X.
X/1
Although an efficacious replacement for born-again pagans, rock'n'roll is not the religion of a new church as dead boys of the wave imagined it for a second. Nor is it a political institute BOB GELDOF in vain – dance control was a sweet challenge of the ultras but no serious alternative to any pecuniary ideology. It is therefore a third thing not exactly categorized yet. Neither mystery, nor magic but the atmospheric background to our electronic existence. Rock'n'roll is a great term but we don't know what it actually means at the present extent of the game. Never the less, it is as clear as basket-ball for its fans. Since music became a sport, it does not need the word. Any message you put in its medium, it'll convey it perfectly from reformation to destruction. It is no longer sheer entertainment, but a battlefield of giants the amplified ants might have grown to be. The event of class-mutation, though concocted by students of art, was no artistic movement but an anarchist enterprise with premeditated mass appeal. That's what differed punk from dada in the first place. Unlike the spontaneous hippydrome, it was designed by a swindler's evil nihilism aiming at the takeover of an imaginary minority. It eventually created the generation of its consumers – a putsch against the capital worthy of the Engels-price. But it never lost its innocence, not even DAVID BYRNE, and that's remarkable. Revolution's proven to be a most lucrative business but it sure isn't its main motivator. If you're blessed with talent, you would do it anyhow – it's still better for junkies than construction work. The goal of a true metal god is significantly higher than a legislator's. Judas' testament is the gospel of betrayal – a manual of the highest treason. Every honest rock show is an act of deliverance. Obviously nothing could surpass IGGY AND THE STOOGES when it came to harmonize off-beat discordance with non-psychedelic drugs. It coalesced the sprite and the demon in a quintessential fusion of future's pop. So did THE VELVET UNDERGROUND just much more conceptually. Since about the White Album, we are advancing in parallels. Whatever they drive, the elite takes the same road from INANNA to XORCIST. Peaceful coexistence of opposites has never been so wide-spread. Stealing virtues from each other is a moral obligation of every spiritual outlaw. Sampling is another question, much less important. The human mind functions a lot like its homebody: it consumes, digests, and defecates. Pop music is the voice of the dignified slave – the prime medium of sin. Our main weapon of civic resistance from the tropical heat to the northern freeze. Though gladly serves for scores, rock'n'roll is the drama by-itself – reality becomes a mystery play before the eyes of the beholder. Watching them rise and fall is the major diversion any good roles they play. Rock music is made for the body first – the mind's supposed to follow. From electronic manoeuvres to dark ambience, the beat goes on to Hell in unexpected bi-ways in this age of grand syntheses. Be-bop is not youth culture any more but the right method of aging. Death metal will keep you young. Achievement in progress is calculated by how far you could get from the source, but the foundation won't lose its predominance of the building. Now we have the symphonic doom power of HARVEY MILK or BURNING WITCH but nothing will plausibly measure up to LIGHTNIN' HOPKINS or HOWLIN' WOLF: one guitar-man stomping with his foot. Even STEPHEN O'MALLEY is just an imitator by that stupid comparison. No one shall outlast The Stones from cradle to grave – you'd better keep that in mind before calling them fossil. You're never too old to rock and roll under the cover of the blues. That's the priceless legacy of MUDDY WATERS.
X/2
Inspiration in industrial arts does not come from the darned dimension of beautiful dreams like baroque poetry but from the subrealism of productive workship. The heroic attempt to stay normal in a rambling asylum was, however, pretty delusional. Now that we learned whereas the catholic priesthood are but a bunch of homosexual pedophiles protected by Rome, the black sheep should plain forget about the Eucharist and convert to Atheism. Dead time is on my side. It's a lovely jest to arson temples but the most infantile reaction of teenage fantasy ever. 666 is but a wild child – shouldn't be trusted in any a way. I am campaigning for the 888 Effect. The organized vengeance, mes amis, on the exploiters of our senses. War on crime and its liberal defenders. OSP's ideology is strictly idealistic. Demagogic idealism. Once you understood that the killer's in the home, you won't bother so much about the faith of infidels. Overnational socialism is a plain concept versus Satan's brilliant dialectics. Brainwashed by the subhumanist propaganda of Christian democracy, the macabre became the zest of subsistence for the bestial elite. Since Belial is removed from the throne by his rebellious demons, crime's promoted and encouraged by multimedia propaganda all over the scenery. Our relative civilization's transformed into an absurd mockery in the stranglehold of freedom. The less speakable the crime, the greater the status for Hell's celebrities. Rock musicians choose them for pseudonyms. They have fans and followers like a star, often more than a band in the dark. While the still unknown ones of the brood enjoy the devil's maximum protection. There is no law under the reign of hazard. And hazard's in the hand of the parole officer. Forensic science is a paper lamb in the corrupted jungle of immoralist justice. Punishment without prevention – aka: an eye for an eye – has always been a primitive solution per se, but in the recent state of affairs the rule's capsized to the arch opposite of the original formula. The inverted Pentagram has made its miracle. Albeit considered a silly joke and no major problem, the eminence of murderers no universal soldier could ever reach is emblematic of our deranged epoch of advanced technologies. Psychopaths are revered by the culture as kings of deviation: sung heroes of the anti-establishment. This is a ridiculous nonsense even from the Totmacher who should know it better. It shows with utter certainty that Lucifer, just like Jesus, has lost every control over his people. I only hope Monsignor LaVey won't rest in peace leaving his legacy to the witches like Osho. The Party's mandate was to eliminate the seeds of evil from the global fatherland's spoiled soil. We offer our membership the best of both sides. Because you need two wings to fly. One half won't do. So goes the advertising spam of the kingdom where holocaust targets the culpable and gallantry won't account for sexual harassment. Crime is an unlimited domain providing the best antidote to the Paradisiac boredom liberty liberated. It's disseminated wider than scientific discoveries. Unplanned acceleration led us back to the primal chaos of the expulsion. The train of evolution is derailed by the invincible force of Gravity. The UR are agents of the third kind hired to conspire and provoke. We are the multitude at work that cannot be frightened by the tricks of logic. Machineheads constitute a single mutation from goth to goat. It is subdominant but irreversible. Decadence has been a means of espionage since times immemorial. Only the androgyne reconstruction will overcome dichotomy in the polar world. Not the supremacy of the black male, I'm afraid. That's what the Michael Jackson Experience is about. The Author's best thriller of all times memorial.
X/3
God and Devil, as we evolved to proudly understand it at last, are not images in our likeness but an archaic concept aimed at revealing the arcanum of duality. An allegory of the collective principle our moral supremacy is based upon. Setting the human mind is a most meticulous procedure of our operators presumed. Beyond good and evil alright, the one that cannot tell right from wrong is justifiably insane and it's no mitigating circumstance by the Oshist codex. But the aggravating one. Satanism surely is the primary setback of the reconstructivist counterrevolution. Eventually, the devil's spawn aren't more intelligent than gospel choirs – only their negative incline is somewhat advanced backwards. To convert them to Atheism wouldn't be any easier than Muslims scholars. Immigrants of Hell are more fanatic than the local orthodoxy. It is dread and odium that keeps STEVE HARRIS running. The terror of the myth. We're at the end of illusions where life is nothing but a business venture and culture a capitalist speculation. The transmissions are rich and plenty like Minerva's wardrobe – you've only got to choose what fits the best. Black leather or white satin. But what's equally missing from both Crowley and LaVey is the will of retaliation Himmler's magic was focusing on. And retaliation is at your hand; not over the hills and far away. It begins with ethic cleansing – post-racial hegemony of the overnational elite. Black metal is not a bandwagon to jump today, drop tomorrow. It no longer is a trend but the culmination – the last train to New Jerusalem take it or leave it. The Mega Therion Express. Not another campaign trail of fundraising. Metal music's usually very proud to be apolitical and much revered for its obscure esoteric library. Reviving the strangest gods, they aren't meant to care about the lot of man too much. They've returned to fiction as suggested, but it's only half way. Betraying the past does not mean to forsake the present, leaving it up to MINISTRY to solve the problems of the world. Warriors should fight the real enemy, not with phantoms – though we understand that it is much safer and higher rewarded. I respect lies more than anything, but the innate hypocrisy of angels is sickening to see. What made punk so significant was its social reality reconnecting the blank generation with Time halted in progress for a moment of truth. Giving back rock'n'roll its original voice with the consciousness of artificial activism. It was the last time Present mattered – the eve of destruction. The cause was uncertain but the effects immediate. I don't want to be pathetic but that's the fact, Sir. I'll never separate innocence from sin again. Conquests by tours with the sword of music, as the immortal army of Vikings think they do, is certainly an advanced warfare as compared to scheme of Troy, but it's no longer the voice of a generation. It's the sound of OPETH: city of the never-been. Norwegian Nazis obviously are my absolute faves of all times, no matter their opposite ideology. The spirit needs conviction too, and not much else is there. But when it comes to communal impact they really are dead ghosts amongst the living, hiding behind ambiguities like new Israelites. Many believe they don't even exist. Despite all the false signals flashing, to think Lucifer's winning the battle of the dirge would be largely precipitate. The entire arsenal of all temples united by Seth would not match up to the damage Christianity's blessing of the Pandemonium causes with no irony implied. Messages are sent in an alarming quantum but exert no transitive influence on the situation. The Elohim completely ignore the human condition and the state of the mortal mind. It is henceforward Nazareth's son of a virgin who dominates the moral majority's demented psyche. Though seemingly cooler than the Northern blizzard, the winds of the electric plague do not fare any better in blowing the horns of the Goatlord. In spite of the sonic alchemy devoted to combine all heteroclyte elements into the ultimate synergy of a nuclear fusion, the industrial electrolysis is a matter of the catacombs practically. Whereas in the mainstream hardcore, from arch-punks to diehard racists and what haven't we, all hate goes out to the police and the state like it was '69 and nothing spared for the criminal who will actually kill ya. All the necromantic mutilators are concerned about is the freedom of speech. Chaos is the order of the day – may Theodor rest in peace. In stead of eradicating them, globalization's only creating new borders. Let's face it in the mirror: we aren't matured for treason yet. The good may die young but the evil ones never will. The cosmic bargain is a real monkey business. Don't join any side of it.
X/4
When crime kills crime is of course a completely different issue as long as no innocent bystanders are hurt. According to the Machiavellian principles of our secret constitution, gang and mob wars are strongly encouraged unbiased of who wins. To let the criminals exterminate each other would be a wise policy of the city solution, with central espionage involved if we got elected. OSP has never meant a danger to corporate America and the capitalist economy per se and that's an everlasting promise. We respect everything organized and have no time to deal with the ancestral corruption, don't anyone worry. What we are here for is to eradicate disorganized crime by any alliance necessary. We are the streetcleaners in every government's service. The overnazi plan is simple like a fiction. The martial law's target are the psychopaths of all nations. Worst thing first. Our main enemy are the people who feed the beast: the protective justice of primitive egalitarianism. The jury and the judges spoiled with the devil's empathy for the mentally unhinged. Their love of blood true vampires turn away with disgust from. Moral dictatorship is a sanitary measure requiring no intervention in the affairs of the mortal. Any snarled and tangled, the situation ain't that obscure as the view from within. Since fashion became the new selector of humanity sans frontiers, the individual is crushed by the competing trends striving to rule the free market. Loyalty is entirely pointless under the reign of integrity. History is a funny fair when you're no part of it. The war of clans of the human hordes is none of our business. We revere every tradition, just let us out. Unlike rapping gangstas in mortal combat for the money of the world, intelligent dancers accumulate their ambition on maximum security. There hasn't been a greater synthpop act than MEN WITHOUT HATS, by the way mentioned. Times are changing as viciously as the BÖHSE ONKELZ. The Motown days of equal hegemony are virtually over. We can sample and copy one another but won't unite again for a summer of return. We have missed out on the race-riot big time. Children of the 24 took over the disintegrating playground. The potential elite's innate subhumanism is the main impeder of science – the superman's pathetic suicide. Victims are only evidence – on the screens of Hell the killer is the star. The curious intelligentsia is indulging in the decay more voraciously than Somalian warlords. Don't have to blame it all on the Sixties solely – the roots of humanism are older than the Renaissance. The ethos of forgiveness is a catholic cancer of the mind. Every Aryan punk should be like Malcolm X. Multidimensionalism can't grow without a standpoint. If there's no center, you must create one. Even a double-agent is forced to have a preference as long as he's living with soul. Man-machine is still a very far cry. All we can do is to be genetically incorrect. Navigate with the traitor's compass. Evolution is alive and kicking throughout rotting corpses. Looking at it from the distance where we are, the cosmic bargain is an instrument of torture. In the dim light of the Bardo's dual darkness the opposites are indiscernible. There is a oneness we cannot name yet. I wouldn't even mind to. There's no time left for analyzing the obvious since at least Godard. Violence is a disaster of human nature. The most disgusting of all plagues – the Elohim would vomit of it. To arrive at the exit requires total abandonment and resort to desire. It is an individual race against the hostile collectives. From FRANK SINATRA to SID VICIOUS.
