equal thanks go up to BAUHAUS and THE MISFITS. We are wanderers, but always well guided. Yet the sound vision brought no peace to the mind under attack. The Vamporium is as perplexed as anything, just better looking than Miss America. Of all genres we differ today, power electronics is the strangest brew. It also is one of the oldest fertilizers, but still virulent due to the perennial transfusion of its contaminated blood. Its fierce negation of both art and entertainment through militant subversion is still the best detergent for dirty brains. I would name WHITEHOUSE a major influence any time if someone asked me. HAUS ARAFNA taught me more about bloody electronics than THE HERBALIZER ever could if so wanted. Industrial noise with totalitarian vocals is the most charming recipe of destruction ever combined – it’s the pure white rap with no racist overtone. Menace is not a novelty item in our avantgarde epoch, but what RAMLEH did to the broken flag without a hint of irony is simply priceless. What the lukewarm genius like JOHN ZORN’s isn’t groomed to comprehend is the import of hate under the law of love. It’s not the ultimate balance we seek. The war is declared on useless harmony. LES BAXTER and EDGAR VARÈSE must be laughing in their common grave.
VIII/6
Black is black and grey is grey. The skeletons are out of the closet. It is a catastrophe we ought to put up with. I wish I could soar higher with FELIX DA HOUSECAT or DIMITRI FROM PARIS but ‘NOVA AKROPOLA’ does not welcome the heroes of light. I have to go to Hell with Abaddon’s incarnates in stead. But I can’t honestly complain. I’ll be damned but I’m a lot more at home here without massive attacks. As long as I have SÖLDNERGEIST I’m OK. Just immensely tired of the global aging of my second skin. Can’t see no deliverance in the sonic youth’s professional chaotica. So I sleep all day without getting any thing done – I’m on strike, but not voluntarily. I’m illegally sick. That’s somnambulism in the Maschinenzimmer, I presume. Ready but dead, waiting that someone clicks the switch. I can’t start myself up, that’s my major problem. I am gravely dependant on the operator. Unlike normal artists, I need to be needed to function. Which is hardly optional under the circumstances provided by the demon of my character. Unfollowable leader of the solitary, I never could work as a reasonable example – not for the brightest stars. My Golgotha is a beggar`s passion – can`t be performed without a lunatic`s dignity. The Elohim must be crazy – I`m really trying but cannot go insane so easily. I am utterly miscast for this awkward role. It`s nice to be the son of None, but bereft of any sign of existence. I never took orders, that`s okay, but never gave a slightest command either. My only cry went out for help, blackmailing the creative elite to save their savior. Calling IGGY POP to rescue his big brother from the never-never. That`s all there was to the campaign, I must confess. Selfish ambitionism. The shame`s on me but I`m not apologetic, I`m sorry. I did the most an untalented actor could for the goddamn play. Probability promised a miracle but let me down when it came to the bargain. Craving, craving but never reached the point of intervention. The amount of my dismissals is beyond proportions – the exact same number as my inane trials. A true record. Hail the Super Zero. I gambled very little but exclusively lost. I can be happy if I got any proof for them at all. Usually it`s only the silence of the void. Yet I’d leave with a spotless conscience if I had to today – though wasted my supreme being on phobias, I’ve never left the path of universal treason. I obeyed to Time with all of my limited abilities. I was hippy, I was punk, and take a look at me now enshrouded by depressive doom like a Viking teenager. I`m my own word and keep standing by. Maybe undeserving the love of the bride, I`ll surely remain the first member of The Party of the Living Dead till the day I die. Still hoping not to be the last as well. I never wanted it for me. I feel like a circle without width – a fucking period after the sentence. You can’t finish what you haven’t started and I’ve been waiting much too carelessly. I`m a rotten dreamer, mea maxima culpa. What no one deigned to warn me about was the biological clockwork. I was battling squadrons of paranoias all of my socalled life but could never imagine to grow older than 33. I thought rock’n’roll automatically delivers its devotees. How wrong I was is almost legendary. Now it has irreversibly come to it; I see it in the eyes of the beholder. ‘Look at that old guy with the Mohawk’ is the mantra of my street life. I still could be the new Dracul on the zombie block, but do I want that really? It’s horrendous to long so long without an evidence for a prestige freak like me. I might be a one-ape zoo but deep inside I’m a very social animal. And still know about nihilism much more than the MAUTHAUSEN ORCHESTRA. My only reason for not given it up yet is the weakling`s fear of a worse afterlife. Even if there’s nothing nowhere, we must play it as safe as we can, I believe. You’ll go to the debtors’ jail if leaving no hiatus behind. You may hang yourself only on the top of your game.
VIII/7
Music has not changed the world but the world did change the face of music to its dreadful likeness since the war of independence was won. It’s the environment that’s deranging – art can only function as its distorting mirror. It’ll never dictate the transition – we’d better stop deluding ourselves. Though it’s all that’ll remain, décor is purely the image of the event, intrinsically aggrandizing. The forces of history are significantly lower. There’s not much of the grand illusion left – count down today’s Top Ten and abandon every hope. There’s no future in England’s dreaming. Death metal didn’t create death cult, just appropriately scored it. It was the most adequate way to sail after the new waves died off. When collectivism receded to the egoists’ oasis. Nordic warpaint replacing the cheerful make up of motley crews, a new race of immortals was born in the eternal winter of return wearing the ugly deity’s angry grimace. Not coming as they are. Covering the prettiest features in haze of anonymity – only the hair remained transcendently metal. The sub-genre’s lethal serenity often misjudged humorless was in total contrast with KISS` Sabbath-breaking kidmetal: shock rock turned real scary played by white ghosts of a never-been generation. Plus the volume and the speed and the theatrics of mayhem. A carnival of destruction. Most unfortunately however, the Satanic stormtroopers’ innate obsession with carnage makes it most unlikely to ever involve them in a war for justice I feel disposed to wage. Maybe “on” would better do yet – the old spirit of anarchy might still be lingering in the grotto. Promoting the kill with amazing fervor, the self-made spawn of evil hasn’t got the vaguest definition of the enemy at the gates. Total hate of mankind is never enough for a new republican. What`s promoted is bloodshed for bloodshed’s sake: the same as it ever was, minus the pretext. That`s D.E.V.O.. I like brutal gore like I was a wild child, but its marketability astounds me a lot. I surely am a wretched idealist but rather genocide to murder any day now. Unlike ghetto thugs rapping for their bosses, Norse body-builders are as apolitical as pagan warriors. They favor fictitious pasts to future legends – the smartest escape since the crimson king. Ideology is reserved for the mortal – GENOCIDE ORGAN are positivist neuters. No intelligent bruitist can distinguish the sound of execution and lustmord any more and it gives pathos a bad name. How far can we go is the only cool question left. The answer is yes. Very very far. The devil has no limits – the downward spiral`s endless. We should have learned it by now but we cannot care. Human history is an evolution of violence and it`s increasing alright by the arms technology we`re discovering. Slaughter is the major fun of every tribe and woe beget the one who`d deprive them from it like nasty web censors. Peace on Earth is impossible – the ProChrist brilliantly confirmed that one. Let Satan rule what is his dominion; we only wanna get out of here. Beyond the perennial clash of futurism and retro, the living dead is condemned to the most hypocritical verve ever created in the valley of the dolls. The popular suicides we believed every word alive will turn into infantine losers if they live up to them in the eyes of survivors. A repellent example. Almost nobody`s indispensable and everyone can be forgotten in three days if missed out on rising. Cult status is valuable but far below the collective memory`s critical mass. Fame is like a halo above the skeleton`s defleshed head – something to strive for. Art needs its buyers like politics wants your vote – only true saints like the field commander can get along uncorrupted in the marketplace criminally mismanaged. The cosmic bargain is very pragmatic – the extent of the hiatus left behind will give soul the energy necessary to crossing the Bardo swift enough. You won`t rest in peace whilst misinterpreted throughout centuries either. You ought to clearly speak and seal your testament. From the whole Brit new wave, only ROBERT SMITH could relatively overcome the cult-mass dichotomy. And MARTIN GORE, of course, but it doesn`t matter at all. They`re only exceptions. The gentle giants will all go down with the enthronment of MOBB DEEP anyway. I`m looking forward to the real Hell on Earth that`ll make even AC/DC tremble like a flower.
VIII/8
Of all the seductive genres of precious metal, funeral doom is perhaps the best illustration for the rock`n`roll of the Bride. It developed along the speedy grind of hardcore to slow the tempo viciously down on its own path. The map of modern music is composed of parallel worlds like the Earth was flat, but they`re all are going the same one way in an alliance of opposites. It is a very new phenomenon, Sir! We are reaching the final stretch of nuclear reincarnation where technicality is all. The dawn of Black Eden where beauty kills the beast. Doom music is massive defense: resignation without submission. Half-Viking – half Goth, it is a mutated centaur of dark androgyny. A grandiose requiem to the world welding classic and folk into the drony march of the undead. It`d cross the frontiers for references only, and looting them with no return in exchange. Whatever jazzy or experimental, true doomsayers will always have death on their mind. Not because they`re morbid but because they aren`t. The surest sign of the end will be when the rock stops rolling, Zarathustra spoke thus. The freeze. And here we go on the cosmic parade: towards the white noise of black silence like marching mercenaries. Very well indeed. Every remarkable subgenre has a doom section to it these pristine days of the Apocalypse, forming great cooperatives of the invisible web. Composing the collective soundtrack of the universal picture. Although mostly hiding in the catacombs of Malibu, the prophets of downfall are far not as few as pretend to be. And admirably synchronized from the tower of torture. The dividing line is between new age and the old one – recreation vs. reproduction – but no one can draw it any straight. It`s not a musical but a sheer moral issue. My severance is between Atheists and Pagans, but it`s the most obscure of all. What is clear is the swampmetal of KALMAH from the middle earth. Rock me Amadeus, I can`t bear this pressure of the hollow. I feel called upon to recruit but the sheep is a reluctant bunch - nobody wants more than what he`s got. The new intelligentsia of neofolk don`t have no illusions left. They wouldn`t like to form an elite corpse of the UR if so proposed, I`m afraid. They`re businesswise family guys like ROGER KARMANIK, gracefully aging behind them black labels. A brand new society with no secrets attached. Doom is Satan’s house music for the minimalist minority. Even if melodieuse and kitschy, it`ll always carry that deconstructive beat of a solitary heart chillout DJ`s are freezing from. The racing hunt for the Judgement`s ultimate sound is an underground Jagdfest, as opposed to the relaxative downtempo of the eternal hypnosis. Trancemusic, any exotic and mystic, is badly missing the charisma of cruelty that tells between ENIGMA and RECOIL. You`d better nurse with wound than heal the sick. Doom is the iceberg created by the convergence of cold waves that`ll never give in to the rage of the Sun. Its porcupine tree is purist at its ramifying roots like GRIEF or WINTER were – unlike symphonic black, their psychodelia is plainly regressive. Nobody would have thought in 1984 that St. Vitus` dance will generate a craze as lasting as samba for the undermasses of a final requiem. Time`s changed everything when passed away. The single green theory of HAROLD BUDD’s visionary ambience only the Buddha could afford figuring was incorporated by Thor`s most militant warriors, sometimes not changing a note. Just painting the pastorale back to black. This one at least was a winning conquest; I`d like to know who started. It`s not always the one who`ll baptize. DIETER MOEBIUS maybe, though he remained in the light. It`s very hard to take sides in this amorphous transmutation. If you try to balance on the tiny borderline you`ll have a multiple fall breaking all your legs. The difference is easy to hear but hard to say in the melting pot at full boil. One has to rely on his deepest instincts to get by. Taste is something that doesn`t come through the DNA – it`s certainly conditional but the choice is thine. More than ever in the socialist wonderland of tele-communication. Taste is the seed of treason planted in the good heart of the chosen many. The crown's duly worn by MY DYING BRIDE.
VIII/9
The best advice I ever got – from myself, of course, since nobody talks to me – was to always look for the rockin' rebels when making up a playlist. It includes TURBUND STURMWERK and NOVEMBER'S DOOM, to take one of the eight axes, without breaking no rule of opposites. I'm an obsessive unionist but would never blend or mesh up. I often have to use the term but Osh knows I loathe everything experimental. The space between COVENANT and GRUNTSPLATTER is wide enough for me. But no room for indie whiners and futurefunk. Without blasphemy implied I'm not interested in the holiest art. You don`t have to be a Satanist to be my guest, but SIGUR ROS and MOGWAI may as well go to Hell on the next midnight train. Everything that moves degenerates by extension – it`s a natural law of our backward progress' strange advance. The larger the institute, the more likely will it be run by corrupted idiots. What rises must fall under Gravity`s sway: nothing shall remain but the individual. That's why CON-DOM would never capitulate. Escape is a shame but nothing else protects thee grey wolves of vengeance. Another bizarre feature of the momentum is that the more inauthentic is an album cover with their demonic cavemads posturing in the woods, the better may be the recording contained. Smells like a new rat. The quality of raw death is very tough to reduce – it’s the most consistent genre of r’n’r’s Barbarian invasion ever unleashed so far, contesting the last norms of our sham civilization as blood-drenched killers of the lamb. I’d hate to analyze the improbability of hazard, but that it was with EMPEROR that PRINCE finally lost the revolution is beyond dispute. In the eerie realm of the succubi terror is the king. Seduction has changed its method for instant domination. Who don’t need it don’t deserve it – the deal couldn't be fairer. The Elohim have no soul. I'm sorry to bring it up all the time, but this violence is killing me. I am an Antichristian but appreciate Christian metal too, though couldn't tell it from the Satanist ones. Boys stop joking, there is None to worship. Deicide accomplished – the time has come for the Atheist takeover. Why to glorify torture that's all around you is beyond my dialectics. Where is the avantgarde? Aren't masses served well enough by their media? Gory kidnaps are newsstand's faves, next to celebrity gossip. It seems without horror life would wane away. No B-movie can replace the real thing since nouvelle vague. The genre`s booming and nobody’s afraid. Crime has been the core of human life since we were all cannibals, but has never been popularized so gratuitously. Nothing sells better than the gruesome, that's the lesson of Saxon art since `Beowolf``. If there’s nothing about mutilation, a new band is not interesting. But you may not put bare breasts on the cover if not for controversy’s sake in the age of barely illegal child pornography. That's what they presaged as the great turbulence, I believe. Purgatory is the oddest place to visit for an uneducated alien these doomdays. I’m so bewildered I could die. Now that even porn turned into rape like Jupiter's second coming for Europe. They take away my last resorts but don't give me no money. I understand nothing whatsoever; let’s face it and stop petitioning. The game is lower than mud fight and I can’t follow the rules. Probably there is none. Nothing left to break.