X/5
For an industrial rocker with limited public image, even the festival circuit is a revolutionary platform and the stage a factory of propaganda. Not just having fun like THE BERMUDAS. It's 'N SYNC who got the good time and they surely deserve it better than LIMBONIC ART. But not even DARK TRANQUILLITY will be forgiven the municipal waste of priceless beauty. Any damn talented he be, one may not hoodwink the mind's I. You'd better listen to what you're saying and try to comprehend what it means. Whatever you do and anyhow, nothing really matters but the why. You can't hide behind instincts forever when the enemy's at the gates. War metal is the most compulsive lie of all times, fighting phantoms of fables in place of the very thing. Simulation defends no one – every Wandervogel should be made aware. Never lay down your instruments before the victors. Turn against your own public if necessary. Lead or serve – that's remained the question. The great Gardener's social program has been to separate wheat from chaff since the Wedding began. In today's fast fragmenting growth often extinct without seeing a second season, to objectively select the value is vastly impossible. Even professionals are lacking the guarantee in the verbal chaos where the straightforward word is automatically verboten. The best fish are swimming ahead of the stream. A freewheeling voyager must take extreme care not to lose the track before it terminates. Changes are the innermost constant of the seizmic transition shaking the foundations of the arts permanently. The cultural geography is a map for the progressive dead: as soon as located, trends turn into graveyards. Time's a lot like the weather, especially since it's deceased. The Zeitgeist cannot be hurried or delayed. Nor predictable by the press - when it strikes, the media is but to catch up. Action/Reaction is the way we proceed: in a slow-dive zig-zag. It could be so much faster – we could be like the light! The muses must be crazy. Critical controversy is conditional of success in the electric atmosphere where the thought is processed. The socialist concept behind pop was the creation of a uniform art for the imaginary masses of the globe as one, encompassing the most diverse qualities of the spell from future to past. It provided us a present larger than life itself: the creative partytime. The illusionary escapism of the Disco-era, especially in the Eighties and most specifically around 1984, had a fundamental impact on the high society of class mutation. It introduced the neo-racist praxis of artificial selection's elitarian principles to the grand populace. Underground's lurking fascism suddenly issued to the collective surface, revealing the eternal truth of aesthetic judgement at least to the wealthy. The true alternative we are calling "punk" since endarkening ages did not need that terror - its public is self-selected with astounding efficiency. The industrial movement's vision of factory life was indeed pretty Warholian but was carried much farther by SPK, sacrificial labour replacing royal entertainment in the global asylum. The official birthdate of reconstructivism, as organised by the Berlin Boys, is considered now the 1st of April 1980 – I can't omit remind you how it coincided with the appearance of The Building, Sir. It was the very date of our first formal palaver about it, though no witnesses. The spirit communicates through the clock – I cannot cease wonder why are we doomed to live in the shadow of the empire. Of course, it is due to my innate lethargy in the first place, which is just another word for laziness, I admit. Nothing's easier to play than the exiled god. You don't have to do nothing but wait to happen. I could have learned to play instead every instrument during the immense time I've been spending idly. I've been praying non-stop for it but wouldn't get supplied a hint of motivation. I'm kept in a cage like a guinea pig to see how long can a man hold on deprived of stimuli. The gate might be ajar but to break free is the last thing I ever wanted. 888, my ass, is the most inapt spy in the history of intelligence. That everything happens as I wished only makes me a jealous guy. Where is my ego dead?
X/6
Noah's spaceark is a huge metaphor but there are more species filling in than its capacity could handle. And new ones keep emerging without let-down. That's why it stayed the most comfy to call the entire fauna rock'n'roll and put it in a box. We are nothing but the nuclear seed of a higher culture waiting for reincarnation. Time as a historical concept – data of bloody feuds – has lost its relevance for the future we want: let the tribes fight for the past. Our warfare is between styles and happens on the runway. We live in a designer's world and hardly can choose between Yves-Saint Laurent and Jean-Paul Gaultier. Fashion was devised for the better man to replace the dark age of chivalry with an alternative tyranny of aesthetic norms. It rules, it rules, but of little avail. The true overground doesn't touch down to the earth - it rather isolates itself from the realities of drug trafficking. It is a menshevik conspiracy darned to survive on wealth alone. Democracy's inherent conservatism is an invincible resistance. The black hole really sucks. In stead of endowing capitalism with the human face it deserves, la mode has grown to be a radicalist extravaganza for the upper class. Representative mirror of a non-existing dominion of instant nostalgia. Despite the show's increasing exotica, the dust of nihilist apathy is settling upon the new Akropolis like ashes of the angels. No bourgeoisie left to provoke, vogue discreetly entered the masturbatory of beaux art and haute couture for the prisoners of fame and fortune. You ought to be outrageous to get noticed: top models in their luxury Hell are naked souls under public scrutiny. Public scrutiny is God's microscope. The Earthlings, with all of their electronic gadgets of communication, are thriving on the scandals of the village like in candle-lit epochs of the gossip. Fashion is a celebration of the dying beauty of the fleeting day. But the sublime fiesta looks a lot like helter-skelter for a commoner: incongruent elements grappling to fuse for a momentum of fresh identity. A world without frontiers is a nice pipedream of opiated poets but in fact the worst nightmare for the average family man. We hate to be alone in the crowd; to form minorities is our innermost drive. People are adherent - every agnosticism starts as a sect. Everybody needs somebody to follow. In the pantheistic praxis, depression is a courageous era. And the most depressed are often the most prolific according to the cosmic bargain's evol dialectic. New sound-scapes are composed on a permanent basis – every epigon can create his own school. Sample culture revives all the preceding beats in a proliferating muddle of violent reintegration - we are experiencing a clash of genres as compared to the Fifties' cohesion of multiplicity. All the rhythm and the blues coagulate these Millennial years of the summoning. It should be a marvellous jubilee if it wasn't for infinity. Infinity is a serpent that'll lure you into endless repetitions in quest of the word that can't be spelled. The delicious feast often tastes like the last supper thrown up. You won't remember what you have consumed. There is no rest for the restless in the digital Dasein. The vibes must inconceivably modulate every solar night – the final kids are quite fearless of expansion. There is rapmetal, noisepop, technojazz, dronerock – you name it and it exists. Every tribute band wants to set its own trend. But in the awful fact, we're no more than creatures of the collapse. The acid house ruthlessly expropriated from its flowered-up landlords keeps grooving to ignore and forget as if oblivion was equal with amnesia. The all-knowing Z-Generation is much better armed against the despotism of the shepherds than the naive cult of the Y was, but innocence has changed into a routine of resignation. There is folkstorm, there is bloodbath; there is everything but revolt since 1984. The monotony of the unceasing transition increases the addiction level but satisfaction we still can get no. In the thickening smoke one can't clearly see what's burning. Any sharply cutting are the edges, the protest's just a shot in the dark. The robotheads are dedicated converts of DJ Messiah and don't wanna hear about nothing but the world's end. Chaos has no configuration. Every road leads to Pandemonium in the blur since the Antking went insane.
X/7
The flocks are all together now from crows to ravens. We could fly against the Sun if so wanted in uprecedented unison beyond territorial claims. It's bats versus eagles by dumb comparison and it coheres most perfectly in gothmetal's classicist folklore. The choice is between soar and grind and it's not so obvious. Multiplication without planning is the major cause of the escalating turbulence in every social aspect. Natural selection is sheer monkey business that should never be trusted. The virus of rock'n'roll was a greatly contagious infection - sterilizer of a divine magnitude. The concept of generations was the best Elohim ever had – it brought the war of values home to the family. Besides, it Americanized the globe under one beat to the evolutionary march. R'n'B was the primary precursor of the industrial dance culture: source stream of the overnational current. Music becoming the weaponry of revolution, entertainment rose above politics and arts with fanships rivalling soccer teams. The merge and surge of gospel and blues was the biggest bang in the sonic universe, converting swinging cowboys to the rhythm of the soul rooted in TOTO's Africa. That's what roll over Beethoven meant: an inversion of the culture wrapped in a candy joke. Any lovely, pretty, nice, and kind were the kids of Memphis, the heart of rock'n'roll has always been revenge: the instinctive revolt of the enslaved demanding their right to blaspheme and sin. Any pious, devoted, and humble, the official victory of the profane transposed the holy energy of blind faith into the personal cult of the mediator, raising the rebel to the reverend's seat. Stars became godlike DUKE ELLINGTON would never have dared to be under the media frenzy of teenage hysteria, elevating the power of music above both church and state. Redemption turned into mass production and the voice of the people began to be heard through an antithetic imitation of the socialist Christ. The hall of fame is a museum of mystic embodiments. The show is honest business in service of the costumer. It is a capitalist enterprise of pagan materialism prompted by Jehovah's devout bankers. The nuclear intervention's healing effect significantly reduced our primal fear of the unknown. Since the dawn of underground that formally began with surrealist silent movies in the frame of popular culture, the war of intelligence is waged for the mainstream whilst going against it. It produces atomic bombs set to time. The music industry might be a greedy bunch but what they're executing is nothing short of cosmic espionage in the collective subconscious. Often false but mostly true. DIY is more than priceless but to sign with a major label is every normal artist's guiltless dream. Competition is evolution's drive – life on Earth is a perennial championship where every worker is a contender. Communism can't eliminate but vindicates the scheme. Our Darwinist mission is to come before the darkness, and wealth is the only potential vehicle we got. Nothing else defends our fragile comfort in the perplexed vacuum we call home. To strive for immaterial goods is next to insanity – the spirit has no worth unless sold. To profit from misery is a moral obligation of every honest agent of the vampire club. The clock is ticking in – we ought to catch the tail of time passing away. The general freeze created by premature mutation is deadly for the immortal. Either we gain control over our destiny right now that we can, or let the ecologists finish the dirty job. We ought to relate to the world we visit. Happy are the few that can't be deceived by reality. Let the cynics rot in the rationalists' Hell. Idealism is the only way in and out of the Bardo. Only G.I.N.A. can save the human nature from the wrath of Osh.