VIII/10
Don’t get me wrong, Sir, I’m not a neo-Puritan crusader. I firmly stand for every perversion like any good Atheist should and would never judge the theory by its practitioners. I respect every simulacrum between the consenting; just that I'm as superstitious as an Italian Hausfraun due to my multiple paranoia. Unlike the Godhead busy with creation, the exploited devil always answers the call by my observation. You must be very safe if playing with it. Any much you enjoy, you may not apply genitorture without a spotless mind, that`s all the restriction demanded by Osh. It's not so oppressive as used to be, is it? I'm a most unorthodox moralist charged to separate sex and violence with the burning fence of Holocaust. Secede crime from sin by ethic cleansing for evermore. That's what Baphomet wants and it should be feasible. There`s something wrong with the human race, especially the male sex. Consent breeds disconsent because we`re lured and goaded to advance higher. Adam's personality is atavistically split. S/M is the tantra of gothic culture I surely prefer to the sutras a lot – it is a great killer of the ego in good hands. Deviation is always the right path towards oblivion. But I am serenely concerned about the state of artificial intelligence. The gift of passion was vastly premature – now we're expected to grow up to it virtually forlorn. Only professionals can prevent imitation from identification if they want it to; amateurs cannot penetrate the Satanic citizen. It's the joy of vice that invites Eros to the wedding feast – sex belongs to Lucifer`s kingdom as opposed to the nudist camps of Paradise. To criminalize it is the most unforgivable atrocity of Abraham's monotheist religions conquering the pagan realm of Pan with fire and iron. To hate and fear pleasure are fundamental laws of both Judaism and Islam imposed on the enslaved tribes. The rule of guilt on trial. Passion has been persecuted all over documented history, and god knows what went on before, from witchhunt to sharia. Mercy came from Satan in the shape of sin. It led us through the darkest ages towards the light promised at the end. Disciples are programmed to overlook their beloved prophets' innate hypocrisies. Mohammed had his harem, Jesus had his bitch. Divine integrity is kinda warranted to the dialectically correct. That Christianity lost its grip over the movement of its people is the only proof for its relative supremacy – the weakness of the Christ. Shout goes out to the Talmudist spirit of the Kapital. The business of redemption. The human right movements wanting more and more. Though utmost illusorical, our liberty's at least constitutionalized. It's been a hard drive from stag movies to porn valley, but in fact very swift. We've created a culture worth to defend over the Vatican's glorious ruins, full of lesbian chic and gay pride. Life can be good and affordable for the middle class of America. The Near East version, however, did not fare so well. And that's because the Koran was written for the sober. Without a grain of socialist democracy anticipated. Allah's invasion was only meant to hold back the clock and he did it better than the Jesuits. Now that Time's passed away, all ages are collapsing over our living heads. In spite of the information highway, the planet's more divided than in the postal era. Only the tiny layer of the self-conscious elite are overnational on the top of the crop. Whilst the whores of Babylon are starring as celebrities for depraved people like us, in high-tech Arabia raped girls are stoned to death by their own families if the news don`t lie. Everybody knows it can`t be stretched any further. The past people are fighting for the past, future people are fighting for the future. The clash of times can't be evaded. It's not only rock'n'roll, like it or not. Bring me the head of Ouroboros. After the brief interval of indigestion pop is vomiting out itself now. Good allegories never end. We're more intelligent than the stone age man, but the pithecanthropic instinct of the shaved ape did not change a cell. Porn may be the fastest growing industry of the free world but in order to survive must satisfy the scum – the majority of its potential buyers. That was Larry Flynt`s Meisterschaft versus the Playboy aesthetic. Today when you can order live murder on cable TV if member of the rapist community, it's hard to recall the humble beginnings. Freedom is the original spell Engels put on the capitalist experiment of the inverted Pentagram. Through the Internet you can easily navigate to Heaven or to Hell – it is up to you what to browse. What's more, in the perfect privacy of your dream home. Technology evolved but the choice remained the same. The choice is between joy and pain and I don`t wanna hear another argument about it. Round and round we go through endless revolutions. The Sephiroth are a useless guide in the tunnel of death.
VIII/11
The wondrous mechanism of the human ear enables the brains to register the hidden harmonies behind the transforming environment's perennial thud, and translate them into organized sound through arrangement or sampling. Music is a faculty of creative reproduction: the great mystery of human organism. Tigers might have better hearing but it's strictly functional. The sense of music is a unique gift for healing the wounds of the soul. It made us capable to surround ourselves with a protective wall of sound any stormy is the weather. Music doesn't only increase the milk-flow of cows but has a matchless power of control over the homosapien mind – more than flowers and medicine, it is the art of music that keeps us any normal whilst talking utter nonsense and bad lyrics. It is the sacred car returning us to the Garden of golden silence. Vocal or instrumental, the language of music can convey emotional messages spoken word – the intellect's stimulus – is much less enabled. Poetry was the farthest it could get but that's really ended with e. e. cummings. What`s left of it are oral degenerates sucking on their own tongue. Lyrics, being a tonal component, is not as easy to churn out as a letter or manifesto. Especially those nursery rhymes that can give the cheapest lines such cathartic effects. There are very few of them indeed – even JAY-Z used to think a lot. Even NEIL DIAMOND has made his compromises. "Tutti Frutti" is still the best of it all, no denial. The flow of the blue river profoundly altered when songs became to mediate of a higher order than the gospel according to CLIFF RICHARD. When revolt and trip collided in deliberate protest. Albeit less alone than anyone since, we can reasonably blame it on Lennon first and foremost. Though intelligent songs seldom reach the mainstream nowadays, they're justly judged by their informative quality esoteric or ideological. If they have none then that's the actual message. Consciousness rules lions. The rock stage is designed as a platform of total art's nuclear fusion – equal part social interaction and sacrificial ritual. The ideal of a gig is the best of both worlds: worship and combat at the same showtime. What makes a traditional rock concert so different from the choreographed tours of pyrotechnic revues is not only the lack of theatrics but the imminent risk the defenseless performers take by spreading their ideas inconsiderately. Rockland outside the arena is a construction of trenches to the individual warfare bandleaders must wage to win over the audience by means of repulsion and assault. Entertainment's grown into a most perplexing experiment since BOBBY VINTON. The rock of DAVID ESSEX was rolled to confront society's children and the lost revolution of the X generation brought it to a perpetual climax. The eternal youth culture wherein the rock'n'roll animal rejuvenates in a new skin abolished demographic segregations. It's calling all kids, rich and poor, united by the beat. The frontiers are incessantly shifting in the mindquake in whatever direction available, forming strange alliances like FRONTLINE ASSEMBLY. Whilst noise terrorism closely belongs to rock's protectorate even impercussively, the urban rap of gangs absolutely doesn't and not because of the musical taste solely. The difference is in the attitude and the message that comes with it. But that's really not my part to analyze – I'd never dare to go into it deeper. I belong to rock'n'roll in this life in time and beyond – I rise and fall with it. In its atavistic strife for domination through deviation, the original teenybopper smoothly encompassed both classic and avantgarde by now and is a monopolist dictator of the new underworld below the streetwise competition. If it slips into charts is a true miracle of the Unlord of Chaos but a loss of reputation. The story of a live band, and the bios of its rotating members, is a novel getting written before the public eye. Nobody's got a clue how it will end – every performance is an unfolding mystery. As long as there's no tomorrow, we wanna live for today free of the past. That's what's been the homo superior's initial referendum since Romanticism. Rock'n'roll is a medium that opened the sphere of absolute presence. RONNIE WOOD knows the thing. It's half sport – half circus of the global amphitheater – a centaur for all seasons. Happening and reproduction in everlasting evanescence. An ultimate situation where schemes and slogans work as guidelines in the collective dream of the dream collective. A very responsible position for everyone involved. Any small the venue, the podium is history in the making: and the awareness level of it makes a show small or great. It is an awesome moment of the arts when such multitude can be moved towards the unknown by the power of controlled attraction. R'n'R was given to the young to govern our evolution. A lot like the fourth way á la Gurdjieff: neither peace nor war, nor revolution in the political sense. But the theory in praxis – an orgy of Apollo. Reconciliation of the polar opposites. A violent return to/of the City of Eden.
VIII/12
Unlike the alarming sound of refractory electronics intended to wake you up with a start, synthesized blitzkrieg bop is composed to protect you dreaming amidst reality's dreadful shadows. This is not a choice question for the multi-dimensional man of the hi-tech renaissance – we equally need both and simultaneously. That's what the indie nation so badly misinterpreted. We all live in grey submarine like fearless machines grinding between folklore and dystopia. About the birth of electronic muzika enough books are written; let me overlook here as much data as possible and stick to the core. The core of the ball is the dance. Our somatic response to the external heartbeat. JOE MEEK got it proven that trance is a dance too light years ago. So is mosh pit whatever they think. Everything is dance that moves to rhythm. The electric body of rock music mounted the humachine to the piedestal of recreation and gave glamorous shelter to the ghosts of Gotham – providing gentler people a civilized ghetto in the downtown clubland. Synthpop originated as a dark extension of the the Disco`s fever in the after-alternative age: when no alternative's left. DANCE OR DIE was not a killing joke but a serene command for the intelligent elite. By all accounts, it was TUBEWAY ARMY who catapulted electronica into the main stream of the new wave; ULTRAVOX and NEW ORDER only elaborated thereon. Electrock was a treaty in a perfect though unwritten alliance with the industrial revolution of pop and the magical reproduction of the neo folks. The spectrum of 1984 was the widest ever. Definitely the apogee of our divided generation. Even the mainstream looked a lot better with DURAN DURAN charting. Those were the last days of the romantic decline. When the coitus of constructivism and decadence gave immaculate rebirth to the avenging vampire. When the gothic demon acquired that fascist touch its songwriters would so vehemently deny. Let me point my middle finger on this occasion at SISTERS OF MERCY and THE MISSION for that matter, the best of musics ever written. Manufacturing gothmetal was also a sublime defense from the new wave of the heavy triumphantly winning the long battle for England. SAXON, DIAMOND HEAD, BLITZKRIEG were knight templars a bunch of disillusioned punks could never match up with. Only their Satan was the same, according to the Comic Book of Osh. The tribes are diverse in style but integrally unite under the black star of the new Bethlehem. There was no bridge to burn between EXTREME NOISE TERROR and IN THE NURSERY but to equally love them both was quick and easy for an UR. Along went THE POGUES and came BIG COUNTRY on the middle of the road to nowhere – you had to be a real chauvinist bastard to feel alone in that 808 State of the mind. The rushing 80's accelerated music's evolution to an unprecedented extent and variety. The iron vase of heavy metal alone broke into a dozen fragments hit by Thor`s hammer. The electrocutioners into 24. It's getting better all the time for sure, but if you really want to cry that's ERASURE and SOFT CELL. The 'Neue Deutsche Härte' is just a greater derivative. It is very interesting though how fast Germania has become the leading force of industrial retro annexing the source. It's the legacy of the Kraut of course, but reeks of sublimated revenge. The main tactic of the electronic intervention versus acoustic and metal was the operatic removal of the human factor from the act of creation: expulsion of the analogue spirit. A most radical update. Its sonic novelty back in the virgin years sounded like space odyssey – more modern than post-modern. Even today we call it futurepop like time was alive and well. Combining work and love into the same automatic emotion, it has revealed a new face of the robot beyond irony or compassion. Introducing CLOCK DVA. Followed by the Belgian front and the war measure act of WAX TRAX ready to wipe out the belated. That it did not happen is none of their faults. 'COUM TRANSMISSIONS' was just a junky slip against the grain of Rapland.
χ
IX.
IX.