X/8
Firmly withstanding the pathetic temptation of the prophecies, 1984 opened the gates of Ishtar in an elegantly clandestine fashion. After the five-year plan of afterpunk reproduction, the margin established itself as the center of the outward migration. Death has manifested its own mainstream from rock to metal, declaring total independence from the mortal majority. From the protest machine of the sunny sixties, the goths transformed be-bop into a morbid reflection of the winternight in an iced Earth's wuthering heights. All cold waves ended in the frozen lake of eternity. Punk's white riot against psychedelia was no adversary but a forthright prolongation of the glitter era, no matter the political undertones. It was the last takeover of the boys before wiped out by the new wave of British heavy metal first of all. Pop has little power, yet it remarkably bridged over the streaming eighties up to the grunge putsch. Ten years after 1984 the river changed its bed, widely extending the frontiers of the intersecting flood. The Seattle test was a re-evolutionary opposite to Akron's – it produced remarkable giants but a more faceless public rock'n'roll's ever seen in their self-assured likeness. No more dolls – just puppets. The media gave its blessing but the true descendants were forced into exile without notice. The early nineties defined the parallels whereby the world is revolving yet and there won't be another change, I suppose – except for the worse, as we're prone to witness in the rapist mainstream. Fragmentation is an incurable cancer of the spirit: in place of two, there are hundreds of different styles for different masses ceaselessly multiplying. The rocking class is far without the Marxist trivium. All claiming for eminence but crossing over on every occasion. That's not the happy end but the sad beginning of a new wave of civil war of vibes. Only the best individuals can rise above the growing whirlpool without compromise. The downward spiral is quite infinite – there is no bottom at the end of the pit. The fall finishes where you stop. The industrial counterrevolution in Cyberia goes for instant deliverance through advanced technology. Embark on the vehicle of rescue we've finally reproduced – that's all I would say if allowed to speak. No shocking revelation, just putting on the exclamation mark. Why should the dark angels hate me like Mr. Madman I cannot easily grasp. All I ever wanted was to turn the theory into practice according to their own lyrics as overheard. Fuck the bride! Under the 24's reign of tolerance, you're a poor idiot if standing by your word. Every mind has its own church and state – why should anyone join to anyone else's. If I were a band at least, not a lonesome antitalent begging to come true! My dilemma is schematic but indomitable: it is not the fish that need the fisherman – just on the contrary. Do you remember the vampire of Nazareth? My silly project of naivist idealism stinks like rotten apple amongst synthetic fruits. I've excommunicated myself DIY by trying to correspond via black mail. My karmatic disgrace is living proof for the dangers of egocide: on the long and slow run I remained an antagonistic bum dressed in second-hand rags of the grand camouflage. The forest of styles is a Borghesian labyrinth I should never have entered. One way leads to another and than back to retro. Reelin' and rockin' till the end of time. The major torrent of the post-genetic elite's globalist race-riot were about eight years between 1980 and 1988 A.D. with the year of the silent change in its middle. That it failed should be no surprise any longer, but it keeps me blue like an angel. My nostalgia for ROXY MUSIC is the worst pain in my ass. With all respect, I don't think today's kids will suffer the same for CEPHALIC CARNAGE. Redemption is a dirty job but works. The chosen ones have never been a democratic account – the quality's preponderance over the quantity is undisputable after all. Overall misanthropy well replaced liberal humanism in the voted dark, which is one good anathema but far from victory over democracy's Christianized dogmas. The beast became the new beauty but we lost all portion control. GARY MUNDY, to name only one, had opened the gates of Hell a long long time ago, yet after sixteen years of stagnant acceleration we haven't proceeded a grave yard towards a homocentric defence system. May you call the industrial clubland a fascist environment? Of course not. Nothing you may call fascist but skinheads with swastikas. That's why they're the only hope, not for their convictions. Convictions may change but the attitude remains. No one else wants Big Brother, and that's where the Party ends. I think I'm awful square.
X/9
The alleged homo superior's socialist flirtation is anything but a collective movement of over-nationalism – in fact it manifests in isolationist incognito in the best of its cases. The seraphic intervention's hyperactive escapism is a diabolical backlash on the acquired intelligence of the last generation. Since rock'n'roll took over the reins of evolution, artists became the soldiers of a new disorder: fighting their allegoric war with valour and grace but intrinsically shambolic in every other wise. It's a vanguard army of deserters out of all tongues and teaching them English. Exporting rebellion by vibes was the dawn of cultural imperialism – a higher way of positive conquest. Its cosmic aim by the bargain has always been to swiftly end the tribal age and establish the hegemony of the traitorous superman, so to speak. Unfortunately, it did not work out as splendidly as promised. Art remained art and slaughter remained slaughter. Divine interventions are usually weak. There is no new race born from the loud riot to destabilize the chauvinist warmachine. In spite of their equally corrupted systems of justice, the nations are stronger than ever – apart from the common currency, the Euroman is not here at all. It was the lie of the century. Now even the Belgian kingdom wants to separate. Where is the one world they're talking about? Show me the difference between a Bosnian and a Serb and I eat my shoe versus Herzog. Meanwhile in the comparatively more civilized and theoretically still united states gratuitous violence is the major thrill of life, promoted and co-produced by the capitalist media in the consumer's immoderate service. Reality has long outrun the fantasy of directorial debuts. Série Noire belongs to the age of innocence. Crime is computerized and consecrated. Greedy lawyers defend murderers before shady judges and the jury ain't no angry men but afraid of the notion of punishment. Disarmed police is charged to protect the assailants, accusing the victim for the rape. I don't want to go into it more, but reading the daily post makes me crave for the Apocalypse. I'm sick of the world like cancer. I'm immensely paranoid too, but the facts are the main reason of my creative paralysis. No rumour can match with gore in popularity; news of horror far outstrip sport and politics, let alone the gospel of science, as the main entertainment of our deranged cruise through Hades. Fear is the main attraction of the dark. Violence from subject became the object of the arts sponsored by the Masonic conspiracy of the CIA. It would be awarded by annual galas if hypocrisy wouldn't be left around at least. Best serial killer, best random act, best gang rape. A Dahmer for the most inventive mutilation. The future legend is no diamond dogs, Sir. The carnage happens in the dungeon but we still die for the Golan Heights. Man is a complete idiot and cannot be overcome by iPods. To live with pirates and cannibals should not be an existentialist dilemma of the 21st century. Why nobody cares to clear up the mess is beyond my slightest grasp. Ciao Benito. Wake up or die dreaming?
X/10
Who are indeed those haunted souls left below gasping for fresh air in the tunnel of love from factory to graveyard? The whores of Babylon or the virgins of New Jerusalem? Yes, ideally both. An interbred class with a distinct claim for Hell from powerpop to goregrind. As Ozzy did to doom, DAVE VANIAN opened the gate to goth leading the damned out of the light. The grimoire of salvation was a time bridge construed by punk and metal refused under the deconstructive aegis of the industrial counterrevolution. And still is, because nothing dies any more, only the trends multiply. The spawn of Nosferatu have chosen the ultimate evasion from the imperfect present through the romantic love of black death. The sinister mutation's meteoric impact has created a crater large enough for a generation's mass grave. At its softcore, the cult of mourning was a crafty reproduction of the expressionist shadowplay's dark futurism. Unlike the Jugendstil of allied electronics, it became a functionalist form of the theatre of depression for alarmed angels. Never the less, the Bauhaus dwellers were a split generation by the nature of their rebirth: half spectre-half robot. Updated centaurs solely: superhuman but subdivine. They painted a deeper shade of black than the Sabbath-breakers, without the psychedelic illusion of social import punk brought to anticlimax. It seemed to be a nihilist drift firstly, confronting the machinists' constructive nostalgia with the sheer beauty of decay. Setting an own trend for the living dead beyond anarchy and order. Satanist or pagan, gothica provided a comfortable milieu for refugees of hard and crust and turned heavy metal into precious through Thelemic alchemy. It is of course as much a history of fashion as of music, forget about the unattractive multitude. Modern rock'n'roll is a circus and you can't turn back time: if there's no pyrotechnics you'd better die on stage. Rock shows are reality operas of the current Gesamtkunst and costumes make them even more real. The glampire come with a dress code of Halloween as opposed to the sweating shirts of grindcorist trashmen. The aggressive display of decadence firmly separates the fetish freaks from the faceless undergraduates of sardonic mathcore. The perfect gothhead ain't no new poseur on the block but a dandy from the underworld announcing the Graal's second coming with vengeance in style. It's been an amazing road from casual glitter to Viking bodypaint – there's a warfare going on and the boys keep swinging. Suicide marketing replacing social commentary, the Tolkienic journey to imaginary pasts has remarkably raised man's level of time-consciousness and extended our bond with the cosmos to unprecedented mutuality. Though vastly superficial and evanescent, Gotham's legacy was a genetic input that taught us to reckon with eternal time – just when we needed it. The surest sign of providence for the children of New Israel. It turned the death of rock into the rock of death, paving the hallowed path to the Building. It ain't all Lady Macbeth though but a midsummer night's dream as well – a finest expression of universal subrealism from Norway to California. The trollish voice of the last wish calling out the solitary spellbreakers. The enemies of the Sun gathering in Celtic frost. Must be the final countdown.
X/11
Albeit well exploited by the mainstream media, the Vamporium of unholy black remained a minority affair under perennial extinction. Feared and despised by the masses like zombies of Eden, the immortal are restricted to ghettos even in Scandinavia between Disco queens and B-boys like flagbearers of hate. That's why the best of fans resort to force, not due to hidden messages of MDFMK. The hunted don't need to be instigated. The lynchmob will always enjoy the sympathy of the populace. Feminist indie pop killed the mod and that'll remain its main crime before the ordeal. To look stranger than your public has become a carnal deviation only greedy exhibitionists are stuck with. Alice may be sweeter than ever but is in fact older than the Canterbury ghost. The baleful gate of creative lethargy was opened pretty wide by IAN CURTIS with his minor key between MARK E. SMITH and DAVID THOMAS. Ach, those Eighties, and how they began! When BOY GEORGE was the enemy of people like us. If we could have stopped then we'd be at home by now. But it proved to be almost impossible for orthodox renegades to surmount the manifold offensive of afterpop's impersonality cult without erectile difficulties. What followed the new romantics' mayday was sonic violence with no justice done: industrial music's best juvenile years were spent in an incubator's very dim spotlight – its staying power and growing stronger is a miracle of negative thinking. Plunder-phonics and world-beat swag fragmented pop music into countless factions but couldn't create a new fusion on the basis of pansexual orientation. God proposes, man disposes. Heaven's policy of creation is a cosmic blunder. That's why we have voted on the Adversary, not just out of boredom. It's at least a sure bet. The Z-generation don't want to please – or shock for that matter. Nor did the hippies but much less deliberately. To manipulate the consumer like BONEY M is of little concern for EDGE OF SANITY. Gentle and brutal are harmoniously coalesced. Fall is the new rise: in order to reach the exit we have to go downward by the spiral. Because the exit's at the bottom as we've been kindly revealed by the spies of extremes. The outstanding formula that combines industrial strength and gothic propensity effectively erased the segregation of adult melancholy and infantine pathos, recreating the ultimate kitsch out of No Age noise in the sonic KZ. The eighties opened a whole new universe to enter for anyone who dared. But it was for free - hence nobody came. The consumer prefers to pay. Depressionism has been a socialist trend at heart – the demistification of manpower enslaved was no passion fodder but a macabre dance of the dead. A timely continuum of the SYD BARRETT galaxy for the terminally sane. The self-imposed karma of advanced intelligence protects profiteers of decay - art is a redemption of misery. From GUSTAV MAHLER to ARVO PǺRT, we're scoring the tragedy of love. The clash between NINJA TUNES and WORLD SERPENT is not a symbolic stand-up. It is an antimatter of life and death. The blood of Antichrist insinuates everywhere. After all played and heard, there are but two kinds of music: the good and the bad one. Any wide is the gap, there's nothing in between. On the other hand of course, the judgement is individual-relative: one man's pleasure is another man's pain. In the technologically advanced facility of recording, the quality is equally high in every genre. But where exactly to go is everybody's choice of his own. It is the content that justifies the form since the homosapien began to perform: performance, any bad, is a state of suicide. Perfection is a compelling asset, but means nothing without function. Counterrevolution devours its children just like its straightforward opposite: 13TH FLOOR ELEVATORS showed a direct way to FEAR FACTORY. When rock was young, it mattered a lot where you belonged. The do of hair was a surest indicator. In today's chaos of parallel times anything goes but nothing waits to come. It's a tumultous jam session. The race is quite deadly – you must choose your vehicle and drive it as relentlessly as TREY AZAGTHOTH. Annex what's crossed over if you wanna extend. Resist no will to have full power and don't worry about the gods denied. Eclecticism normally is a polar disorder. Any wide you open your mind, the world – and everything into it – re-divides into two. Dichotomy rules and the law can't be broken. There is no mixcore in true regressive metal. The right doze of everything won't suffice – at one point at least even lounge lizards must exaggerate. The Bargain is a rotten deal. Lucifer prefers warriors, no matter what they're fighting for. All we're left to do is destroy everything.