IX/1
Starring in my own miserable home movie to entertain the interactive devil for decades now, I've attained a fairly profound overview of my ridiculous karma. I'm no longer crazy about appreciation and don't expect any understanding from the outside. I don't think I'll ever try to try again – the short summer of anarchy is long over. I'm just a lingerer on suicide watch. Never the less, your peremptory silence sounds rather aggravated in the vacuum of me dreaming. Be assured, Sir, nothing I comprehend better. I can well imagine what a drag it may be to receive my serial laments about all things unnecessary – the diary of a phony idealist who doesn't even exist. I live in a tedious fiction and only pray it won't get more frenzied. Whatever this letter may or may not be, without your inspirative it would never have been written – I think I owe you thanks for that. I too badly need a motive; I can't do it all by myself. That's my major weakness. It is addressed to you therefore who, Osh willing we hope, has remained my sole and only buddy in the entire universe. Your periodical demands keep me running for life in my low gear. Die Wort-Zeit Freundschaft. Time loathes losers worse than dogs and what can be more righteous. All I really have to say are feeble apologies for a gigantic failure as I perceive it. I must have been mistaken from the start and I take all the blame of the 21st Century upon my deadhead. There's no guilt I wouldn't deserve – the mirror broke my heart. The winner took it all; the Bride loves me not. Nobody loves a nobody and my perfect camouflage makes me unidentifiable in the dark. My appearance is composed from an array of different strata – nobody can know where I belong but will see that it's nowhere. For those that matter. however, it is clear at the first sight: this guy is asshole. And it makes me sad. I wanted to go down in history as the man who killed his ego but remained in stead a gutless refugee of it all, hiding from persecution in his private Nirvana. Without will nor wish under the Bargain`s mutual blackmail. It is a terrible ordeal for a self-assured innocent full of lust for life. Anything I perform is sheer simulation; every moment in visibility is like stage presence. I'm not walking in the street – I do the walking like an awful poseur. I feel like followed by a camera that registers every step I take. And all this in a most passive mood. Talking to myself in the third person. Behold the Word! Totally alienated. But unlike a true situationist, I cannot profit a dime from it. My struggle is to shield from the populace. It sucks out all my energy and leaves nothing for libido. No fun – no desire. At the bottom of my exhausted mind I do not want anything at all and it's not an electoral lie. There's no job small enough I could execute. I still don't know who on Earth I should be, but no longer interested in it. If that's enlightenment, they'd better fuck off.
IX/2
It may also insult you being thus deemed a representative of the whole human race out there by a paranoid recluse who cannot tell object from subject any more. The nominal dichotomy of the sentence diabolically collapsed and buried the verb beneath. I can't help experiencing the without from within – I cannot look through my own eyes. Sometimes I feel like the specter of an unborn idea haunting someone`s nightmare. Never played anything, never gone anywhere. All I ever wanted was to be a star. That I have no gift whatsoever didn't seem to be an obstacle. About my looks I completely forgot. I always thought of me as ready-made, just out of function. So I didn't learn or practice anything – could never decide what exactly. I've been idly waiting like an object to be discovered by Marcel Duchamp. DIY was never my principle. The Lord can turn lifeless stones into the children of Israel, I was told. Hence I omitted to correct even my faults – I attributed them to the situation. I surely am the laziest bastard ever lived escaping into narcolepsy, let me confess. I think myself an avenger but all I will is to evade the enemy. A frustrated deserter who wouldn't fight if paid for it. It is the unforgivable heritage of the goddamn Lamb, meriting every hate. Once beyond a time I was to be MEL GIBSON. Not this fainthearted traitor of the pack: a common beggar praising the capital. A perfectly redundant allegory and a blasphemer of dialectics. I don't have the ghost of a chance. Vainly am I sending out the sweetest invitations, the boys will have none of a wedding like that. They wouldn't even shake my hand reached out. To be spit on as a proto-fascist is already a great acknowledgement. You can't please the people if you don't wanna please God – that's the song of songs. I've learned by heart but still cannot sing it. Penury is not a credit in the land of plenty – that I'm a welfare cheater won't make me a hero amidst overworked artists. The Antichrist should be a billionaire in the first place. Something's fundamentally wrong with this project. Lupus Dei's serving dog food on his absolute supper. Everything falls into place, doesn't it? My plan sucks like a mad bat. And I have no money to buy me work. The call out for a global civil war on crime is a lunatic vagabond`s supremacist daydream by all rational standard. And you know what, I don't give a shit. I don't even care whether this letter's delivered from Bardo to Bardo. Nor that it has become an exhibitionist confessionary instead of outlining the sonic map of 2000 A.D. as promised in its intro. Meandering like MILES DAVIS without instruments. The undertaking was a little bit juvenile. It's hard to tell the difference between two syncopations. Anything means what's attached to it. And I'm not JOHN CALE to put it any straighter, no need to remention. The only criterium I'm orientating by is functionality. The axis of EBM and deathmetal, or power electro and funeral doom for another matter, is extremely wide, yet all of them together is still a minority affair. The proportions are completely distorted and won't restore to normal any time soon. Maybe never, and that's the good news. The bad one is that the unity we seek through the multiplication of styles is very elusive. The center weakens as the margins enlarge but it's an implosive tendency versus deliverance. It won't open the gate but will shut it up forever. No spirit in and out. Tabloids are not interested in extremes; they need to exploit the rich and famous to sell their issues. That's what supermodels are for. Merchandize is everything and it's good for us. But over the borderline where celebrities can't be pushed the worlds are absolutely self-governed. By the underground parallels G. G. ALLIN is the boss – yet he never made People's Mag, as far as I know. He should've shit on their threshold but did not have the acumen. Anyway, fame hasn't been his notion, so it's fair and square. The extremes are very humble. In the Kollektiv of sozialistische Patienten justification comes directly from above. To be great and yet popular is an unusually divine quality these waning days. That's why U2 again deserve all our respect in spite of their charity works. Serenity is a good investment and that's one hopegiving sign of THE EDGE. Will they ever know how alone they were sharing the top of the world? I hope not. Must be St. Patrick's patronage.
IX/3
There's no space to turn around – that's how eternity begins. When all things collide in the ultimate accident. All we can effectively hang onto are our ancestors. From the ancient gods to the living pioneers. Breaking grounds is an exhausting labour but well worth it. It is crucial to be well remembered if you want to prolong your sojourn with the grateful dead. From METALLICA to JOY DIVISION tributes are like taxes to the Zeitgeist. Obligatory levy to enter the bridge. Homages are paid very graciously, welcoming the weirdest combinations from cult to pop. The troops of the Atheist battle know no discrimination. The difference between surf and grind is subliminal after Time's passing away. Everything lives, everything's dead. The seventh trumpet will put it all in unison. The style changes but the theme remains the same. It's all about deliverance so in the end as at the beginning. What else should we be singing for? Metal has vastly multiplied its genres since Azagtoth. The industry's greatest engineers are free of preferences. ERIC RUTAN could produce the next BRIAN WILSON any time. R'n'Roll is not kiddy porn any more but a most serious mega-business of superproductions. However, nothing will beat the unmastered acoustics of SON HOUSE in this aeon – let me insert this here. Up to the Satanist Vikings of the North, it's the same ass-shaking gospel all the way. Music is played from the start to reunite the body with the soul. Dance is the manifest medium of man's innermost revolt against the Prince of Gravity. The claim for happiness – a source of life. The highest expression of our elegant war against the ground ever since descended from the trees to pull up and walk. The dance of the shaved ape from motoric rituals of fertility has evolved into a most sophisticated social ceremony of arousal throughout the accelerating ages. It's always been erotic, even the menuette, but since the dirty's endorsed it's getting orgiastic alright. We're living in a global bordel geo-politically speaking, for which we cannot be grateful enough. Music without sex is a perverse lie of the church Messianic classicism profusely promoted. That deviant era is fortunately over now – we're back at the pagan roots, hallelujah. Enhanced by the technology, praise Lord Belial. Beside their tongues, peoples were always best distinguished by their body language: the unique choreography of the flirt. World beat made a good job to merge traditions based on their common wish, in order to fuse them into nuclear reincarnation's magical time-bomb. One world at a time has remained the sweetest dream of New Atlantis’ idealist DJ’s in the selfless service of a better future up to this day and it surely fosters marketability. Music isn't solely drug of oblivion but also acts to convey important messages about universal harmony to its listeners' pricked up ears. From aggrotech to dubnosis it aims at changing the receiver's mind for the better or the worse. The choice is between fake reverie and true nightmare. It could be more optional. Except for ultra-conformist style-benders for whom no shit is sacrosanct, the vote of taste is as natural as gastronomic diversities. Musical orientation is an ideological issue today like political affiliations were in the religious communities, and it is a state that can't be reversed as trip-hop has proven it. The soulless sound that surrounds us is a warning to all unbelievers. The ministry of noise is a lot more progressive maintenance of the core than the academic avantgarde's old school subversion. Though ain't addressing anyone per se, noise units aren't pretentious like professional session musicians and come with a humour experimantalists are essentially lacking of. The elitarian underground equally fond of KRZYSZTOF PENDERECKI and ENNIO MORRICONE has healthfully overcome the final segregation between individualism and socialism. The soldiers of neofolk are more exhibitionist than bubblegum ever was.
IX/4
Though no less creative than average pop groups, the nouveau rattus norvegicus is a pretty lonesome harvest after all, forming an overnational tribe of white ghosts with seldom a serious fanclub other than close friends and no groupies. Working exclusively for themselves on a collaborative basis exemplarily mutual. But at the bottom of their second heart they perform as solitary rock stars and certainly feel like that. That's where JOUNI HAVUKAINEN and TOMAS PETTERSSON belong. To the multitude of the nameless genius behind the mass media, exploring the empty hollow in different aliases. But the play deceives the actor. You cannot tame rock'n'roll. It screams for arena even in the bedroom. Without ambition you do not make creative music, damn you if you try. That makes RICHARD D. JAMES so great despite the havoc he wrought. Any small the turnout, you are at the center of the universe on the stage of the venue with the highest responsibility assigned. You are buying people's time. Even if for free. Style is a weapon loaded to subdue. But the game is not fairer than torture. Any a way you're gonna lose and not only the punks. If you set a trend you'd better retire before tributed even if never been in it for the money. Achievement becomes a curse when you're an achiever. If you remain the same, you'll be outdated. If you change, your devotees will reject you. Once in, no way out. Hardly ten in a million can navigate their Bardo. You'll have to take the Badfinger Solution to save your repute. Veteran bluesmen are doing fine but the strongest stars of tonight are shining in total darkness: virtual anonymity is the last shred of divine decorum in the abiding knighthood of Hell. Losing supremacy has never been easy. The action is hard and happening behind the door. Even MIKAEL ǺKERFELDT`s throne belongs to an otherworldly kingdom. Though hyperactive since 1982, JHONN BALANCE is lesser known today than JIMMY PAGE was in a year when chances were yet equal. The pyramid's turned firmly upside down. No equilibrio can do anything about it. The wheel out of control is rolling towards the abyss. The afterwave reproduction has been a traitor's carnival ever since W.A.S.P.. The cosmic charge of the post-generation was to knock down and out the belated once and forever. But in the smart quest of a lucrative scandal it dissipated in thanatophilia. Goth rockers are aboriginally necromantic by imago – Freud couldn't believe how superficial the subconscious ascended in the age of psychosynthesis. New assholes like KID ROCK are always out there to desecrate the ruins, but the heart of rock'n'roll is still beating wild in the Niebelungen Land whereto deported. To play sane music to the demented masses is a heroic act of terrorism: ministry of industrial espionage. Closer to performance art than teenage rampage. Not the people have aged but age itself. The strife for satisfaction brutally transformed into a missionary campaign against positive thinking, sounding the reveille of a rude awakening. The founding fathers of "NOVA AKROPOLA" – our name-givers from the Balkans – were like the horsemen predicted, letting the walls tumble at the blow of their trumpets. Industrial music in its initial sense was an Internationale of the enslaved – an improved generation of spies entered the arcane service. Atheism is not abstract denial but a rational conclusion: jubilant return of the forgotten wisdom. Terminal dissection of systematic destruction from random violence. War on God and Man. From mathcore technicality to droning doom, blackened metal exploits the entire universe of the human myth with boundless epic aspiration and immaculate pop sensibility in the eternal winter of hate. But the praxis has completely detached from the theory. The best music comes with the worst news possible and it makes me wonder what went wrong. Was it THE RAMONES or THE DAMNED? The latest spawn of Baphomet might behave like freshmen in the high school but couldn't separate sex from violence with an excalibur if so wanted again. We've grown gorerotted to the marrow very fast, fervidly digging the grave of the superman. To talk about final solution is a ridiculous nonsense. The new kids of the spinefarm don't even know who PÈRE UBU was before asked to remix it. How we've gotten here is always a good riddle but no need to be solved: the eternal present is pure reflex beyond memory and planification. It's the sense of the wolf – the instinct of survival. Our beloved Zeitgeist is the biggest fucking whore of all. Everything we produce, from skyscrapers to shoelace, aims at getting away but it isn't through outer space. The exit is within and we know that since Kierkegaard. The only rank of a warrior is how many foes he killed. War metallers are but a bunch of frustrated deserters. I love Satan a lot more than Bodom's children but don't believe a word they're saying.
IX/5
Why industrial synthpop, the friendliest music ever distributed, performs as a minor threat to Christian democracy is another question needless to pose. Its militancy's a lot more up-to-date than medievalist repro but no less fascist behind the leftiest imagery. Even more because it likes to control the crowd. Clubhits of the cold wave are unlike the Sixties' flower-pot paganism; the elevation of the machine is a real Atheist jest. And its futurist nostalgia is more intelligent than yearning for the sanguine glory of the past. It is blasphemy that holds the sidestreams together – the common direction of the alternative culture. The Antichristian offensive against peace and love rooted in the glamorous Seventies as opposed to the Britpop invasion of Sixties ghosts. We can call it 'evilcore' both in synth and steel. Everything is evil that wants a better world - that's my evil reading about it. It all comes down to the issue of sin like always, no way to escape it. Sin is the meter of human virtue and its commitment is commanded by every commando of Osh. The trouble with the permissive society is that it eliminates the redeeming power of illegitimacy. In the dark ages before video, sex was a rather secret domain that tripled the orgasmic sensation compared to LINDA LOVELACE. In a shortcut, that's the cause of the lustmord surge and it's due to the porn industria like the witches say. The urgent rise of Baphomet was a premature intervention, liberating the animal along the spirit. The Elohim surely don't know what to do with us but are trying to help. Sex is an addiction like any other, demanding more and more frtom the supply. Zoophilia is already boring. Cannibalism is in – rape without murder is unfinished business. The fetish of pain has long left the circle of the Illuminati to get spoiled by civilian crime. Still it is a socialist triumph but should be less statistical. Get me no wrong, my objection to bondage is purely theoretic – I personally disbelieve that simulation prevents. Allusions to reality are my ultimate turn-offs. It's wedding bukkake I like as to my sexual orientation. You are what you play by the order of the Bordel the City is built upon. The endurance capacity of our mysterious organism is immensely limited – to test it is a waste of pleasure. And it doesn't end but starts there. As long as it's obsession I'm a veracious admirer of every travesty but if it gets too theatric I'm no longer interested. I honour masquerade but loathe deception. The Marquis was not a Sadist - it's only the impression of the plebs. Should have been kept holy like the Kama Sutras. The mortal majority ain't mature to distinguish sin from crime and the laws of the new mores are largely undefined. We are under transition when anything goes. The beast is out to attain the perfect likeness of God and has every right for it – as long as it's true, it must be proven. Guns defend us somewhat but not enough. We won't be safe unless we killed the One: ours is an extreme separatist movement of dual independence. Atheism, along with God, rejects the Devil just the same. It is the strife for racial integrity and a petition for retrial. The elite of the specie refuse to take a side. The UR is an artificially selected master race: betrayers of their fatherland and traitors to the Earth. As uncompromising spies of a higher order, their supreme ability is to serve two masters at the same dreamtime. In this age of enforced enlightenment when hope is rightly scorned at, the balance of faith is viciously shattered. The underworld has overcome for want of divine terror. But the prophecy is as false as can be. To jump into the hellfire growling won't save your inflatable soul – the transcendent fugitives of Eden are in fact cosmic careerists misguided by the Lord of Jealousy they're made to resemble. Evolution is virtual infinity. We are copying the Covenant like monks in Tibet even on the red carpets of Hollywood. You'll be judged by what you succeeded to dream – every pious Mafioso knows that law. It is worth a lot to take the risk. Life is not the ultimate holiday experience. Even the greatest heroes die all the time; if not killed or committed then of natural causes. No award makes an exception; expect no justice from above. Prayer is the saddest view. Once a world champion, now a Parkinson deceased. We've got to get out of this place, don't you think?
IX/6
Automatic sampling cut and pasted to produce cut and pasted automatic sampling verily is a total misuse of technology and the possibilities it liberally offers. It is the ego robotomized in the scanner-heads. Don't miss out on it, it comes with a philosophy so Anti-Maoist that it literally hurts the exoteric soul. Usually it's radically apolitical, hence completely uninteresting. Why to read a story that tells itself? Sample-based composers like Funny JOHN OSWALD or the stern VAMPIRE RODENTS are creating new sculptures from the recollected fragments' ingenious collage. They're reproducers in pact with the hazard and not alchemists like pretend to be. If the result don't surprise its maker, a new remix has to be done. At least they don't experiment like LUKE VIBERT. Others, the verbatim ones, go into political satire á la NEGATIVLAND which is terrific comedy but has as little to do with the rocks as surf with fishing if both are watersports. Whola lotta wasting's going on. When an entire track is composed around informative documents from the archives, it might be educative though, especially if they harness Uncle's voice whether pro or contra. He is a sampling star today, not just a special occasion like Churchill. It makes one wonder who won. The issue is economical concerning the cosmic energy most disproportionately shared: Why to record with such painstaking exactitude something one cannot listen to more than once if at all? The importance of these works is their being done and that's a strictly private matter of no public concern. Experiments should happen in the bathroom and not to be published – it is the result that deserves to be sold. Noise theory only can be constructive in bond with the industrial praxis – function first! Technocratic academism in the mass production is a useless gun: decorative but unloaded. In the whirling mist of interactive crosscreativity there's little room left for carving niches. It is strongly advised to come with explosives. The most adorable branch of post-avantgarde is what's named neo-classical, which is a beautiful oxymoron by itself. Classicism was royal entertainment and that's no longer the case. It can't be adapted to popular culture any perfect is the reproduction. The equal buyership's capitalist phantom is an invincible ruler of the people's republic. Art should never be fine again – counter-revolution's goal is to raise the social standard. Verbal samples work very well in electronic dance never the less – if moderately used they can nail the message of the beat. Most commonly the inserted ready-mades are picked to support or replace lyrics about horror and corruption. It's mainly B-movies or Politbüros. Which is old school entertainment through fun that's often alienating. Treason has to be channelled. Shock may be inevitable but never premeditated. True spies come with good taste in nobody's service. All they want is to govern. All you can steal. Since we've become pirates of a higher order, looting the sonic library of the global village is a productive vice most positively encouraged by overnational socialism. Just don't put the reference before the tidings. It's easy to tell novelty from upholstering for little attention paid. Sampling is usually cheap. If I hear another Gregorian I'll lose my remote control. I just don't need more renaissance of anything. I need a brave new world because I'm the Anti-Huxley. The celestial voices of the white witch won't calm me down. Overdose of medication effects like straight poison – the sea is to navigate, not to drown in it. Disharmonic noise effects won't eradicate rock'n'roll's sanguine animal. We are nothing but hound dogs since the new king was born. To say we were high class would be just a lie.
IX/7
Now that the war of styles is total in spite of all pacifist crossovers, the sword of opinion is no longer a journalistic tenure. Every idiot of the village has equal opportunity to express and communicate himself in the Blogger's Paradise virtually uncensored. Tugs of the world can unite in cyberspace. Thank God sweet Oscar Wilde's did not live to see this. The state of the art has profoundly altered since last time I read New Musical Express. The lavish overproduction eliminated qualitative differences worse than the misery of communism. Before the genius became common property, composers were rare animals of gift. Amadeus had his enemies but did not have to compete with millions of equal caliber. He was alone with his pop sensibility unlike ABIGOR, to stay in Vienna. Neither Marx, nor Engels could imagine a coming age of class mutation. It is the agony of the analog ruling class. The altar of democracy metamorphosed in its burial site. None is all we're left to hang onto – the way beyond belief. The Lord of Atheism is calling and it's for the last time, I know. So don't joke about murder, boys, but kill the crime – that's all I ever proposed. What's so wayward in it, I sincerely cannot grasp. The police should kiss my ass. All you've gotta do is burn down the house of your bitter bitter home. Use your weapon as an instrument. The company of the UR are refractory soldiers of the enlightened pariah's seraphic vengeance. You may have many virtues but there's only one reason to live: to save your skin from the quantitative judgment. Executor or victim – it's up to you. There is a grace. Victory is not impossible. To kill 'em all is our duty to the future since 1982. The great commandment is one and the same for everyone. Crime is not a new plague but the oldest message of the genes. Crime is the criminal, like I always said. Only scientific justice could spare us from extinction if it any matters. Now that we got the DNA evidence. Darned demagogue of SPIONS Inc, it'll always be my main mantra of refuge. Brute as a beast. I never wanted a holiday in the Sun. I know it was a misreading but never mind. I'm not more lost than JOHN LYDON just don't have a name to protect. The thing we called anarchy in the UK was a pivotal turnabout in the history of movements: collective betrayal through designed revolt. Introducing situation control to the new proletariat of an orphaned planet. Socialism unveiled its intelligent face. It was the undisputable cradle of the overnationalist renovation. The consecration of artifice opened our third eye on the medium's hidden potential, elevating manipulation to a proper form of art. Its violent mutiny declared unholy war to the liberal middle class, challenging the murderous peace in the pleasant valley so beloved by QUENTIN TARANTINO. The aftermath of course distracted everything – chaos has its agents on every front. Harder and harder cores came, materialist techno segregated from pagan metal, and the power of pop got extinct by WU TANG CLAN. Rock'n'roll music would be dead rot without the ars moriendi of Scandinavian black where Satan's throne has been transported for safety measures. R'n'R wasn't just a viral infection like the samba but a brand new gene implanted in the Occidental youth: an inheritable mutation spread like wildfire over the free world. The constitution of constructive nihilism was laid down a regeneration ago by TALKING HEADS – discreetly the most influential band of all times. We're only updating it in the continuum. Striving to extend the validation of the ticket till we're ready to go. No time to waste. Time will be no more. The future of pop is here, and it's greater than one.
IX/8
Good taste can overcome every forcible orientation – even the indie cauldron produces histrionic gems like MERCURY REV or GUIDED BY VOICES. LAMBCHOP for instance is excellent, though it's rather dark country. Never the less, they are no guests of 'NOVA AKROPOLA' and I'm not losing a minute of sleep about it. I rather play bad trash than alt rock any good. I'm keeping it as simple as it gets. DJ Helmut always gravitates towards the extremes in the magnetic fields of the Nephilim. Towards the great outward. The new is always a disclosure of the unknown and never comparative. Nostalgia is valuable but we must ride the lightning to get home. Progress is the only warranty we ever had. Music's just getting better all the time beyond the shadow of a doubt. The Empire is stable and expanding. It is very difficult to develop preferences though when almost everything's fine and comes in growing numbers. It's even enough to learn ten new names per diem and follow the transmigrations. Watch who's mixing whom and then see the differences. There's been a huge discrepancy in attitude between the 60's and the 90's regarding the manufacture. Industrial people, unlike grassrooted hippies, are first of all mechanics rocking out with paramilitant discipline. The inspiration of industrial music is not coming from coloured dreams but from hard labour in black ordered to transform reality into instant fiction. Industrial love is the temple of workship. Even if unsold, the production must go on. That's the first priority of an ultraist talent. Life is a factory, and we are voluntary helots descending for the light. To tell rise from fall is impossible from a longer distance. We're doing it for ourselves. But the unsolved mystery of creation repeats itself. There is no self-made man – we're only reproduction. Nothing you can do that can't be done. Destruction must be systematic and organized like Mao's poetry. Don't fall for the beauty of L. A. cock-rock – not everything is revelation that's revealing. By now the human race is capable to completely annihilate itself if wanting so – wouldn't cost a meteorite to Jupiter. Evolution's a lot more ambiguous than Darwin's naive theory – it is a self-exterminating process advancing through slaughtered corpses. Our beautiful weapons will not defend us. The tribal man is a genocidal specie and globalization seems not working at all. Since we are domesticated carnivores, we must compete for a living which made us very smart. It is the same killing instinct senior dinosaurs might had had, just more sophisticated since the Pleistocenes in the majority of ordinary citizens. Murder for fun is not encouraged yet on the bestseller list. We are an evolving currency waiting for redemption. Desperados of the Milky Way. Homo Sapiens have outgrown their use since the early Seventies if anyone remembers. But superiority shows no sign coming any time soon. We are lingering on unfulfilled promises as we spiral downwards. Only the scourge of a nuclear reincarnation could bring the strange advance to a lasting halt. Rock'n'roll is not just a rhythm pattern versus the Schönberg Galaxy but a radical philosophy of socialist pleasure. Well sustained by sex and drugs; no reason to complain. There's plenty of place in the market to sell your integrity and have it too. I remember Neptune issuing de profundis with the pitchfork project in his hand. Confronting the hordes of grunge coming with battering rams against the gates wide open, the machine remained man's only friend on his field-trip. The spectrum's wider than the horizon, but the quintessential core of the Antichristian Gospel is dark electronics. PEARL JAM was great but will stay a megalithic milestone along the dead end road of deliverance promised. Hate and spleen is a mixtura mortales – very addictive but, unlike trash and death, no cure implied. A lot of information but no message. The revolt with great causes might have influenced American politics but had no historical significance. Green roses from the soundgarden changing bouquets. Techno units are as well breaking up and down all the time, even solo acts split into multiple personalities, but it has no effect on the ex-members' sanity – digital life goes on without emotional catharsis. That's why aggro-tech is beyond art and entertainment. Though you'll find no more solidarity here than in other jealous packs, the bond of a secret mission will firmly hold together the genres of the dark side. Never the less, MUDHONEY was a final kick. Göthenburg's never become the next Seattle, nor did Tampa fashion a new generation of the plague. Good music is marginalized sevenfold, it has no appeal for the masses. Elite black is the party of the Eternal thrown to the Hellspawn. Most of the mortal won't ever get it right.