X/12
Evolution first of all is a spiritual thing materialists usually underappreciate. It is basically the same demon that drives righteous brothers in different directions: creativity is a common well of all rivers. That the current situation is rather catastrophic only the devil may deny. With the sustenance of new technologies, the reign of chaos has reached its apogee. Pop detached from rock like they've never been soul twins, and the urban guerilla is replaced by gang violence. The Abendland has fallen from coast to coast to the dominion of Rapcity. Resistance is futile. The dark waves receded like a nitzer ebb. 12 PM eternal has freezed the clock. It is the sad end of all pitchfork projects. The Satanic crusade is promotional world tour under the capital's benign protection - not the worst junkies would believe in the kill they're shouting about. What's more, it's completely misdirected by the foul fiend. No BOLT THROWER can reproduce the gore of war and the emotions it evokes. The amplified warriors of Odin are legal deserters of history hiding behind subreality's virtual armour. The gene-democracy of talent-distribution – Heaven's new policy of recreation – makes the selection easy and flawless. The UR refuse to go into battle and won't fight for victory. They believe in a higher way of killing, not only say so. It's the season of the coward. An artist must go mad to express what ordinary humans are naturally doing. The better reflecting, the more detached became the theory from praxis. We are dealing with an inherently disobedient army loving the enemy. A quite unsuccessful update. In traditional theatre the playwright wrote the play and the actor played the role – the story of the authors and performers was an entirely separate board with tasteful coincidences in the most. Rock'n'roll radically changed that formula by putting the actual performance in the focus of the happening, behaviour's largely surpassing the import of verbal messages. It fundamentally altered the transmissionary method. It coagulated sport and art in the circus of the century. The rock'n'roll experiment inverted opera's prefabricated solemnity and turned interpretation inside out – giving the best rehearsed live presence the tension of a unique drama. That's what distinguished CARL PERKINS from NAT KING COLE. It presented a new chapter in the book of reproductions opening at Sophocles, where the actor plays his own story – becoming one with the part behind the facade of the image projected. Celebrities in the media age live in progressive present tense: walking biographies in the public eye. Self-embodiments in the collective idolatry of the eternal outlaw. There were proto-rock precedents before our visual culture as well – Mozart, Liszt, Chopin and so forth – but very few indeed even by proportions. On the stage of the new Millennium everybody is a potential star. What Alistair predicted, Andy materialized for the elitarian masses. Great perseverance is required henceforth; the capacity, however, is no longer a special gift to the lucky ones but an integral bonus of every DNA. You can be what you wanna be and that's the only program. The rest rests in the hand of doom. Nobody wants to die undocumented. We want to leave behind as much memorabilia as possible to be remembered by the future we resolutely believe in. Vanity is a blessing for the faithful. Today's multitude of rockers are all as versatile as masters of the Renaissance – the collective evolution is enormously empowering. Rock concert is the ultimate showcase and doesn't end with a falling curtain. The media are generous exploiters: they reward their workshippers most accordingly. Superstars are those who can control them: imposing their own norms on what's been established. Since they are born to be, it's usually effortless. We might be greater than one, but the single main cause we are propagated and mutated for has not change a bit since the Genesis. I don't care much about Judaism, but no reference is simpler than the Old Testament of the chosen people. Don't need a better one right now. Forget what the Man said – forgiveness is the voice of the serpent. Darwin's dream has always been the triumph of an able Abel cutting the lineage of Cain's family, to recite the loveliest metaphor. But in the realm of facts, he only evolved into a masochist selling his soul to Mephisto half-price. We must learn to remember who we are and where exactly. Why on Planet Earth, if we want to take or leave it. Time travelers had better pack their bags. Elvis has left the building.
Although an efficacious replacement for born-again pagans, rock'n'roll is not the religion of a new church as dead boys of the wave imagined it for a second. Nor is it a political institute BOB GELDOF in vain – dance control was a sweet challenge of the ultras but no serious alternative to any pecuniary ideology. It is therefore a third thing not exactly categorized yet. Neither mystery, nor magic but the atmospheric background to our electronic existence. Rock'n'roll is a great term but we don't know what it actually means at the present extent of the game. Never the less, it is as clear as basket-ball for its fans. Since music became a sport, it does not need the word. Any message you put in its medium, it'll convey it perfectly from reformation to destruction. It is no longer sheer entertainment, but a battlefield of giants the amplified ants might have grown to be. The event of class-mutation, though concocted by students of art, was no artistic movement but an anarchist enterprise with premeditated mass appeal. That's what differed punk from dada in the first place. Unlike the spontaneous hippydrome, it was designed by a swindler's evil nihilism aiming at the takeover of an imaginary minority. It eventually created the generation of its consumers – a putsch against the capital worthy of the Engels-price. But it never lost its innocence, not even DAVID BYRNE, and that's remarkable. Revolution's proven to be a most lucrative business but it sure isn't its main motivator. If you're blessed with talent, you would do it anyhow – it's still better for junkies than construction work. The goal of a true metal god is significantly higher than a legislator's. Judas' testament is the gospel of betrayal – a manual of the highest treason. Every honest rock show is an act of deliverance. Obviously nothing could surpass IGGY AND THE STOOGES when it came to harmonize off-beat discordance with non-psychedelic drugs. It coalesced the sprite and the demon in a quintessential fusion of future's pop. So did THE VELVET UNDERGROUND just much more conceptually. Since about the White Album, we are advancing in parallels. Whatever they drive, the elite takes the same road from INANNA to XORCIST. Peaceful coexistence of opposites has never been so wide-spread. Stealing virtues from each other is a moral obligation of every spiritual outlaw. Sampling is another question, much less important. The human mind functions a lot like its homebody: it consumes, digests, and defecates. Pop music is the voice of the dignified slave – the prime medium of sin. Our main weapon of civic resistance from the tropical heat to the northern freeze. Though gladly serves for scores, rock'n'roll is the drama by-itself – reality becomes a mystery play before the eyes of the beholder. Watching them rise and fall is the major diversion any good roles they play. Rock music is made for the body first – the mind's supposed to follow. From electronic manoeuvres to dark ambience, the beat goes on to Hell in unexpected bi-ways in this age of grand syntheses. Be-bop is not youth culture any more but the right method of aging. Death metal will keep you young. Achievement in progress is calculated by how far you could get from the source, but the foundation won't lose its predominance of the building. Now we have the symphonic doom power of HARVEY MILK or BURNING WITCH but nothing will plausibly measure up to LIGHTNIN' HOPKINS or HOWLIN' WOLF: one guitar-man stomping with his foot. Even STEPHEN O'MALLEY is just an imitator by that stupid comparison. No one shall outlast The Stones from cradle to grave – you'd better keep that in mind before calling them fossil. You're never too old to rock and roll under the cover of the blues. That's the priceless legacy of MUDDY WATERS.
X/2
Inspiration in industrial arts does not come from the darned dimension of beautiful dreams like baroque poetry but from the subrealism of productive workship. The heroic attempt to stay normal in a rambling asylum was, however, pretty delusional. Now that we learned whereas the catholic priesthood are but a bunch of homosexual pedophiles protected by Rome, the black sheep should plain forget about the Eucharist and convert to Atheism. Dead time is on my side. It's a lovely jest to arson temples but the most infantile reaction of teenage fantasy ever. 666 is but a wild child – shouldn't be trusted in any a way. I am campaigning for the 888 Effect. The organized vengeance, mes amis, on the exploiters of our senses. War on crime and its liberal defenders. OSP's ideology is strictly idealistic. Demagogic idealism. Once you understood that the killer's in the home, you won't bother so much about the faith of infidels. Overnational socialism is a plain concept versus Satan's brilliant dialectics. Brainwashed by the subhumanist propaganda of Christian democracy, the macabre became the zest of subsistence for the bestial elite. Since Belial is removed from the throne by his rebellious demons, crime's promoted and encouraged by multimedia propaganda all over the scenery. Our relative civilization's transformed into an absurd mockery in the stranglehold of freedom. The less speakable the crime, the greater the status for Hell's celebrities. Rock musicians choose them for pseudonyms. They have fans and followers like a star, often more than a band in the dark. While the still unknown ones of the brood enjoy the devil's maximum protection. There is no law under the reign of hazard. And hazard's in the hand of the parole officer. Forensic science is a paper lamb in the corrupted jungle of immoralist justice. Punishment without prevention – aka: an eye for an eye – has always been a primitive solution per se, but in the recent state of affairs the rule's capsized to the arch opposite of the original formula. The inverted Pentagram has made its miracle. Albeit considered a silly joke and no major problem, the eminence of murderers no universal soldier could ever reach is emblematic of our deranged epoch of advanced technologies. Psychopaths are revered by the culture as kings of deviation: sung heroes of the anti-establishment. This is a ridiculous nonsense even from the Totmacher who should know it better. It shows with utter certainty that Lucifer, just like Jesus, has lost every control over his people. I only hope Monsignor LaVey won't rest in peace leaving his legacy to the witches like Osho. The Party's mandate was to eliminate the seeds of evil from the global fatherland's spoiled soil. We offer our membership the best of both sides. Because you need two wings to fly. One half won't do. So goes the advertising spam of the kingdom where holocaust targets the culpable and gallantry won't account for sexual harassment. Crime is an unlimited domain providing the best antidote to the Paradisiac boredom liberty liberated. It's disseminated wider than scientific discoveries. Unplanned acceleration led us back to the primal chaos of the expulsion. The train of evolution is derailed by the invincible force of Gravity. The UR are agents of the third kind hired to conspire and provoke. We are the multitude at work that cannot be frightened by the tricks of logic. Machineheads constitute a single mutation from goth to goat. It is subdominant but irreversible. Decadence has been a means of espionage since times immemorial. Only the androgyne reconstruction will overcome dichotomy in the polar world. Not the supremacy of the black male, I'm afraid. That's what the Michael Jackson Experience is about. The Author's best thriller of all times memorial.