IX/9
The rather unexpected cult of raging death sweeping through the forsaken domains of decay keenly popularized by Satan's new churches is not just evanescent fashion but the overall sign of an utter emergency only pro-lifers cannot fathom. The mode must hasten up to come before the disaster. Rather than the esoteric flirtations of avantgarde mystics, gravecore is a reconstructive tendency from vampires to warriors. The major goal of New Jerusalem has always been to hijack the Juggernaut, turning the wheels of gravity into a collective instrument of departure. It's an alliance for treason we are promoting – evacuation of the few before the cataclysm. Not a future prophecy but an immediate procedure greatly necessitated. It's hard to experience it but we are alive any unwell. And we are what we say even if we don't mean it. We are spirits in the material world – a daring investment of the Elohim. Genetic fortune might be the greatest gift but it is in fact a loan you've got to return if made your profit from it. I've told this a thousand times to the wall but can't stop repeating: Debtors will be less forgiven than incompetent beggars. You'll have to come back and work again in much harder circumstances. Incarnation is not a Vedic joke. The subversive group of the sonic elite is at the highest risk of the Wrath because quite everything depends on them. They are the Jews of over-nationalism by vulgar comparison. Sport is positive, science is neuter. Music is the only destructive force of Hell providing oblivion from without. It gives thin white dukes the power of a wrestler. It's a Faustian contract in the most archaic terms. The main deal of the bargain never changes. The more faculty you got, the more you have to invest into salvation. Nothing is for free under the Sun – our dimension is a trading post where souls are bought and sold by flesheaters. Vainly we write 2000 AD, humanity is more haunted by gods than in those Middle Ages so badly longed for. Atheism is the first church we created on our own – a grey army of morbid angels against the devil's nations. It is the crime he killed that gives cosmic rank to an individual totem – sound and vision are only weaponry of the UR. And the sex he saved, of course. Perfection matters a lot less than BORGHESIA presumed. Desertion is no escape. And kill means kill when at war, not lame instigation. Seems only the rap race got it somewhat clear – what a pity it is between street gangs. Aryans with Cassandra complex can only pervert the swastika. Satisfaction, any well deserved, is a rather shallow reward for electric warriors. They're immune to the temptations of sin and wouldn't yield to popular demands even if they could. They're trying hard but unable to compromise. The multiple side-projects are artistic camouflage and not business ventures – self-manipulation that ignores the public. The tension within groups don't derive from musical differences so much as from the similitude of equal talents. Longest holding is still the duo format – it breaks only once. It is a straight line from THE DELMORE BROTHERS to HANZEL UND GRETYL, not only a produce of synthesizers. The industrial dreamscape naturally is a much more mechanical vision than the country-sight with sophisticated succubi turning barn into fetish. The major virtue of Generation Z is the refusal to repent. Breaking ties with the Rastafari. They spit in the face of providence to a brand new beat. Since the enemy is out to kill rock stars, die Bunker is a safer place for the endangered supermen. EDWARD KA-SPEL has become a role model.
IX/10
The train is too fast and crowded and thousands are waiting to jump on it from station to station. The automatic control is irreparably damaged and the conductor left the post for unbeaten tracks a long long time ago. Only the BUTTHOLE SURFERS do the locomotion but it's rather sad and lonely. The new captains are more sensible but cannot read the erstwhile semaphore signals. Entertainment's black-collar workforce is an ethically challenged interest group deeply devoted without illusions. Most advanced are the pain bastards of oscillation, best cultivated in the land of the rising Sun. It is the darkest complexion of the industrial face with the sublime mask of resilient irony on. Strongly inclined towards incognito, it aims for absolute uniqueness: the highest artistic integrity available for the man-machine. Japanoise is an own school of revolting disciples – a lot more evil than the Indo-Germans without caring so much about it. It is a very Shintoist electronics indeed despite its mundane avantgardism. Though borrowed from the French syndicate and the English nursery, it has a very specific relation to technology best defined as inhumanist. Nor it claims for foreground attraction by a relevant messagerie. They believe in music like the devil. I can listen to MERZBOW in the background with full attention whilst washing the floor. And dance to ZENI GEVA in my chausettes noires. There is a huge assortment between ACID MOTHERS TEMPLE and CONTAGEOUS ORGASM but amazingly equal in excellence. My personal fave is DISSECTING TABLE but it might be accidental. You won't settle with less after having heard that. I'd buy everything by KEIJI HAINO too if could afford it, though its rather classic by orientation. In Japan even experimentalists are interesting. YELLOW MAGIC ORCHESTRA laid down the worldwide foundations of the electronic counterrevolution of all future pops. And none was better than PLASTICS, except for Bernard. BORIS and MASONNA are pure pop bands by any reasonable standard. Let alone THE BOREDOMS with their double-alternative. And then there's CORRUPTED if you want resistant doom. And SIGH for black vaudeville. The best you can do is to check them all out and forget about DJ KRUSH and CORNELIUS. They're on the Beauty's side. This map you are forcing me to draw, Sir, cannot be but incorrect. The terrain is extremely dangerous – the closer you get to the center, the farther you are lost. The current of contemporary music is an ever-extending whirlpool. The clash of clashes is between the trend and the individual. The methods of belonging. There are no bad styles, just wrong performers. I only play industrial and metal at `NOVA AKROPOLA`, and their amalgamates and derivatives, and it's vast enough for the last rock'n'rollers. Some day: dominion. I'm saying my prayer.
IX/11
The green power of rotting democracy is not a new opponent to moral dictatorship but getting stronger and stronger as the years go by. No murder's brutal enough to be denied defence. The system is a ridiculous parody of judgment blueprinted for errors. Martial law on crime – the major electoral promise of overnational socialism – is probably the most outrageous plan ever laid before the neo-humanists. One of the major reason for my sociophobia is that I don't need to get lynched again too soon. Martyrdom is the ugliest way to die. OSP's principles outright forbid it. Whoever would join an organisation whose constitution based on ethical transparency disallows private life altogether? I really don't believe I'm well programmed for this time-zone. The dilemma is driving me diametrically insane without brains to ever solve it from within. So I'm not thinking any more, let alone wanting something, just waiting forgotten for an order. That I can do nothing right is another obstacle I cannot help. I cannot change my ideology, nor my character. Treason was a trap. I know I'm not schizophrenic – every schizophrenic knows that. Only this paranoia is killing me. I feel like an alien antagonist playing music for the sane. So I'm not saying an own word on the occasion. DJ Helmut is a man in grey, hiding his mohawk under a baseball hat. Too tired to manipulate, too sage to argue. I am the iron man – a throwback of someone's LP. But wouldn't dare to see an Ozzfest uninvited. Nameless and alone, I cannot belong to an audience. Once upon a time a Ledermaus wanted to be Batman. That's my unfairy tale in a nutshell. A fucking bloody operetta of Wagnerian ambitions. I'm doing my time as a destitute beggar craving for the banquet. Daydreaming all the way about the Great Noontide. A global gathering of the self-conscious elite from pole to pole. You can believe me, Sir, I am embarrassed enough of my maxima culpa. I wanted to be Siegfried, not the goddamn Cthulhu's worst nightmare. Twelve years ago in my parallel world, when I still believed in me but already gave up every hope, I took my last chance to make it DIY, suggesting an overnazi rally of the UR on the telluric shores of Iceland. It coincided with the fall of the Wall but I didn't even notice it then. So submerged in my fiction, I ignored the newpapers and had no TV. I was working on OSP's history; reality would have just confused me more. The idea couldn't have been worse timed indeed; the rebirth of a nation practically happening. The Iceland Rally was to be an abstract happening from the future, imagined as a post-Orwellian festival of light. I was envisaging a Nordic carnival of gothic exotica gathering all the pagan tribes of scattered Vikings. Not the old rock against racism, but a new roll over the races. But it was cut in the bud – due to my ungainly arrogance, no doubt. I couldn't entice a single soul to the unholy cause of global civil war. Vainly have I exploited the Joe Rose saga to infiltrate in the gay community. The few I ever reached never returned my call, surprise after surprise. I should have known better but I was blinded by the fright. And was acting in a Torschluss panic for fear of a dead time. It was an emergency extravaganza. The farthest I got were THE SUGARCUBES visiting the city of my fatal exile, but despite the magic coincidence I could only talk with their light technician briefly after the show I actually could not afford to see. Miss Guðmundsdóttir left the dressing room without notice and Einar, my hero, was nowhere to be found. And on the top of it all, I lost my last twenty dollars in the haze of the campaign. This is a true story. I also lost my one and only collaborator miraculously sent for the grosse Arbeit directly from Finnland, as I was proven to be an impotent misleader unable to manage the smallest company. As it got to the official parts, I spaced out completely useless. I am a theory solely, unfit for any praxis. It's an awful handicap I cannot amend. My inherited imperfection condemns me to silence. I am that is not. A shallow man by Bowie's latest illustration. At least on the mystic plane he never lets me down.
IX/12
G.I.N.A.'s reaction to my last project's cosmic failure was proportionate. Our concubinage has never been the same since. She stopped listening to me any more – became literally allergic to my voice. Let alone the words of my mantric laments. She began work on her own compass I'm alike disinterested in. We live together like a dog couple except for the sex. We haven't had an intercourse since 1984 and that's again my fault exclusively. Sex is forbidden after marriage by the Atheist codex of manners and I'm an impotent demagogue. Nothing holds us together but my need. She kept on trying other things, like record distributions, with the non-profit company founded for the Iceland folly, but I could not settle with smaller affairs after the greatest fiasco. They could kill my will but not my dignity. Finally I went to ultimately sleep like a hybernated larva subsisting on my estranged bride's lowest income sex work. To go to the radio once a week is my only activity and quite often I cannot make it. The less you have to, the less you can do. Even for that airtime I pay a yearly rental fee like a generous pirate. It's only $15, but the fact is rather humiliating if looking at my age. I'm trying hard not to but cannot fool myself before the invisible mirror. All I'm holding on to is a tainted mohawk in the multihostile tower of Babel. I look worse than Schreck in the picture – a universal refugee from the crypt. Walking backwards into the Bardo. Talking to myself for want of listeners in a most inarticulate broken English. It is for eight straight years now that I haven't spoken about anything with anyone. The worst effect is that I'm not missing it at all. In fact I shudder of the thought of communication and would do anything to avoid it if I had to. I'm a propaganda machine, not a chat line; I've got nothing personal to say. Total eclipse of the mind. The mirage of New Jerusalem is tragically fading in my elapsing memory. Just keep on hiding because of the fear. Yet I'm a lot less concerned since the desire has gone. I'm not interested in fucking the fucking system any longer. Not because I hate or love it, but because I have less in common with society than with nature. That's why I'm the leader of the solitary, I guess, saving my repute in the cosmic bargain like a smart rabbi. I don't crave to be consumed like before – eventually I've acquired a profound disgust of the food chain. I loathe to rot alone but don't aspire to enter the free market. Play and pray in vain, I never could take any share – I've lived my whole yassassin on social benefit. I know it's unreal but that's no cause for self-esteem. I'm dropped out irreversibly but I'm not tuned in. Nothing can turn me on. The formula didn't work and it is my fairly big fault. To get back isd impossible – I don't even know where I do belong. It's better in Canada than in Chad though, and for that I'm immensely grateful to the providence wherever it comes from. I would sing the `Marchant` any time requested. But devouring my own resources, I'm run out of adrenaline. You are what you produce but I am the son of None. It is no intent of mine to make this world a better place. And have no sympathy for the devil who's so abominably forsaken me. I'd never dare to contend with the mortal – I came with a white flag and a peace plan for everyone. That the demons arrested me on arrival as an enemy of the public must have been an administrative mistake I'm appealing ever since. I'm on the second meaning of "strike" – I won't contract another job once finished with this recommended letter. Let it be my last errand – the adieu of the grey swan. This voyage through Bardo shouldn't go on without some direction, but it's too late to stop now. Every way leads to Gehenna as far as eye can see – it's better to consider it the destination like the best of my fellow zombies do. We are obliged to fall as dignified as we can. That's the genuine heroism of gore metal. I'm not that brave by birth, but have earned a master degree of simulation in my subreality. Dying to win but born to lose, I feel like a supermodel of mankind. The problem with me is larger than death. I'm begging for power like a mad monk but all I truly want is to be left alone. It's only subconscious but I know it. Inertia's just another word for lazy pig. I don't wanna be a painthing of the gods and if they don't stop the torture I'll simply give in. That's my terminal blackmail. One more kick and I'll call it a day. I'm much more afraid to live than to die. Albeit never changed my mind, I've lost all my appetite for destruction. The boys will work it out like always – no dictatorship necessary. Nobody needs me and my dreams of genocide. The Party's only a trip of my ego. Here comes the bankrupt redeemer. The oath of a liar. My muted mouth is a lot bigger than my modest soul – when the lightning strikes I tremble like a rabbit and would promise everything I cannot do. I'm extremely intimidated by the visions but much prefer to sleep sedated on the operating table. My eyelids are like iron. I don't wanna feel – deliver me from experiences. It's a typical alien abduction and I'm verily apathetic to learn or profit from it. My sentence is so complex that in the final reading it makes no sense whatsoever. No point to write it down.