X/3
God and Devil, as we evolved to proudly understand it at last, are not images in our likeness but an archaic concept aimed at revealing the arcanum of duality. An allegory of the collective principle our moral supremacy is based upon. Setting the human mind is a most meticulous procedure of our operators presumed. Beyond good and evil alright, the one that cannot tell right from wrong is justifiably insane and it's no mitigating circumstance by the Oshist codex. But the aggravating one. Satanism surely is the primary setback of the reconstructivist counterrevolution. Eventually, the devil's spawn aren't more intelligent than gospel choirs – only their negative incline is somewhat advanced backwards. To convert them to Atheism wouldn't be any easier than Muslims scholars. Immigrants of Hell are more fanatic than the local orthodoxy. It is dread and odium that keeps STEVE HARRIS running. The terror of the myth. We're at the end of illusions where life is nothing but a business venture and culture a capitalist speculation. The transmissions are rich and plenty like Minerva's wardrobe – you've only got to choose what fits the best. Black leather or white satin. But what's equally missing from both Crowley and LaVey is the will of retaliation Himmler's magic was focusing on. And retaliation is at your hand; not over the hills and far away. It begins with ethic cleansing – post-racial hegemony of the overnational elite. Black metal is not a bandwagon to jump today, drop tomorrow. It no longer is a trend but the culmination – the last train to New Jerusalem take it or leave it. The Mega Therion Express. Not another campaign trail of fundraising. Metal music's usually very proud to be apolitical and much revered for its obscure esoteric library. Reviving the strangest gods, they aren't meant to care about the lot of man too much. They've returned to fiction as suggested, but it's only half way. Betraying the past does not mean to forsake the present, leaving it up to MINISTRY to solve the problems of the world. Warriors should fight the real enemy, not with phantoms – though we understand that it is much safer and higher rewarded. I respect lies more than anything, but the innate hypocrisy of angels is sickening to see. What made punk so significant was its social reality reconnecting the blank generation with Time halted in progress for a moment of truth. Giving back rock'n'roll its original voice with the consciousness of artificial activism. It was the last time Present mattered – the eve of destruction. The cause was uncertain but the effects immediate. I don't want to be pathetic but that's the fact, Sir. I'll never separate innocence from sin again. Conquests by tours with the sword of music, as the immortal army of Vikings think they do, is certainly an advanced warfare as compared to scheme of Troy, but it's no longer the voice of a generation. It's the sound of OPETH: city of the never-been. Norwegian Nazis obviously are my absolute faves of all times, no matter their opposite ideology. The spirit needs conviction too, and not much else is there. But when it comes to communal impact they really are dead ghosts amongst the living, hiding behind ambiguities like new Israelites. Many believe they don't even exist. Despite all the false signals flashing, to think Lucifer's winning the battle of the dirge would be largely precipitate. The entire arsenal of all temples united by Seth would not match up to the damage Christianity's blessing of the Pandemonium causes with no irony implied. Messages are sent in an alarming quantum but exert no transitive influence on the situation. The Elohim completely ignore the human condition and the state of the mortal mind. It is henceforward Nazareth's son of a virgin who dominates the moral majority's demented psyche. Though seemingly cooler than the Northern blizzard, the winds of the electric plague do not fare any better in blowing the horns of the Goatlord. In spite of the sonic alchemy devoted to combine all heteroclyte elements into the ultimate synergy of a nuclear fusion, the industrial electrolysis is a matter of the catacombs practically. Whereas in the mainstream hardcore, from arch-punks to diehard racists and what haven't we, all hate goes out to the police and the state like it was '69 and nothing spared for the criminal who will actually kill ya. All the necromantic mutilators are concerned about is the freedom of speech. Chaos is the order of the day – may Theodor rest in peace. In stead of eradicating them, globalization's only creating new borders. Let's face it in the mirror: we aren't matured for treason yet. The good may die young but the evil ones never will. The cosmic bargain is a real monkey business. Don't join any side of it.
X/4
When crime kills crime is of course a completely different issue as long as no innocent bystanders are hurt. According to the Machiavellian principles of our secret constitution, gang and mob wars are strongly encouraged unbiased of who wins. To let the criminals exterminate each other would be a wise policy of the city solution, with central espionage involved if we got elected. OSP has never meant a danger to corporate America and the capitalist economy per se and that's an everlasting promise. We respect everything organized and have no time to deal with the ancestral corruption, don't anyone worry. What we are here for is to eradicate disorganized crime by any alliance necessary. We are the streetcleaners in every government's service. The overnazi plan is simple like a fiction. The martial law's target are the psychopaths of all nations. Worst thing first. Our main enemy are the people who feed the beast: the protective justice of primitive egalitarianism. The jury and the judges spoiled with the devil's empathy for the mentally unhinged. Their love of blood true vampires turn away with disgust from. Moral dictatorship is a sanitary measure requiring no intervention in the affairs of the mortal. Any snarled and tangled, the situation ain't that obscure as the view from within. Since fashion became the new selector of humanity sans frontiers, the individual is crushed by the competing trends striving to rule the free market. Loyalty is entirely pointless under the reign of integrity. History is a funny fair when you're no part of it. The war of clans of the human hordes is none of our business. We revere every tradition, just let us out. Unlike rapping gangstas in mortal combat for the money of the world, intelligent dancers accumulate their ambition on maximum security. There hasn't been a greater synthpop act than MEN WITHOUT HATS, by the way mentioned. Times are changing as viciously as the BÖHSE ONKELZ. The Motown days of equal hegemony are virtually over. We can sample and copy one another but won't unite again for a summer of return. We have missed out on the race-riot big time. Children of the 24 took over the disintegrating playground. The potential elite's innate subhumanism is the main impeder of science – the superman's pathetic suicide. Victims are only evidence – on the screens of Hell the killer is the star. The curious intelligentsia is indulging in the decay more voraciously than Somalian warlords. Don't have to blame it all on the Sixties solely – the roots of humanism are older than the Renaissance. The ethos of forgiveness is a catholic cancer of the mind. Every Aryan punk should be like Malcolm X. Multidimensionalism can't grow without a standpoint. If there's no center, you must create one. Even a double-agent is forced to have a preference as long as he's living with soul. Man-machine is still a very far cry. All we can do is to be genetically incorrect. Navigate with the traitor's compass. Evolution is alive and kicking throughout rotting corpses. Looking at it from the distance where we are, the cosmic bargain is an instrument of torture. In the dim light of the Bardo's dual darkness the opposites are indiscernible. There is a oneness we cannot name yet. I wouldn't even mind to. There's no time left for analyzing the obvious since at least Godard. Violence is a disaster of human nature. The most disgusting of all plagues – the Elohim would vomit of it. To arrive at the exit requires total abandonment and resort to desire. It is an individual race against the hostile collectives. From FRANK SINATRA to SID VICIOUS.
X/5
For an industrial rocker with limited public image, even the festival circuit is a revolutionary platform and the stage a factory of propaganda. Not just having fun like THE BERMUDAS. It's 'N SYNC who got the good time and they surely deserve it better than LIMBONIC ART. But not even DARK TRANQUILLITY will be forgiven the municipal waste of priceless beauty. Any damn talented he be, one may not hoodwink the mind's I. You'd better listen to what you're saying and try to comprehend what it means. Whatever you do and anyhow, nothing really matters but the why. You can't hide behind instincts forever when the enemy's at the gates. War metal is the most compulsive lie of all times, fighting phantoms of fables in place of the very thing. Simulation defends no one – every Wandervogel should be made aware. Never lay down your instruments before the victors. Turn against your own public if necessary. Lead or serve – that's remained the question. The great Gardener's social program has been to separate wheat from chaff since the Wedding began. In today's fast fragmenting growth often extinct without seeing a second season, to objectively select the value is vastly impossible. Even professionals are lacking the guarantee in the verbal chaos where the straightforward word is automatically verboten. The best fish are swimming ahead of the stream. A freewheeling voyager must take extreme care not to lose the track before it terminates. Changes are the innermost constant of the seizmic transition shaking the foundations of the arts permanently. The cultural geography is a map for the progressive dead: as soon as located, trends turn into graveyards. Time's a lot like the weather, especially since it's deceased. The Zeitgeist cannot be hurried or delayed. Nor predictable by the press - when it strikes, the media is but to catch up. Action/Reaction is the way we proceed: in a slow-dive zig-zag. It could be so much faster – we could be like the light! The muses must be crazy. Critical controversy is conditional of success in the electric atmosphere where the thought is processed. The socialist concept behind pop was the creation of a uniform art for the imaginary masses of the globe as one, encompassing the most diverse qualities of the spell from future to past. It provided us a present larger than life itself: the creative partytime. The illusionary escapism of the Disco-era, especially in the Eighties and most specifically around 1984, had a fundamental impact on the high society of class mutation. It introduced the neo-racist praxis of artificial selection's elitarian principles to the grand populace. Underground's lurking fascism suddenly issued to the collective surface, revealing the eternal truth of aesthetic judgement at least to the wealthy. The true alternative we are calling "punk" since endarkening ages did not need that terror - its public is self-selected with astounding efficiency. The industrial movement's vision of factory life was indeed pretty Warholian but was carried much farther by SPK, sacrificial labour replacing royal entertainment in the global asylum. The official birthdate of reconstructivism, as organised by the Berlin Boys, is considered now the 1st of April 1980 – I can't omit remind you how it coincided with the appearance of The Building, Sir. It was the very date of our first formal palaver about it, though no witnesses. The spirit communicates through the clock – I cannot cease wonder why are we doomed to live in the shadow of the empire. Of course, it is due to my innate lethargy in the first place, which is just another word for laziness, I admit. Nothing's easier to play than the exiled god. You don't have to do nothing but wait to happen. I could have learned to play instead every instrument during the immense time I've been spending idly. I've been praying non-stop for it but wouldn't get supplied a hint of motivation. I'm kept in a cage like a guinea pig to see how long can a man hold on deprived of stimuli. The gate might be ajar but to break free is the last thing I ever wanted. 888, my ass, is the most inapt spy in the history of intelligence. That everything happens as I wished only makes me a jealous guy. Where is my ego dead?
X/6
Noah's spaceark is a huge metaphor but there are more species filling in than its capacity could handle. And new ones keep emerging without let-down. That's why it stayed the most comfy to call the entire fauna rock'n'roll and put it in a box. We are nothing but the nuclear seed of a higher culture waiting for reincarnation. Time as a historical concept – data of bloody feuds – has lost its relevance for the future we want: let the tribes fight for the past. Our warfare is between styles and happens on the runway. We live in a designer's world and hardly can choose between Yves-Saint Laurent and Jean-Paul Gaultier. Fashion was devised for the better man to replace the dark age of chivalry with an alternative tyranny of aesthetic norms. It rules, it rules, but of little avail. The true overground doesn't touch down to the earth - it rather isolates itself from the realities of drug trafficking. It is a menshevik conspiracy darned to survive on wealth alone. Democracy's inherent conservatism is an invincible resistance. The black hole really sucks. In stead of endowing capitalism with the human face it deserves, la mode has grown to be a radicalist extravaganza for the upper class. Representative mirror of a non-existing dominion of instant nostalgia. Despite the show's increasing exotica, the dust of nihilist apathy is settling upon the new Akropolis like ashes of the angels. No bourgeoisie left to provoke, vogue discreetly entered the masturbatory of beaux art and haute couture for the prisoners of fame and fortune. You ought to be outrageous to get noticed: top models in their luxury Hell are naked souls under public scrutiny. Public scrutiny is God's microscope. The Earthlings, with all of their electronic gadgets of communication, are thriving on the scandals of the village like in candle-lit epochs of the gossip. Fashion is a celebration of the dying beauty of the fleeting day. But the sublime fiesta looks a lot like helter-skelter for a commoner: incongruent elements grappling to fuse for a momentum of fresh identity. A world without frontiers is a nice pipedream of opiated poets but in fact the worst nightmare for the average family man. We hate to be alone in the crowd; to form minorities is our innermost drive. People are adherent - every agnosticism starts as a sect. Everybody needs somebody to follow. In the pantheistic praxis, depression is a courageous era. And the most depressed are often the most prolific according to the cosmic bargain's evol dialectic. New sound-scapes are composed on a permanent basis – every epigon can create his own school. Sample culture revives all the preceding beats in a proliferating muddle of violent reintegration - we are experiencing a clash of genres as compared to the Fifties' cohesion of multiplicity. All the rhythm and the blues coagulate these Millennial years of the summoning. It should be a marvellous jubilee if it wasn't for infinity. Infinity is a serpent that'll lure you into endless repetitions in quest of the word that can't be spelled. The delicious feast often tastes like the last supper thrown up. You won't remember what you have consumed. There is no rest for the restless in the digital Dasein. The vibes must inconceivably modulate every solar night – the final kids are quite fearless of expansion. There is rapmetal, noisepop, technojazz, dronerock – you name it and it exists. Every tribute band wants to set its own trend. But in the awful fact, we're no more than creatures of the collapse. The acid house ruthlessly expropriated from its flowered-up landlords keeps grooving to ignore and forget as if oblivion was equal with amnesia. The all-knowing Z-Generation is much better armed against the despotism of the shepherds than the naive cult of the Y was, but innocence has changed into a routine of resignation. There is folkstorm, there is bloodbath; there is everything but revolt since 1984. The monotony of the unceasing transition increases the addiction level but satisfaction we still can get no. In the thickening smoke one can't clearly see what's burning. Any sharply cutting are the edges, the protest's just a shot in the dark. The robotheads are dedicated converts of DJ Messiah and don't wanna hear about nothing but the world's end. Chaos has no configuration. Every road leads to Pandemonium in the blur since the Antking went insane.