Starring in my own miserable home movie to entertain the interactive devil for decades now, I've attained a fairly profound overview of my ridiculous karma. I'm no longer crazy about appreciation and don't expect any understanding from the outside. I don't think I'll ever try to try again – the short summer of anarchy is long over. I'm just a lingerer on suicide watch. Never the less, your peremptory silence sounds rather aggravated in the vacuum of me dreaming. Be assured, Sir, nothing I comprehend better. I can well imagine what a drag it may be to receive my serial laments about all things unnecessary – the diary of a phony idealist who doesn't even exist. I live in a tedious fiction and only pray it won't get more frenzied. Whatever this letter may or may not be, without your inspirative it would never have been written – I think I owe you thanks for that. I too badly need a motive; I can't do it all by myself. That's my major weakness. It is addressed to you therefore who, Osh willing we hope, has remained my sole and only buddy in the entire universe. Your periodical demands keep me running for life in my low gear. Die Wort-Zeit Freundschaft. Time loathes losers worse than dogs and what can be more righteous. All I really have to say are feeble apologies for a gigantic failure as I perceive it. I must have been mistaken from the start and I take all the blame of the 21st Century upon my deadhead. There's no guilt I wouldn't deserve – the mirror broke my heart. The winner took it all; the Bride loves me not. Nobody loves a nobody and my perfect camouflage makes me unidentifiable in the dark. My appearance is composed from an array of different strata – nobody can know where I belong but will see that it's nowhere. For those that matter. however, it is clear at the first sight: this guy is asshole. And it makes me sad. I wanted to go down in history as the man who killed his ego but remained in stead a gutless refugee of it all, hiding from persecution in his private Nirvana. Without will nor wish under the Bargain`s mutual blackmail. It is a terrible ordeal for a self-assured innocent full of lust for life. Anything I perform is sheer simulation; every moment in visibility is like stage presence. I'm not walking in the street – I do the walking like an awful poseur. I feel like followed by a camera that registers every step I take. And all this in a most passive mood. Talking to myself in the third person. Behold the Word! Totally alienated. But unlike a true situationist, I cannot profit a dime from it. My struggle is to shield from the populace. It sucks out all my energy and leaves nothing for libido. No fun – no desire. At the bottom of my exhausted mind I do not want anything at all and it's not an electoral lie. There's no job small enough I could execute. I still don't know who on Earth I should be, but no longer interested in it. If that's enlightenment, they'd better fuck off.
IX/2
It may also insult you being thus deemed a representative of the whole human race out there by a paranoid recluse who cannot tell object from subject any more. The nominal dichotomy of the sentence diabolically collapsed and buried the verb beneath. I can't help experiencing the without from within – I cannot look through my own eyes. Sometimes I feel like the specter of an unborn idea haunting someone`s nightmare. Never played anything, never gone anywhere. All I ever wanted was to be a star. That I have no gift whatsoever didn't seem to be an obstacle. About my looks I completely forgot. I always thought of me as ready-made, just out of function. So I didn't learn or practice anything – could never decide what exactly. I've been idly waiting like an object to be discovered by Marcel Duchamp. DIY was never my principle. The Lord can turn lifeless stones into the children of Israel, I was told. Hence I omitted to correct even my faults – I attributed them to the situation. I surely am the laziest bastard ever lived escaping into narcolepsy, let me confess. I think myself an avenger but all I will is to evade the enemy. A frustrated deserter who wouldn't fight if paid for it. It is the unforgivable heritage of the goddamn Lamb, meriting every hate. Once beyond a time I was to be MEL GIBSON. Not this fainthearted traitor of the pack: a common beggar praising the capital. A perfectly redundant allegory and a blasphemer of dialectics. I don't have the ghost of a chance. Vainly am I sending out the sweetest invitations, the boys will have none of a wedding like that. They wouldn't even shake my hand reached out. To be spit on as a proto-fascist is already a great acknowledgement. You can't please the people if you don't wanna please God – that's the song of songs. I've learned by heart but still cannot sing it. Penury is not a credit in the land of plenty – that I'm a welfare cheater won't make me a hero amidst overworked artists. The Antichrist should be a billionaire in the first place. Something's fundamentally wrong with this project. Lupus Dei's serving dog food on his absolute supper. Everything falls into place, doesn't it? My plan sucks like a mad bat. And I have no money to buy me work. The call out for a global civil war on crime is a lunatic vagabond`s supremacist daydream by all rational standard. And you know what, I don't give a shit. I don't even care whether this letter's delivered from Bardo to Bardo. Nor that it has become an exhibitionist confessionary instead of outlining the sonic map of 2000 A.D. as promised in its intro. Meandering like MILES DAVIS without instruments. The undertaking was a little bit juvenile. It's hard to tell the difference between two syncopations. Anything means what's attached to it. And I'm not JOHN CALE to put it any straighter, no need to remention. The only criterium I'm orientating by is functionality. The axis of EBM and deathmetal, or power electro and funeral doom for another matter, is extremely wide, yet all of them together is still a minority affair. The proportions are completely distorted and won't restore to normal any time soon. Maybe never, and that's the good news. The bad one is that the unity we seek through the multiplication of styles is very elusive. The center weakens as the margins enlarge but it's an implosive tendency versus deliverance. It won't open the gate but will shut it up forever. No spirit in and out. Tabloids are not interested in extremes; they need to exploit the rich and famous to sell their issues. That's what supermodels are for. Merchandize is everything and it's good for us. But over the borderline where celebrities can't be pushed the worlds are absolutely self-governed. By the underground parallels G. G. ALLIN is the boss – yet he never made People's Mag, as far as I know. He should've shit on their threshold but did not have the acumen. Anyway, fame hasn't been his notion, so it's fair and square. The extremes are very humble. In the Kollektiv of sozialistische Patienten justification comes directly from above. To be great and yet popular is an unusually divine quality these waning days. That's why U2 again deserve all our respect in spite of their charity works. Serenity is a good investment and that's one hopegiving sign of THE EDGE. Will they ever know how alone they were sharing the top of the world? I hope not. Must be St. Patrick's patronage.
IX/3
There's no space to turn around – that's how eternity begins. When all things collide in the ultimate accident. All we can effectively hang onto are our ancestors. From the ancient gods to the living pioneers. Breaking grounds is an exhausting labour but well worth it. It is crucial to be well remembered if you want to prolong your sojourn with the grateful dead. From METALLICA to JOY DIVISION tributes are like taxes to the Zeitgeist. Obligatory levy to enter the bridge. Homages are paid very graciously, welcoming the weirdest combinations from cult to pop. The troops of the Atheist battle know no discrimination. The difference between surf and grind is subliminal after Time's passing away. Everything lives, everything's dead. The seventh trumpet will put it all in unison. The style changes but the theme remains the same. It's all about deliverance so in the end as at the beginning. What else should we be singing for? Metal has vastly multiplied its genres since Azagtoth. The industry's greatest engineers are free of preferences. ERIC RUTAN could produce the next BRIAN WILSON any time. R'n'Roll is not kiddy porn any more but a most serious mega-business of superproductions. However, nothing will beat the unmastered acoustics of SON HOUSE in this aeon – let me insert this here. Up to the Satanist Vikings of the North, it's the same ass-shaking gospel all the way. Music is played from the start to reunite the body with the soul. Dance is the manifest medium of man's innermost revolt against the Prince of Gravity. The claim for happiness – a source of life. The highest expression of our elegant war against the ground ever since descended from the trees to pull up and walk. The dance of the shaved ape from motoric rituals of fertility has evolved into a most sophisticated social ceremony of arousal throughout the accelerating ages. It's always been erotic, even the menuette, but since the dirty's endorsed it's getting orgiastic alright. We're living in a global bordel geo-politically speaking, for which we cannot be grateful enough. Music without sex is a perverse lie of the church Messianic classicism profusely promoted. That deviant era is fortunately over now – we're back at the pagan roots, hallelujah. Enhanced by the technology, praise Lord Belial. Beside their tongues, peoples were always best distinguished by their body language: the unique choreography of the flirt. World beat made a good job to merge traditions based on their common wish, in order to fuse them into nuclear reincarnation's magical time-bomb. One world at a time has remained the sweetest dream of New Atlantis’ idealist DJ’s in the selfless service of a better future up to this day and it surely fosters marketability. Music isn't solely drug of oblivion but also acts to convey important messages about universal harmony to its listeners' pricked up ears. From aggrotech to dubnosis it aims at changing the receiver's mind for the better or the worse. The choice is between fake reverie and true nightmare. It could be more optional. Except for ultra-conformist style-benders for whom no shit is sacrosanct, the vote of taste is as natural as gastronomic diversities. Musical orientation is an ideological issue today like political affiliations were in the religious communities, and it is a state that can't be reversed as trip-hop has proven it. The soulless sound that surrounds us is a warning to all unbelievers. The ministry of noise is a lot more progressive maintenance of the core than the academic avantgarde's old school subversion. Though ain't addressing anyone per se, noise units aren't pretentious like professional session musicians and come with a humour experimantalists are essentially lacking of. The elitarian underground equally fond of KRZYSZTOF PENDERECKI and ENNIO MORRICONE has healthfully overcome the final segregation between individualism and socialism. The soldiers of neofolk are more exhibitionist than bubblegum ever was.
IX/4
Though no less creative than average pop groups, the nouveau rattus norvegicus is a pretty lonesome harvest after all, forming an overnational tribe of white ghosts with seldom a serious fanclub other than close friends and no groupies. Working exclusively for themselves on a collaborative basis exemplarily mutual. But at the bottom of their second heart they perform as solitary rock stars and certainly feel like that. That's where JOUNI HAVUKAINEN and TOMAS PETTERSSON belong. To the multitude of the nameless genius behind the mass media, exploring the empty hollow in different aliases. But the play deceives the actor. You cannot tame rock'n'roll. It screams for arena even in the bedroom. Without ambition you do not make creative music, damn you if you try. That makes RICHARD D. JAMES so great despite the havoc he wrought. Any small the turnout, you are at the center of the universe on the stage of the venue with the highest responsibility assigned. You are buying people's time. Even if for free. Style is a weapon loaded to subdue. But the game is not fairer than torture. Any a way you're gonna lose and not only the punks. If you set a trend you'd better retire before tributed even if never been in it for the money. Achievement becomes a curse when you're an achiever. If you remain the same, you'll be outdated. If you change, your devotees will reject you. Once in, no way out. Hardly ten in a million can navigate their Bardo. You'll have to take the Badfinger Solution to save your repute. Veteran bluesmen are doing fine but the strongest stars of tonight are shining in total darkness: virtual anonymity is the last shred of divine decorum in the abiding knighthood of Hell. Losing supremacy has never been easy. The action is hard and happening behind the door. Even MIKAEL ǺKERFELDT`s throne belongs to an otherworldly kingdom. Though hyperactive since 1982, JHONN BALANCE is lesser known today than JIMMY PAGE was in a year when chances were yet equal. The pyramid's turned firmly upside down. No equilibrio can do anything about it. The wheel out of control is rolling towards the abyss. The afterwave reproduction has been a traitor's carnival ever since W.A.S.P.. The cosmic charge of the post-generation was to knock down and out the belated once and forever. But in the smart quest of a lucrative scandal it dissipated in thanatophilia. Goth rockers are aboriginally necromantic by imago – Freud couldn't believe how superficial the subconscious ascended in the age of psychosynthesis. New assholes like KID ROCK are always out there to desecrate the ruins, but the heart of rock'n'roll is still beating wild in the Niebelungen Land whereto deported. To play sane music to the demented masses is a heroic act of terrorism: ministry of industrial espionage. Closer to performance art than teenage rampage. Not the people have aged but age itself. The strife for satisfaction brutally transformed into a missionary campaign against positive thinking, sounding the reveille of a rude awakening. The founding fathers of "NOVA AKROPOLA" – our name-givers from the Balkans – were like the horsemen predicted, letting the walls tumble at the blow of their trumpets. Industrial music in its initial sense was an Internationale of the enslaved – an improved generation of spies entered the arcane service. Atheism is not abstract denial but a rational conclusion: jubilant return of the forgotten wisdom. Terminal dissection of systematic destruction from random violence. War on God and Man. From mathcore technicality to droning doom, blackened metal exploits the entire universe of the human myth with boundless epic aspiration and immaculate pop sensibility in the eternal winter of hate. But the praxis has completely detached from the theory. The best music comes with the worst news possible and it makes me wonder what went wrong. Was it THE RAMONES or THE DAMNED? The latest spawn of Baphomet might behave like freshmen in the high school but couldn't separate sex from violence with an excalibur if so wanted again. We've grown gorerotted to the marrow very fast, fervidly digging the grave of the superman. To talk about final solution is a ridiculous nonsense. The new kids of the spinefarm don't even know who PÈRE UBU was before asked to remix it. How we've gotten here is always a good riddle but no need to be solved: the eternal present is pure reflex beyond memory and planification. It's the sense of the wolf – the instinct of survival. Our beloved Zeitgeist is the biggest fucking whore of all. Everything we produce, from skyscrapers to shoelace, aims at getting away but it isn't through outer space. The exit is within and we know that since Kierkegaard. The only rank of a warrior is how many foes he killed. War metallers are but a bunch of frustrated deserters. I love Satan a lot more than Bodom's children but don't believe a word they're saying.
IX/5
Why industrial synthpop, the friendliest music ever distributed, performs as a minor threat to Christian democracy is another question needless to pose. Its militancy's a lot more up-to-date than medievalist repro but no less fascist behind the leftiest imagery. Even more because it likes to control the crowd. Clubhits of the cold wave are unlike the Sixties' flower-pot paganism; the elevation of the machine is a real Atheist jest. And its futurist nostalgia is more intelligent than yearning for the sanguine glory of the past. It is blasphemy that holds the sidestreams together – the common direction of the alternative culture. The Antichristian offensive against peace and love rooted in the glamorous Seventies as opposed to the Britpop invasion of Sixties ghosts. We can call it 'evilcore' both in synth and steel. Everything is evil that wants a better world - that's my evil reading about it. It all comes down to the issue of sin like always, no way to escape it. Sin is the meter of human virtue and its commitment is commanded by every commando of Osh. The trouble with the permissive society is that it eliminates the redeeming power of illegitimacy. In the dark ages before video, sex was a rather secret domain that tripled the orgasmic sensation compared to LINDA LOVELACE. In a shortcut, that's the cause of the lustmord surge and it's due to the porn industria like the witches say. The urgent rise of Baphomet was a premature intervention, liberating the animal along the spirit. The Elohim surely don't know what to do with us but are trying to help. Sex is an addiction like any other, demanding more and more frtom the supply. Zoophilia is already boring. Cannibalism is in – rape without murder is unfinished business. The fetish of pain has long left the circle of the Illuminati to get spoiled by civilian crime. Still it is a socialist triumph but should be less statistical. Get me no wrong, my objection to bondage is purely theoretic – I personally disbelieve that simulation prevents. Allusions to reality are my ultimate turn-offs. It's wedding bukkake I like as to my sexual orientation. You are what you play by the order of the Bordel the City is built upon. The endurance capacity of our mysterious organism is immensely limited – to test it is a waste of pleasure. And it doesn't end but starts there. As long as it's obsession I'm a veracious admirer of every travesty but if it gets too theatric I'm no longer interested. I honour masquerade but loathe deception. The Marquis was not a Sadist - it's only the impression of the plebs. Should have been kept holy like the Kama Sutras. The mortal majority ain't mature to distinguish sin from crime and the laws of the new mores are largely undefined. We are under transition when anything goes. The beast is out to attain the perfect likeness of God and has every right for it – as long as it's true, it must be proven. Guns defend us somewhat but not enough. We won't be safe unless we killed the One: ours is an extreme separatist movement of dual independence. Atheism, along with God, rejects the Devil just the same. It is the strife for racial integrity and a petition for retrial. The elite of the specie refuse to take a side. The UR is an artificially selected master race: betrayers of their fatherland and traitors to the Earth. As uncompromising spies of a higher order, their supreme ability is to serve two masters at the same dreamtime. In this age of enforced enlightenment when hope is rightly scorned at, the balance of faith is viciously shattered. The underworld has overcome for want of divine terror. But the prophecy is as false as can be. To jump into the hellfire growling won't save your inflatable soul – the transcendent fugitives of Eden are in fact cosmic careerists misguided by the Lord of Jealousy they're made to resemble. Evolution is virtual infinity. We are copying the Covenant like monks in Tibet even on the red carpets of Hollywood. You'll be judged by what you succeeded to dream – every pious Mafioso knows that law. It is worth a lot to take the risk. Life is not the ultimate holiday experience. Even the greatest heroes die all the time; if not killed or committed then of natural causes. No award makes an exception; expect no justice from above. Prayer is the saddest view. Once a world champion, now a Parkinson deceased. We've got to get out of this place, don't you think?
IX/6
Automatic sampling cut and pasted to produce cut and pasted automatic sampling verily is a total misuse of technology and the possibilities it liberally offers. It is the ego robotomized in the scanner-heads. Don't miss out on it, it comes with a philosophy so Anti-Maoist that it literally hurts the exoteric soul. Usually it's radically apolitical, hence completely uninteresting. Why to read a story that tells itself? Sample-based composers like Funny JOHN OSWALD or the stern VAMPIRE RODENTS are creating new sculptures from the recollected fragments' ingenious collage. They're reproducers in pact with the hazard and not alchemists like pretend to be. If the result don't surprise its maker, a new remix has to be done. At least they don't experiment like LUKE VIBERT. Others, the verbatim ones, go into political satire á la NEGATIVLAND which is terrific comedy but has as little to do with the rocks as surf with fishing if both are watersports. Whola lotta wasting's going on. When an entire track is composed around informative documents from the archives, it might be educative though, especially if they harness Uncle's voice whether pro or contra. He is a sampling star today, not just a special occasion like Churchill. It makes one wonder who won. The issue is economical concerning the cosmic energy most disproportionately shared: Why to record with such painstaking exactitude something one cannot listen to more than once if at all? The importance of these works is their being done and that's a strictly private matter of no public concern. Experiments should happen in the bathroom and not to be published – it is the result that deserves to be sold. Noise theory only can be constructive in bond with the industrial praxis – function first! Technocratic academism in the mass production is a useless gun: decorative but unloaded. In the whirling mist of interactive crosscreativity there's little room left for carving niches. It is strongly advised to come with explosives. The most adorable branch of post-avantgarde is what's named neo-classical, which is a beautiful oxymoron by itself. Classicism was royal entertainment and that's no longer the case. It can't be adapted to popular culture any perfect is the reproduction. The equal buyership's capitalist phantom is an invincible ruler of the people's republic. Art should never be fine again – counter-revolution's goal is to raise the social standard. Verbal samples work very well in electronic dance never the less – if moderately used they can nail the message of the beat. Most commonly the inserted ready-mades are picked to support or replace lyrics about horror and corruption. It's mainly B-movies or Politbüros. Which is old school entertainment through fun that's often alienating. Treason has to be channelled. Shock may be inevitable but never premeditated. True spies come with good taste in nobody's service. All they want is to govern. All you can steal. Since we've become pirates of a higher order, looting the sonic library of the global village is a productive vice most positively encouraged by overnational socialism. Just don't put the reference before the tidings. It's easy to tell novelty from upholstering for little attention paid. Sampling is usually cheap. If I hear another Gregorian I'll lose my remote control. I just don't need more renaissance of anything. I need a brave new world because I'm the Anti-Huxley. The celestial voices of the white witch won't calm me down. Overdose of medication effects like straight poison – the sea is to navigate, not to drown in it. Disharmonic noise effects won't eradicate rock'n'roll's sanguine animal. We are nothing but hound dogs since the new king was born. To say we were high class would be just a lie.
IX/7
Now that the war of styles is total in spite of all pacifist crossovers, the sword of opinion is no longer a journalistic tenure. Every idiot of the village has equal opportunity to express and communicate himself in the Blogger's Paradise virtually uncensored. Tugs of the world can unite in cyberspace. Thank God sweet Oscar Wilde's did not live to see this. The state of the art has profoundly altered since last time I read New Musical Express. The lavish overproduction eliminated qualitative differences worse than the misery of communism. Before the genius became common property, composers were rare animals of gift. Amadeus had his enemies but did not have to compete with millions of equal caliber. He was alone with his pop sensibility unlike ABIGOR, to stay in Vienna. Neither Marx, nor Engels could imagine a coming age of class mutation. It is the agony of the analog ruling class. The altar of democracy metamorphosed in its burial site. None is all we're left to hang onto – the way beyond belief. The Lord of Atheism is calling and it's for the last time, I know. So don't joke about murder, boys, but kill the crime – that's all I ever proposed. What's so wayward in it, I sincerely cannot grasp. The police should kiss my ass. All you've gotta do is burn down the house of your bitter bitter home. Use your weapon as an instrument. The company of the UR are refractory soldiers of the enlightened pariah's seraphic vengeance. You may have many virtues but there's only one reason to live: to save your skin from the quantitative judgment. Executor or victim – it's up to you. There is a grace. Victory is not impossible. To kill 'em all is our duty to the future since 1982. The great commandment is one and the same for everyone. Crime is not a new plague but the oldest message of the genes. Crime is the criminal, like I always said. Only scientific justice could spare us from extinction if it any matters. Now that we got the DNA evidence. Darned demagogue of SPIONS Inc, it'll always be my main mantra of refuge. Brute as a beast. I never wanted a holiday in the Sun. I know it was a misreading but never mind. I'm not more lost than JOHN LYDON just don't have a name to protect. The thing we called anarchy in the UK was a pivotal turnabout in the history of movements: collective betrayal through designed revolt. Introducing situation control to the new proletariat of an orphaned planet. Socialism unveiled its intelligent face. It was the undisputable cradle of the overnationalist renovation. The consecration of artifice opened our third eye on the medium's hidden potential, elevating manipulation to a proper form of art. Its violent mutiny declared unholy war to the liberal middle class, challenging the murderous peace in the pleasant valley so beloved by QUENTIN TARANTINO. The aftermath of course distracted everything – chaos has its agents on every front. Harder and harder cores came, materialist techno segregated from pagan metal, and the power of pop got extinct by WU TANG CLAN. Rock'n'roll music would be dead rot without the ars moriendi of Scandinavian black where Satan's throne has been transported for safety measures. R'n'R wasn't just a viral infection like the samba but a brand new gene implanted in the Occidental youth: an inheritable mutation spread like wildfire over the free world. The constitution of constructive nihilism was laid down a regeneration ago by TALKING HEADS – discreetly the most influential band of all times. We're only updating it in the continuum. Striving to extend the validation of the ticket till we're ready to go. No time to waste. Time will be no more. The future of pop is here, and it's greater than one.
IX/8
Good taste can overcome every forcible orientation – even the indie cauldron produces histrionic gems like MERCURY REV or GUIDED BY VOICES. LAMBCHOP for instance is excellent, though it's rather dark country. Never the less, they are no guests of 'NOVA AKROPOLA' and I'm not losing a minute of sleep about it. I rather play bad trash than alt rock any good. I'm keeping it as simple as it gets. DJ Helmut always gravitates towards the extremes in the magnetic fields of the Nephilim. Towards the great outward. The new is always a disclosure of the unknown and never comparative. Nostalgia is valuable but we must ride the lightning to get home. Progress is the only warranty we ever had. Music's just getting better all the time beyond the shadow of a doubt. The Empire is stable and expanding. It is very difficult to develop preferences though when almost everything's fine and comes in growing numbers. It's even enough to learn ten new names per diem and follow the transmigrations. Watch who's mixing whom and then see the differences. There's been a huge discrepancy in attitude between the 60's and the 90's regarding the manufacture. Industrial people, unlike grassrooted hippies, are first of all mechanics rocking out with paramilitant discipline. The inspiration of industrial music is not coming from coloured dreams but from hard labour in black ordered to transform reality into instant fiction. Industrial love is the temple of workship. Even if unsold, the production must go on. That's the first priority of an ultraist talent. Life is a factory, and we are voluntary helots descending for the light. To tell rise from fall is impossible from a longer distance. We're doing it for ourselves. But the unsolved mystery of creation repeats itself. There is no self-made man – we're only reproduction. Nothing you can do that can't be done. Destruction must be systematic and organized like Mao's poetry. Don't fall for the beauty of L. A. cock-rock – not everything is revelation that's revealing. By now the human race is capable to completely annihilate itself if wanting so – wouldn't cost a meteorite to Jupiter. Evolution's a lot more ambiguous than Darwin's naive theory – it is a self-exterminating process advancing through slaughtered corpses. Our beautiful weapons will not defend us. The tribal man is a genocidal specie and globalization seems not working at all. Since we are domesticated carnivores, we must compete for a living which made us very smart. It is the same killing instinct senior dinosaurs might had had, just more sophisticated since the Pleistocenes in the majority of ordinary citizens. Murder for fun is not encouraged yet on the bestseller list. We are an evolving currency waiting for redemption. Desperados of the Milky Way. Homo Sapiens have outgrown their use since the early Seventies if anyone remembers. But superiority shows no sign coming any time soon. We are lingering on unfulfilled promises as we spiral downwards. Only the scourge of a nuclear reincarnation could bring the strange advance to a lasting halt. Rock'n'roll is not just a rhythm pattern versus the Schönberg Galaxy but a radical philosophy of socialist pleasure. Well sustained by sex and drugs; no reason to complain. There's plenty of place in the market to sell your integrity and have it too. I remember Neptune issuing de profundis with the pitchfork project in his hand. Confronting the hordes of grunge coming with battering rams against the gates wide open, the machine remained man's only friend on his field-trip. The spectrum's wider than the horizon, but the quintessential core of the Antichristian Gospel is dark electronics. PEARL JAM was great but will stay a megalithic milestone along the dead end road of deliverance promised. Hate and spleen is a mixtura mortales – very addictive but, unlike trash and death, no cure implied. A lot of information but no message. The revolt with great causes might have influenced American politics but had no historical significance. Green roses from the soundgarden changing bouquets. Techno units are as well breaking up and down all the time, even solo acts split into multiple personalities, but it has no effect on the ex-members' sanity – digital life goes on without emotional catharsis. That's why aggro-tech is beyond art and entertainment. Though you'll find no more solidarity here than in other jealous packs, the bond of a secret mission will firmly hold together the genres of the dark side. Never the less, MUDHONEY was a final kick. Göthenburg's never become the next Seattle, nor did Tampa fashion a new generation of the plague. Good music is marginalized sevenfold, it has no appeal for the masses. Elite black is the party of the Eternal thrown to the Hellspawn. Most of the mortal won't ever get it right.