X/7
The flocks are all together now from crows to ravens. We could fly against the Sun if so wanted in uprecedented unison beyond territorial claims. It's bats versus eagles by dumb comparison and it coheres most perfectly in gothmetal's classicist folklore. The choice is between soar and grind and it's not so obvious. Multiplication without planning is the major cause of the escalating turbulence in every social aspect. Natural selection is sheer monkey business that should never be trusted. The virus of rock'n'roll was a greatly contagious infection - sterilizer of a divine magnitude. The concept of generations was the best Elohim ever had – it brought the war of values home to the family. Besides, it Americanized the globe under one beat to the evolutionary march. R'n'B was the primary precursor of the industrial dance culture: source stream of the overnational current. Music becoming the weaponry of revolution, entertainment rose above politics and arts with fanships rivalling soccer teams. The merge and surge of gospel and blues was the biggest bang in the sonic universe, converting swinging cowboys to the rhythm of the soul rooted in TOTO's Africa. That's what roll over Beethoven meant: an inversion of the culture wrapped in a candy joke. Any lovely, pretty, nice, and kind were the kids of Memphis, the heart of rock'n'roll has always been revenge: the instinctive revolt of the enslaved demanding their right to blaspheme and sin. Any pious, devoted, and humble, the official victory of the profane transposed the holy energy of blind faith into the personal cult of the mediator, raising the rebel to the reverend's seat. Stars became godlike DUKE ELLINGTON would never have dared to be under the media frenzy of teenage hysteria, elevating the power of music above both church and state. Redemption turned into mass production and the voice of the people began to be heard through an antithetic imitation of the socialist Christ. The hall of fame is a museum of mystic embodiments. The show is honest business in service of the costumer. It is a capitalist enterprise of pagan materialism prompted by Jehovah's devout bankers. The nuclear intervention's healing effect significantly reduced our primal fear of the unknown. Since the dawn of underground that formally began with surrealist silent movies in the frame of popular culture, the war of intelligence is waged for the mainstream whilst going against it. It produces atomic bombs set to time. The music industry might be a greedy bunch but what they're executing is nothing short of cosmic espionage in the collective subconscious. Often false but mostly true. DIY is more than priceless but to sign with a major label is every normal artist's guiltless dream. Competition is evolution's drive – life on Earth is a perennial championship where every worker is a contender. Communism can't eliminate but vindicates the scheme. Our Darwinist mission is to come before the darkness, and wealth is the only potential vehicle we got. Nothing else defends our fragile comfort in the perplexed vacuum we call home. To strive for immaterial goods is next to insanity – the spirit has no worth unless sold. To profit from misery is a moral obligation of every honest agent of the vampire club. The clock is ticking in – we ought to catch the tail of time passing away. The general freeze created by premature mutation is deadly for the immortal. Either we gain control over our destiny right now that we can, or let the ecologists finish the dirty job. We ought to relate to the world we visit. Happy are the few that can't be deceived by reality. Let the cynics rot in the rationalists' Hell. Idealism is the only way in and out of the Bardo. Only G.I.N.A. can save the human nature from the wrath of Osh.
X/8
Firmly withstanding the pathetic temptation of the prophecies, 1984 opened the gates of Ishtar in an elegantly clandestine fashion. After the five-year plan of afterpunk reproduction, the margin established itself as the center of the outward migration. Death has manifested its own mainstream from rock to metal, declaring total independence from the mortal majority. From the protest machine of the sunny sixties, the goths transformed be-bop into a morbid reflection of the winternight in an iced Earth's wuthering heights. All cold waves ended in the frozen lake of eternity. Punk's white riot against psychedelia was no adversary but a forthright prolongation of the glitter era, no matter the political undertones. It was the last takeover of the boys before wiped out by the new wave of British heavy metal first of all. Pop has little power, yet it remarkably bridged over the streaming eighties up to the grunge putsch. Ten years after 1984 the river changed its bed, widely extending the frontiers of the intersecting flood. The Seattle test was a re-evolutionary opposite to Akron's – it produced remarkable giants but a more faceless public rock'n'roll's ever seen in their self-assured likeness. No more dolls – just puppets. The media gave its blessing but the true descendants were forced into exile without notice. The early nineties defined the parallels whereby the world is revolving yet and there won't be another change, I suppose – except for the worse, as we're prone to witness in the rapist mainstream. Fragmentation is an incurable cancer of the spirit: in place of two, there are hundreds of different styles for different masses ceaselessly multiplying. The rocking class is far without the Marxist trivium. All claiming for eminence but crossing over on every occasion. That's not the happy end but the sad beginning of a new wave of civil war of vibes. Only the best individuals can rise above the growing whirlpool without compromise. The downward spiral is quite infinite – there is no bottom at the end of the pit. The fall finishes where you stop. The industrial counterrevolution in Cyberia goes for instant deliverance through advanced technology. Embark on the vehicle of rescue we've finally reproduced – that's all I would say if allowed to speak. No shocking revelation, just putting on the exclamation mark. Why should the dark angels hate me like Mr. Madman I cannot easily grasp. All I ever wanted was to turn the theory into practice according to their own lyrics as overheard. Fuck the bride! Under the 24's reign of tolerance, you're a poor idiot if standing by your word. Every mind has its own church and state – why should anyone join to anyone else's. If I were a band at least, not a lonesome antitalent begging to come true! My dilemma is schematic but indomitable: it is not the fish that need the fisherman – just on the contrary. Do you remember the vampire of Nazareth? My silly project of naivist idealism stinks like rotten apple amongst synthetic fruits. I've excommunicated myself DIY by trying to correspond via black mail. My karmatic disgrace is living proof for the dangers of egocide: on the long and slow run I remained an antagonistic bum dressed in second-hand rags of the grand camouflage. The forest of styles is a Borghesian labyrinth I should never have entered. One way leads to another and than back to retro. Reelin' and rockin' till the end of time. The major torrent of the post-genetic elite's globalist race-riot were about eight years between 1980 and 1988 A.D. with the year of the silent change in its middle. That it failed should be no surprise any longer, but it keeps me blue like an angel. My nostalgia for ROXY MUSIC is the worst pain in my ass. With all respect, I don't think today's kids will suffer the same for CEPHALIC CARNAGE. Redemption is a dirty job but works. The chosen ones have never been a democratic account – the quality's preponderance over the quantity is undisputable after all. Overall misanthropy well replaced liberal humanism in the voted dark, which is one good anathema but far from victory over democracy's Christianized dogmas. The beast became the new beauty but we lost all portion control. GARY MUNDY, to name only one, had opened the gates of Hell a long long time ago, yet after sixteen years of stagnant acceleration we haven't proceeded a grave yard towards a homocentric defence system. May you call the industrial clubland a fascist environment? Of course not. Nothing you may call fascist but skinheads with swastikas. That's why they're the only hope, not for their convictions. Convictions may change but the attitude remains. No one else wants Big Brother, and that's where the Party ends. I think I'm awful square.
X/9
The alleged homo superior's socialist flirtation is anything but a collective movement of over-nationalism – in fact it manifests in isolationist incognito in the best of its cases. The seraphic intervention's hyperactive escapism is a diabolical backlash on the acquired intelligence of the last generation. Since rock'n'roll took over the reins of evolution, artists became the soldiers of a new disorder: fighting their allegoric war with valour and grace but intrinsically shambolic in every other wise. It's a vanguard army of deserters out of all tongues and teaching them English. Exporting rebellion by vibes was the dawn of cultural imperialism – a higher way of positive conquest. Its cosmic aim by the bargain has always been to swiftly end the tribal age and establish the hegemony of the traitorous superman, so to speak. Unfortunately, it did not work out as splendidly as promised. Art remained art and slaughter remained slaughter. Divine interventions are usually weak. There is no new race born from the loud riot to destabilize the chauvinist warmachine. In spite of their equally corrupted systems of justice, the nations are stronger than ever – apart from the common currency, the Euroman is not here at all. It was the lie of the century. Now even the Belgian kingdom wants to separate. Where is the one world they're talking about? Show me the difference between a Bosnian and a Serb and I eat my shoe versus Herzog. Meanwhile in the comparatively more civilized and theoretically still united states gratuitous violence is the major thrill of life, promoted and co-produced by the capitalist media in the consumer's immoderate service. Reality has long outrun the fantasy of directorial debuts. Série Noire belongs to the age of innocence. Crime is computerized and consecrated. Greedy lawyers defend murderers before shady judges and the jury ain't no angry men but afraid of the notion of punishment. Disarmed police is charged to protect the assailants, accusing the victim for the rape. I don't want to go into it more, but reading the daily post makes me crave for the Apocalypse. I'm sick of the world like cancer. I'm immensely paranoid too, but the facts are the main reason of my creative paralysis. No rumour can match with gore in popularity; news of horror far outstrip sport and politics, let alone the gospel of science, as the main entertainment of our deranged cruise through Hades. Fear is the main attraction of the dark. Violence from subject became the object of the arts sponsored by the Masonic conspiracy of the CIA. It would be awarded by annual galas if hypocrisy wouldn't be left around at least. Best serial killer, best random act, best gang rape. A Dahmer for the most inventive mutilation. The future legend is no diamond dogs, Sir. The carnage happens in the dungeon but we still die for the Golan Heights. Man is a complete idiot and cannot be overcome by iPods. To live with pirates and cannibals should not be an existentialist dilemma of the 21st century. Why nobody cares to clear up the mess is beyond my slightest grasp. Ciao Benito. Wake up or die dreaming?
X/10
Who are indeed those haunted souls left below gasping for fresh air in the tunnel of love from factory to graveyard? The whores of Babylon or the virgins of New Jerusalem? Yes, ideally both. An interbred class with a distinct claim for Hell from powerpop to goregrind. As Ozzy did to doom, DAVE VANIAN opened the gate to goth leading the damned out of the light. The grimoire of salvation was a time bridge construed by punk and metal refused under the deconstructive aegis of the industrial counterrevolution. And still is, because nothing dies any more, only the trends multiply. The spawn of Nosferatu have chosen the ultimate evasion from the imperfect present through the romantic love of black death. The sinister mutation's meteoric impact has created a crater large enough for a generation's mass grave. At its softcore, the cult of mourning was a crafty reproduction of the expressionist shadowplay's dark futurism. Unlike the Jugendstil of allied electronics, it became a functionalist form of the theatre of depression for alarmed angels. Never the less, the Bauhaus dwellers were a split generation by the nature of their rebirth: half spectre-half robot. Updated centaurs solely: superhuman but subdivine. They painted a deeper shade of black than the Sabbath-breakers, without the psychedelic illusion of social import punk brought to anticlimax. It seemed to be a nihilist drift firstly, confronting the machinists' constructive nostalgia with the sheer beauty of decay. Setting an own trend for the living dead beyond anarchy and order. Satanist or pagan, gothica provided a comfortable milieu for refugees of hard and crust and turned heavy metal into precious through Thelemic alchemy. It is of course as much a history of fashion as of music, forget about the unattractive multitude. Modern rock'n'roll is a circus and you can't turn back time: if there's no pyrotechnics you'd better die on stage. Rock shows are reality operas of the current Gesamtkunst and costumes make them even more real. The glampire come with a dress code of Halloween as opposed to the sweating shirts of grindcorist trashmen. The aggressive display of decadence firmly separates the fetish freaks from the faceless undergraduates of sardonic mathcore. The perfect gothhead ain't no new poseur on the block but a dandy from the underworld announcing the Graal's second coming with vengeance in style. It's been an amazing road from casual glitter to Viking bodypaint – there's a warfare going on and the boys keep swinging. Suicide marketing replacing social commentary, the Tolkienic journey to imaginary pasts has remarkably raised man's level of time-consciousness and extended our bond with the cosmos to unprecedented mutuality. Though vastly superficial and evanescent, Gotham's legacy was a genetic input that taught us to reckon with eternal time – just when we needed it. The surest sign of providence for the children of New Israel. It turned the death of rock into the rock of death, paving the hallowed path to the Building. It ain't all Lady Macbeth though but a midsummer night's dream as well – a finest expression of universal subrealism from Norway to California. The trollish voice of the last wish calling out the solitary spellbreakers. The enemies of the Sun gathering in Celtic frost. Must be the final countdown.
X/11
Albeit well exploited by the mainstream media, the Vamporium of unholy black remained a minority affair under perennial extinction. Feared and despised by the masses like zombies of Eden, the immortal are restricted to ghettos even in Scandinavia between Disco queens and B-boys like flagbearers of hate. That's why the best of fans resort to force, not due to hidden messages of MDFMK. The hunted don't need to be instigated. The lynchmob will always enjoy the sympathy of the populace. Feminist indie pop killed the mod and that'll remain its main crime before the ordeal. To look stranger than your public has become a carnal deviation only greedy exhibitionists are stuck with. Alice may be sweeter than ever but is in fact older than the Canterbury ghost. The baleful gate of creative lethargy was opened pretty wide by IAN CURTIS with his minor key between MARK E. SMITH and DAVID THOMAS. Ach, those Eighties, and how they began! When BOY GEORGE was the enemy of people like us. If we could have stopped then we'd be at home by now. But it proved to be almost impossible for orthodox renegades to surmount the manifold offensive of afterpop's impersonality cult without erectile difficulties. What followed the new romantics' mayday was sonic violence with no justice done: industrial music's best juvenile years were spent in an incubator's very dim spotlight – its staying power and growing stronger is a miracle of negative thinking. Plunder-phonics and world-beat swag fragmented pop music into countless factions but couldn't create a new fusion on the basis of pansexual orientation. God proposes, man disposes. Heaven's policy of creation is a cosmic blunder. That's why we have voted on the Adversary, not just out of boredom. It's at least a sure bet. The Z-generation don't want to please – or shock for that matter. Nor did the hippies but much less deliberately. To manipulate the consumer like BONEY M is of little concern for EDGE OF SANITY. Gentle and brutal are harmoniously coalesced. Fall is the new rise: in order to reach the exit we have to go downward by the spiral. Because the exit's at the bottom as we've been kindly revealed by the spies of extremes. The outstanding formula that combines industrial strength and gothic propensity effectively erased the segregation of adult melancholy and infantine pathos, recreating the ultimate kitsch out of No Age noise in the sonic KZ. The eighties opened a whole new universe to enter for anyone who dared. But it was for free - hence nobody came. The consumer prefers to pay. Depressionism has been a socialist trend at heart – the demistification of manpower enslaved was no passion fodder but a macabre dance of the dead. A timely continuum of the SYD BARRETT galaxy for the terminally sane. The self-imposed karma of advanced intelligence protects profiteers of decay - art is a redemption of misery. From GUSTAV MAHLER to ARVO PǺRT, we're scoring the tragedy of love. The clash between NINJA TUNES and WORLD SERPENT is not a symbolic stand-up. It is an antimatter of life and death. The blood of Antichrist insinuates everywhere. After all played and heard, there are but two kinds of music: the good and the bad one. Any wide is the gap, there's nothing in between. On the other hand of course, the judgement is individual-relative: one man's pleasure is another man's pain. In the technologically advanced facility of recording, the quality is equally high in every genre. But where exactly to go is everybody's choice of his own. It is the content that justifies the form since the homosapien began to perform: performance, any bad, is a state of suicide. Perfection is a compelling asset, but means nothing without function. Counterrevolution devours its children just like its straightforward opposite: 13TH FLOOR ELEVATORS showed a direct way to FEAR FACTORY. When rock was young, it mattered a lot where you belonged. The do of hair was a surest indicator. In today's chaos of parallel times anything goes but nothing waits to come. It's a tumultous jam session. The race is quite deadly – you must choose your vehicle and drive it as relentlessly as TREY AZAGTHOTH. Annex what's crossed over if you wanna extend. Resist no will to have full power and don't worry about the gods denied. Eclecticism normally is a polar disorder. Any wide you open your mind, the world – and everything into it – re-divides into two. Dichotomy rules and the law can't be broken. There is no mixcore in true regressive metal. The right doze of everything won't suffice – at one point at least even lounge lizards must exaggerate. The Bargain is a rotten deal. Lucifer prefers warriors, no matter what they're fighting for. All we're left to do is destroy everything.
X/12
Evolution first of all is a spiritual thing materialists usually underappreciate. It is basically the same demon that drives righteous brothers in different directions: creativity is a common well of all rivers. That the current situation is rather catastrophic only the devil may deny. With the sustenance of new technologies, the reign of chaos has reached its apogee. Pop detached from rock like they've never been soul twins, and the urban guerilla is replaced by gang violence. The Abendland has fallen from coast to coast to the dominion of Rapcity. Resistance is futile. The dark waves receded like a nitzer ebb. 12 PM eternal has freezed the clock. It is the sad end of all pitchfork projects. The Satanic crusade is promotional world tour under the capital's benign protection - not the worst junkies would believe in the kill they're shouting about. What's more, it's completely misdirected by the foul fiend. No BOLT THROWER can reproduce the gore of war and the emotions it evokes. The amplified warriors of Odin are legal deserters of history hiding behind subreality's virtual armour. The gene-democracy of talent-distribution – Heaven's new policy of recreation – makes the selection easy and flawless. The UR refuse to go into battle and won't fight for victory. They believe in a higher way of killing, not only say so. It's the season of the coward. An artist must go mad to express what ordinary humans are naturally doing. The better reflecting, the more detached became the theory from praxis. We are dealing with an inherently disobedient army loving the enemy. A quite unsuccessful update. In traditional theatre the playwright wrote the play and the actor played the role – the story of the authors and performers was an entirely separate board with tasteful coincidences in the most. Rock'n'roll radically changed that formula by putting the actual performance in the focus of the happening, behaviour's largely surpassing the import of verbal messages. It fundamentally altered the transmissionary method. It coagulated sport and art in the circus of the century. The rock'n'roll experiment inverted opera's prefabricated solemnity and turned interpretation inside out – giving the best rehearsed live presence the tension of a unique drama. That's what distinguished CARL PERKINS from NAT KING COLE. It presented a new chapter in the book of reproductions opening at Sophocles, where the actor plays his own story – becoming one with the part behind the facade of the image projected. Celebrities in the media age live in progressive present tense: walking biographies in the public eye. Self-embodiments in the collective idolatry of the eternal outlaw. There were proto-rock precedents before our visual culture as well – Mozart, Liszt, Chopin and so forth – but very few indeed even by proportions. On the stage of the new Millennium everybody is a potential star. What Alistair predicted, Andy materialized for the elitarian masses. Great perseverance is required henceforth; the capacity, however, is no longer a special gift to the lucky ones but an integral bonus of every DNA. You can be what you wanna be and that's the only program. The rest rests in the hand of doom. Nobody wants to die undocumented. We want to leave behind as much memorabilia as possible to be remembered by the future we resolutely believe in. Vanity is a blessing for the faithful. Today's multitude of rockers are all as versatile as masters of the Renaissance – the collective evolution is enormously empowering. Rock concert is the ultimate showcase and doesn't end with a falling curtain. The media are generous exploiters: they reward their workshippers most accordingly. Superstars are those who can control them: imposing their own norms on what's been established. Since they are born to be, it's usually effortless. We might be greater than one, but the single main cause we are propagated and mutated for has not change a bit since the Genesis. I don't care much about Judaism, but no reference is simpler than the Old Testament of the chosen people. Don't need a better one right now. Forget what the Man said – forgiveness is the voice of the serpent. Darwin's dream has always been the triumph of an able Abel cutting the lineage of Cain's family, to recite the loveliest metaphor. But in the realm of facts, he only evolved into a masochist selling his soul to Mephisto half-price. We must learn to remember who we are and where exactly. Why on Planet Earth, if we want to take or leave it. Time travelers had better pack their bags. Elvis has left the building.
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XI.
XI.
XI/1
It's a beautiful day of the new Millennium's first spring outside the dirty window of my empty room looking at the Canadian government's emigrant garden in Kafka's Amerika. My apartment is located in the same office complex where I acquired my citizenship fifteen years ago by what I'd call a freak miracle. Though permanently aggressed for the color of my mohawk, I feel much safer surrounded by guards any hostile. I know how relative but what do I have. I need protection like an animal. There are even nicer ones who just find me funny. With the ethnicities in the doorway the situation's much more complicated. Whereverfrom, they're all looking at me like I was visiting their country by the dreamscape. They seem knowing that I'm a double–enemy: a universal refugee in my homeland. Vulnerable to the marrow. Sometimes they are Hungarijans speaking out loud, so I can precisely know what they're thinking. I try not to listen but those voices, you know, penetrate the ears. Out of every intelligent service, I am reduced for spying upon myself. It's the end of the line, isn't it? I've learned to do the nice guy very well by now, I walk with the grace of a punk from Egypt, and if arrested I just smile and tell that I'm residing here. It's great to be a tenant – I couldn't spend a night in a house. Unless I lose my mind, which happens less and less frequently, I behave like any gentleman would, just a hint more neurotic for authenticity's sake, and lie anything about what I'd be doing to my curious neighbors. But behind the door I spend 99% of my time I stand unmasked before the Judges: a terminally unemployed exile cleaning the floor to lie on. Hanging on the welfare of my spouse that can be cut off any moment if the truth comes out – that indeed I'm not legitimately mad but a pitiable cheater. Nothing works for me alone – it's Gina who had to go insane to be diagnosed with bipolar disorder; I'm only under her umbrella, in the familiar aspect. The social benefit is hardly sufficient for rent and bills – to buy a pair of new shoes is a luxurious desire. In the disability glare of the observatory I'm a ghost without limbs – the absolute nobody. Really a dead punk with no valuables or assets – looks don't deceive. Never owned a car – cannot even drive. My status is most detrimental and there isn't a thing I could do about it. You may say it's all my fault and that's absolutely right. I'm waiting patiently to be beheaded for it but not motivated to display my wounds, I hope you understand. A noble man can't perform the lover when he hates himself like shit. The real picture of Aleph and Ta is very sad indeed. No matter the pathetic kismet, she keeps on taking all the sacrifice to keep me alive with no fun compensating. I'm exploiting my bride like a slaveholder, only to argue if she makes a mistake. Not an enthralling portrait of the groom in any antithetic sense. I'm sucking my bitch's blood with no sex in return, wondering why she has to go fucking nuts. That's not a marriage between a man and a woman. It is the last couple on Mars again. Cheap reading but disgustingly true. I feel like a monster ashamed to have occurred. The acquired certainty of failure deprives me of willpower. Let alone the appearance problem graver day by day. I don't wanna be too confessional on the pretext of this letter from Bardo to Bardo, but I hate to apologize. I am aging like a baboon, though have never been young. Something missed out on me. Alias Janine's exotic dancing work is a criminal secret but far under the minimal wage and even more viciously threatened by the biologic clock. It doesn't bring more to the kitchenette than one meal a day; thank God I'm anorectic. The rest goes into smokes, but a bottle of wine is already impossible to afford. And that's for two decades of intense workship by now on Idunno what. If this is real, I don't know what can't be. I'm transmitted by error to the terrain like a virus that cannot spread. Born to be cast out. My existence as a discarded robot is a moronic burlesque: a Poltergeist amidst Cyberpunks. The anachronistic anarchomystic, as the operetta says. The Word is a pun.