IX/9
The rather unexpected cult of raging death sweeping through the forsaken domains of decay keenly popularized by Satan's new churches is not just evanescent fashion but the overall sign of an utter emergency only pro-lifers cannot fathom. The mode must hasten up to come before the disaster. Rather than the esoteric flirtations of avantgarde mystics, gravecore is a reconstructive tendency from vampires to warriors. The major goal of New Jerusalem has always been to hijack the Juggernaut, turning the wheels of gravity into a collective instrument of departure. It's an alliance for treason we are promoting – evacuation of the few before the cataclysm. Not a future prophecy but an immediate procedure greatly necessitated. It's hard to experience it but we are alive any unwell. And we are what we say even if we don't mean it. We are spirits in the material world – a daring investment of the Elohim. Genetic fortune might be the greatest gift but it is in fact a loan you've got to return if made your profit from it. I've told this a thousand times to the wall but can't stop repeating: Debtors will be less forgiven than incompetent beggars. You'll have to come back and work again in much harder circumstances. Incarnation is not a Vedic joke. The subversive group of the sonic elite is at the highest risk of the Wrath because quite everything depends on them. They are the Jews of over-nationalism by vulgar comparison. Sport is positive, science is neuter. Music is the only destructive force of Hell providing oblivion from without. It gives thin white dukes the power of a wrestler. It's a Faustian contract in the most archaic terms. The main deal of the bargain never changes. The more faculty you got, the more you have to invest into salvation. Nothing is for free under the Sun – our dimension is a trading post where souls are bought and sold by flesheaters. Vainly we write 2000 AD, humanity is more haunted by gods than in those Middle Ages so badly longed for. Atheism is the first church we created on our own – a grey army of morbid angels against the devil's nations. It is the crime he killed that gives cosmic rank to an individual totem – sound and vision are only weaponry of the UR. And the sex he saved, of course. Perfection matters a lot less than BORGHESIA presumed. Desertion is no escape. And kill means kill when at war, not lame instigation. Seems only the rap race got it somewhat clear – what a pity it is between street gangs. Aryans with Cassandra complex can only pervert the swastika. Satisfaction, any well deserved, is a rather shallow reward for electric warriors. They're immune to the temptations of sin and wouldn't yield to popular demands even if they could. They're trying hard but unable to compromise. The multiple side-projects are artistic camouflage and not business ventures – self-manipulation that ignores the public. The tension within groups don't derive from musical differences so much as from the similitude of equal talents. Longest holding is still the duo format – it breaks only once. It is a straight line from THE DELMORE BROTHERS to HANZEL UND GRETYL, not only a produce of synthesizers. The industrial dreamscape naturally is a much more mechanical vision than the country-sight with sophisticated succubi turning barn into fetish. The major virtue of Generation Z is the refusal to repent. Breaking ties with the Rastafari. They spit in the face of providence to a brand new beat. Since the enemy is out to kill rock stars, die Bunker is a safer place for the endangered supermen. EDWARD KA-SPEL has become a role model.
IX/10
The train is too fast and crowded and thousands are waiting to jump on it from station to station. The automatic control is irreparably damaged and the conductor left the post for unbeaten tracks a long long time ago. Only the BUTTHOLE SURFERS do the locomotion but it's rather sad and lonely. The new captains are more sensible but cannot read the erstwhile semaphore signals. Entertainment's black-collar workforce is an ethically challenged interest group deeply devoted without illusions. Most advanced are the pain bastards of oscillation, best cultivated in the land of the rising Sun. It is the darkest complexion of the industrial face with the sublime mask of resilient irony on. Strongly inclined towards incognito, it aims for absolute uniqueness: the highest artistic integrity available for the man-machine. Japanoise is an own school of revolting disciples – a lot more evil than the Indo-Germans without caring so much about it. It is a very Shintoist electronics indeed despite its mundane avantgardism. Though borrowed from the French syndicate and the English nursery, it has a very specific relation to technology best defined as inhumanist. Nor it claims for foreground attraction by a relevant messagerie. They believe in music like the devil. I can listen to MERZBOW in the background with full attention whilst washing the floor. And dance to ZENI GEVA in my chausettes noires. There is a huge assortment between ACID MOTHERS TEMPLE and CONTAGEOUS ORGASM but amazingly equal in excellence. My personal fave is DISSECTING TABLE but it might be accidental. You won't settle with less after having heard that. I'd buy everything by KEIJI HAINO too if could afford it, though its rather classic by orientation. In Japan even experimentalists are interesting. YELLOW MAGIC ORCHESTRA laid down the worldwide foundations of the electronic counterrevolution of all future pops. And none was better than PLASTICS, except for Bernard. BORIS and MASONNA are pure pop bands by any reasonable standard. Let alone THE BOREDOMS with their double-alternative. And then there's CORRUPTED if you want resistant doom. And SIGH for black vaudeville. The best you can do is to check them all out and forget about DJ KRUSH and CORNELIUS. They're on the Beauty's side. This map you are forcing me to draw, Sir, cannot be but incorrect. The terrain is extremely dangerous – the closer you get to the center, the farther you are lost. The current of contemporary music is an ever-extending whirlpool. The clash of clashes is between the trend and the individual. The methods of belonging. There are no bad styles, just wrong performers. I only play industrial and metal at `NOVA AKROPOLA`, and their amalgamates and derivatives, and it's vast enough for the last rock'n'rollers. Some day: dominion. I'm saying my prayer.
IX/11
The green power of rotting democracy is not a new opponent to moral dictatorship but getting stronger and stronger as the years go by. No murder's brutal enough to be denied defence. The system is a ridiculous parody of judgment blueprinted for errors. Martial law on crime – the major electoral promise of overnational socialism – is probably the most outrageous plan ever laid before the neo-humanists. One of the major reason for my sociophobia is that I don't need to get lynched again too soon. Martyrdom is the ugliest way to die. OSP's principles outright forbid it. Whoever would join an organisation whose constitution based on ethical transparency disallows private life altogether? I really don't believe I'm well programmed for this time-zone. The dilemma is driving me diametrically insane without brains to ever solve it from within. So I'm not thinking any more, let alone wanting something, just waiting forgotten for an order. That I can do nothing right is another obstacle I cannot help. I cannot change my ideology, nor my character. Treason was a trap. I know I'm not schizophrenic – every schizophrenic knows that. Only this paranoia is killing me. I feel like an alien antagonist playing music for the sane. So I'm not saying an own word on the occasion. DJ Helmut is a man in grey, hiding his mohawk under a baseball hat. Too tired to manipulate, too sage to argue. I am the iron man – a throwback of someone's LP. But wouldn't dare to see an Ozzfest uninvited. Nameless and alone, I cannot belong to an audience. Once upon a time a Ledermaus wanted to be Batman. That's my unfairy tale in a nutshell. A fucking bloody operetta of Wagnerian ambitions. I'm doing my time as a destitute beggar craving for the banquet. Daydreaming all the way about the Great Noontide. A global gathering of the self-conscious elite from pole to pole. You can believe me, Sir, I am embarrassed enough of my maxima culpa. I wanted to be Siegfried, not the goddamn Cthulhu's worst nightmare. Twelve years ago in my parallel world, when I still believed in me but already gave up every hope, I took my last chance to make it DIY, suggesting an overnazi rally of the UR on the telluric shores of Iceland. It coincided with the fall of the Wall but I didn't even notice it then. So submerged in my fiction, I ignored the newpapers and had no TV. I was working on OSP's history; reality would have just confused me more. The idea couldn't have been worse timed indeed; the rebirth of a nation practically happening. The Iceland Rally was to be an abstract happening from the future, imagined as a post-Orwellian festival of light. I was envisaging a Nordic carnival of gothic exotica gathering all the pagan tribes of scattered Vikings. Not the old rock against racism, but a new roll over the races. But it was cut in the bud – due to my ungainly arrogance, no doubt. I couldn't entice a single soul to the unholy cause of global civil war. Vainly have I exploited the Joe Rose saga to infiltrate in the gay community. The few I ever reached never returned my call, surprise after surprise. I should have known better but I was blinded by the fright. And was acting in a Torschluss panic for fear of a dead time. It was an emergency extravaganza. The farthest I got were THE SUGARCUBES visiting the city of my fatal exile, but despite the magic coincidence I could only talk with their light technician briefly after the show I actually could not afford to see. Miss Guðmundsdóttir left the dressing room without notice and Einar, my hero, was nowhere to be found. And on the top of it all, I lost my last twenty dollars in the haze of the campaign. This is a true story. I also lost my one and only collaborator miraculously sent for the grosse Arbeit directly from Finnland, as I was proven to be an impotent misleader unable to manage the smallest company. As it got to the official parts, I spaced out completely useless. I am a theory solely, unfit for any praxis. It's an awful handicap I cannot amend. My inherited imperfection condemns me to silence. I am that is not. A shallow man by Bowie's latest illustration. At least on the mystic plane he never lets me down.
IX/12
G.I.N.A.'s reaction to my last project's cosmic failure was proportionate. Our concubinage has never been the same since. She stopped listening to me any more – became literally allergic to my voice. Let alone the words of my mantric laments. She began work on her own compass I'm alike disinterested in. We live together like a dog couple except for the sex. We haven't had an intercourse since 1984 and that's again my fault exclusively. Sex is forbidden after marriage by the Atheist codex of manners and I'm an impotent demagogue. Nothing holds us together but my need. She kept on trying other things, like record distributions, with the non-profit company founded for the Iceland folly, but I could not settle with smaller affairs after the greatest fiasco. They could kill my will but not my dignity. Finally I went to ultimately sleep like a hybernated larva subsisting on my estranged bride's lowest income sex work. To go to the radio once a week is my only activity and quite often I cannot make it. The less you have to, the less you can do. Even for that airtime I pay a yearly rental fee like a generous pirate. It's only $15, but the fact is rather humiliating if looking at my age. I'm trying hard not to but cannot fool myself before the invisible mirror. All I'm holding on to is a tainted mohawk in the multihostile tower of Babel. I look worse than Schreck in the picture – a universal refugee from the crypt. Walking backwards into the Bardo. Talking to myself for want of listeners in a most inarticulate broken English. It is for eight straight years now that I haven't spoken about anything with anyone. The worst effect is that I'm not missing it at all. In fact I shudder of the thought of communication and would do anything to avoid it if I had to. I'm a propaganda machine, not a chat line; I've got nothing personal to say. Total eclipse of the mind. The mirage of New Jerusalem is tragically fading in my elapsing memory. Just keep on hiding because of the fear. Yet I'm a lot less concerned since the desire has gone. I'm not interested in fucking the fucking system any longer. Not because I hate or love it, but because I have less in common with society than with nature. That's why I'm the leader of the solitary, I guess, saving my repute in the cosmic bargain like a smart rabbi. I don't crave to be consumed like before – eventually I've acquired a profound disgust of the food chain. I loathe to rot alone but don't aspire to enter the free market. Play and pray in vain, I never could take any share – I've lived my whole yassassin on social benefit. I know it's unreal but that's no cause for self-esteem. I'm dropped out irreversibly but I'm not tuned in. Nothing can turn me on. The formula didn't work and it is my fairly big fault. To get back isd impossible – I don't even know where I do belong. It's better in Canada than in Chad though, and for that I'm immensely grateful to the providence wherever it comes from. I would sing the `Marchant` any time requested. But devouring my own resources, I'm run out of adrenaline. You are what you produce but I am the son of None. It is no intent of mine to make this world a better place. And have no sympathy for the devil who's so abominably forsaken me. I'd never dare to contend with the mortal – I came with a white flag and a peace plan for everyone. That the demons arrested me on arrival as an enemy of the public must have been an administrative mistake I'm appealing ever since. I'm on the second meaning of "strike" – I won't contract another job once finished with this recommended letter. Let it be my last errand – the adieu of the grey swan. This voyage through Bardo shouldn't go on without some direction, but it's too late to stop now. Every way leads to Gehenna as far as eye can see – it's better to consider it the destination like the best of my fellow zombies do. We are obliged to fall as dignified as we can. That's the genuine heroism of gore metal. I'm not that brave by birth, but have earned a master degree of simulation in my subreality. Dying to win but born to lose, I feel like a supermodel of mankind. The problem with me is larger than death. I'm begging for power like a mad monk but all I truly want is to be left alone. It's only subconscious but I know it. Inertia's just another word for lazy pig. I don't wanna be a painthing of the gods and if they don't stop the torture I'll simply give in. That's my terminal blackmail. One more kick and I'll call it a day. I'm much more afraid to live than to die. Albeit never changed my mind, I've lost all my appetite for destruction. The boys will work it out like always – no dictatorship necessary. Nobody needs me and my dreams of genocide. The Party's only a trip of my ego. Here comes the bankrupt redeemer. The oath of a liar. My muted mouth is a lot bigger than my modest soul – when the lightning strikes I tremble like a rabbit and would promise everything I cannot do. I'm extremely intimidated by the visions but much prefer to sleep sedated on the operating table. My eyelids are like iron. I don't wanna feel – deliver me from experiences. It's a typical alien abduction and I'm verily apathetic to learn or profit from it. My sentence is so complex that in the final reading it makes no sense whatsoever. No point to write it down.
χ
Chapters:
I.–III.; IV.–VI.; VII.–IX.; X.–XII.; XIII.–XV.; XVI.–XVIII.; XIX. – XX.; XXI.–XXII.; AFTERWORD; NOMICON A; NOMICON B
Illustrations for the LETTER, pages:
1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7
_______________________________
I.–III.; IV.–VI.; VII.–IX.; X.–XII.; XIII.–XV.; XVI.–XVIII.; XIX. – XX.; XXI.–XXII.; AFTERWORD; NOMICON A; NOMICON B
Illustrations for the LETTER, pages:
1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7
_______________________________
Links:
THE BOOK OF DAYS
"The Little Grey Book"
AN AUDIOVISUAL GUIDE
through
NEW JERUSALEM
by
THE TEN COMMANDOS
SPIONS Directory
SPIONS Library Catalog
THE BOOK OF DAYS
"The Little Grey Book"
AN AUDIOVISUAL GUIDE
through
NEW JERUSALEM
by
THE TEN COMMANDOS
SPIONS Directory
SPIONS Library Catalog