XI/2
I hate to observe things, but it's remarkable how our atavistically fragile communication has come to an all–time break since I'm working on this 'Letter to Bardo', Sir. I'm not surprised though: it is the main scheme of my semi–life as a scavenger. The original spell put on me by the sentence. The curse of the I – price of the embodiment. I'm inserted in an antagonistic milieu. A nominal amongst verbs. For some reason or not, I'm repulsing dialogue and that's the end of the Word as a human being. I have become a monologue spoken to myself in the endless monotony of a mysterious solitude. I try to objectivate the situation but it's not easy with a missing subject wrapped in obscurity for poetry's sake. To express myself is the last thing I ever wished. Your white silence versus the black noise I'm industriously promoting finely signals how fed up Your Timeship must be with this boring confessional of a deviant parasite in place of a scholarly overview of the aggro–industrial subculture as ordered. Like Job used to say, I can't help it at all. I'm not doing this for money, hence cannot resist the obscure lure of fun. Lupus Dei's ideal of fun is woundlicking. And cannot stop it now; I must keep sending this letters even if you don't wanna receive them. That's the way I do it since time immemorial. Nothing else is on my autonomous schedule, you see; I must bring this to some end at least, costs what it costs. The investment obliges – my cosmic bargain is a typically metacapitalist enterprise. It's very kind of you giving me kicks to function: I have no idea what I'd be doing if you hadn't initiated this junkmail. For inspiration have I none, how could I? Maybe you are just patiently waiting for my swan–song busy as usual – a grace I never had my share of. I have no arms to the struggle – 888 is counted out of the book of life. I've got no more than six hours awake alone in the night. If my one and only woman cannot sleep, and she is insomniac, I lose all that time and hate her for it with a terrible passion. Vainly I'm missing her madly when not around due to the paranoia Paradise. The rest of the days I spend in a slumber even whilst walking. I feel like an archetype if anything at all. The big year of the turn is as hollow as can be – time crawls. Only the Calendar works for those that can use it. Another year, another film. How I'd prefer to be in Martin Scorcese's snakeskin! In stead of doing Taxi Driver in the dark for good. Every year I buy my new agenda, just to throw it out empty at the end. Only my unaccomplished homeworks are marked in it to be ritually transscribed to the next year's protocol just like starting over again and again. There are entries I'm copying since 1984. That's all that remained of communist me: the compulsory conniver. I only can proceed by planning my cities – through the revamped five–year plans of New Jerusalem. Old habits die hard. But it's never–never for ever and ever. My lack of dopamine has grown to hyperkinetic disorder. Joy for me is equal to suffer; I'd be a masochist if needed it. What I need is need. I've got nothing to share but my dilemmas. I'm a coward alright, but really don't want that now the cowards identify themselves with me. I love the strong and the brave with all my lamentable dialectics. True spies are at work and love, not frustrated lotus–eaters. They are not obsessed with the media, and proud to be invisible. I'm only a shadow on the Berlin wall from 1979. Can only exist on photos scrupulously selected. If the picture starts moving I'm already dead. Best animated as a talking asshole farting thoughts. The notion of departure became the homeward bound of romantic industrialism, or that's what they exclaim. I can't afford to doubt what I overhear and mulishly refuse to learn from my mistakes. I prefer to be wrong and that's my antithesis. I'm living the dream of an unseen master and it's an ordeal for a personality who cannot split. Vanity is a torture when you are cast out. Albeit I could better handle the paparazzi than a princess. I like them more than dogs. All I ever wanted to be was the talk of doomtown. I'd betray Judas for five bucks.
XI/3
OFRA HAZA died the other day; the strangest news I heard for a long time. She had AIDS as rumours have it. Albeit probably contracted by accident, it sounds like a joke of the Kabal. The bacteria mutates but destiny's quite the same as in B.C. 2000. Though I'm only an overage homeboy, she was like an icon of hope to me: one of my favourite mother figures. I always saw her as the Queen of New Jerusalem in my movie within. Any abstract we may try, it is inevitable to personify phantasms in a world so catastrophically split between material and spiritual. Every religion was born from that awful notion of immortality, and Atheism can't be less fabulous. Jehovah must be lying to his witnesses: providence there is none as far the third eye can see. It's always a relevant message when beauty dies – getting shocked makes you feel less abandoned. It's all about redemption, I guess, as reinterpreted for the multimedia age. Stars are bred for sacrificial purposes. To die shining is the most they can do. It's also a safe credit for Eternity any high a price. JAYNE MANSFIELD would never get old and Marilyn's still mourned like yesterday. So maybe there is providence after all, just cruelly disguised. Who knows – not me. I'm just a submachine. It was a good feeling to have a woman around capable of global domination beyond the loyalty and the treason SHAKIRA did not have to struggle with so profoundly. She was a clean source of subtle bliss amidst the resurgence of medieval witches turning battlecries into maudlin arias. A sister of mercy versus the ego–trippers of dark electronics. Gothic retro, from industrial to metal, opened a room for women in rock larger than any preceding riot, letting the ether in to purify psychobilly. It's quite about there – around the days of BLONDIE – where I draw my thin red line between the two witches: the original fancy and the real fake. The conscious instinct and the unconscious craft. The artificial and the natural. Classic training and artistic excellence mean nothing without RONNIE SPECTOR's soul medieval babes are as badly lacking as TINA TURNER's body. Wish can't be mastered without will, darlings. Retro shouldn't be more depressed than SADE and futurism less autocratic than GRACE JONES. The eighties' alternative mainstream is always an ideal base of comparison. You may think I've lost my touch, Sir, but it's more complex than that: it is time that stopped in the revolutionary sense. The future is right here and doesn't look so good. Although a flexible suitor eager to be tempted, I am allergic of the new sirens' bad vibes to a lethal degree. Vainly I'm unattracted, their repulsion could kill me just the same. No oscillator can eliminate the false overtone of spoiled emotions. I was raised on JANIS JOPLIN, so I know what is sincere. No, I don't wanna turn back any clock – thank God those days are over. I wouldn't miss a minute of it, but I'm fairly lost between so many extremes. I don't believe too much in magic but the devil undisguised disgusts me a lot. No screeching offensive of frigid harpies shall eclipse my vulgar dream about the City of Eden. Where joy is commanded and aging forbidden. And the gates will never be closed.
XI/4
The conglomerate sound of metal hammer and chamber music blending into hypnotic anthems on the devil's turntables was a brilliant hallucination of Osh. After so many upside down and round and round, a giant leap into nowhere. Reconstructivist idealism and heathen decadence created a unison unprecedented in elitpop culture. Guitarist or synthetist, the width and length of the wave harmonized sociopolar differences and elevated dancing to a political stature. Transforming thus the wasted energy of social unrest into an esoteric confrontation. But nothing's built to last without an efficient stronghold. Even Molotov cocktails expire if unused. Sometimes I severely wonder how dark it ought to get yet before calling it a night. Are BLOOD DUSTER or ANAL CUNT just latter–day rebels like SWEET and SPARKS were in the heydays of theirs? Will they be in thirty more years nostalgically remembered as icons of innocence lost? When gore was just a teenage fantasy? Aren't we too D.E.V.O.? I'd like to think not, but then we're at the unmistakable end of it all, I hope. The fall's enormously accelerated – Gravity's on the top of its power. Eternity is a stone's throw away at such a point of rotation. I'm strongly suggesting to draw a line as fast as possible, never mind the tempo changes. It is not between freedom and censorship. It is between sex and crime. As long as moral is hijacked by the Christians, there won't be room for Baphomet's justice in the Occident. Sooner will it be reconquered by the Ottomans. Bewildered by the demon of liberty, mankind must learn to censor its artistic indifference and humanitarian patience. Passive Atheism is involuntary suicide. We must rise up and fight the Elohim's corrupted bargain. The war is metaphysical between the cohesive and the fragmenting forces; there's nothing left to talk about pop music. We all know it failed but cannot see how. After five decades of rock around the clock, the first world's no better united than tribal Africa. Commerce is thriving upon racist economies of geopolitical interests where most people would give their only life to annex a bare mountain to their country. Or for the holy name of their monstrous gods and insane prophets. Although only music can unite the elite for a spectacular showdown beyond the linguistic barriers. Every quest leads to the source; the main stream is only the smartest way to get there. But it's extremely risky even for MICHAEL STIPE. It requires a total blessing of the genes. If you cannot challenge erosion, you'd better remain a lonesome giant like BILL NELSON breaking the beat of his heart. Miracles happen when dichotomies collide – forget about the secrets of Fatima; thus I advise you. If we, the UR, would be alien spies, we'd surely deserve our special protection from our masters. We should be excepted by now with so much self–consciousness. Half of the transition is heroically done. We have transformed our views about afterlife radically. All we need is some reinforcement. And since God is None, it must be generated from within. It is very important to comprehend in every Latin Quarter that this judgement'll be the final under our Sun, even if nothing happens. Never mind what the Dalai Lama has to say. Only instincts are forgiven – consciousness is facing an implausible peril if acting up. The extended arms of the universal refugee can't compensate for the lost wings of desire. The Z–generation's far too experienced to take an initiative. Everybody's crying but we faith no more. Time took with it our self–esteem when died. The diabolic illumination of the snake paralyzes the human will. Masked and armoured, the crusaders are hiding in the light in stead of battling the evil where it dwells. They're not avenging angels as publicized but addicted drinking buddies. It's still rock'n'roll, I know, but when you get beyond artistica, there's nothing tangible in the darkness. The soul is dissected with a dialectical chainsaw. They would scream genocide but vote against death penalty. It is a tedious fanship when your idols are your main enemy.
XI/5
There'll always be new wells burst in the western country, but no vintage alternative can restore the original singing cowboys, I'm certainly afraid. This is a late generation lost on the skids. Very sweet but very hopeless. Delicious remedy for the dying, but when all you need is guns they hurt little good. HANK WILLIAMS III is a perfect evidence for double–treason's supremacy but no saviour of anyone. NO DEPRESSION or TERRORIZER – all Mags are lying when it comes to issues. The main problem with the coup of decay is its fervent degradation of the last fascist virtues we are left at our faint disposal. Which is more harmful than DIE HARD RECORDS under its opposite banner. The big setback of Hades' overall spiral – even love spirals downward at this baleful hour – is the compromise that comes with it: the atavistic resistance to revenge anything they've done. A lot like the nihilist futurism of cyber–fiction, descent into distant myths can be a grave neglect of the Great Commandment displayed on OSP's Altar. Old reproduction sold as new blasphemy. Fatalism versus fanatism. Unless you're ERIC CLAPTON, to do one's best is frankly not enough. No means justify the missing aim any longer. Ecclesiastic differences aside, all fables are revived tonight as a single collective heritage of the blackened youth in search of identity. No ancient deity's safe when Time's dropouts are looking for a band–name exceeding primitive ideologies. Whether angel or devil makes no difference for surfers of the dark waves freely borrowing from the inexhaustible image bank from Eddas to Vedas. No need to worship or even know them, the sound of their names is completely enough for detection. Sacrilege and rebirth are indiscernible in the mirror of pop: Atheism don't deny any god, just flouts to discriminate. That's where it's superior to Raisms. True faith is the traitor's faith in the agnostic catacombs of the music industry. We don't reckon time as we used to before 1984. Bela Lugosi is apparently undead; its patron spirit defending us from the killers next door. Horror is our best shield from reality's Mafiosi. Ars Moriendi will save you no trouble when it comes to knifepoint. Are we many or are we alone, that's what we don't know. To market world domination is always a nice idea, but the sheep with the black mark – let's call it the Tribe of QUORTHON – are apparently the smallest minority since early gnostics in the subterranean jungle, held together by collaboration solely. The lonesome harvest is happening in dreamtime: welcome the wanderers without destination. Never, never, nowhere, nowhere. The aboriginal superman is back in space suit. Demanding a happier end that'll validate the struggle for survival. I know we ain't worthy, but even then. We are well capacitated though. We can build a Building beyond habitation any day now. All we need is power and guarantee and it's not undeserved. Some of us are very good dogs. MIKE PATTON's work schedule is tighter than an astronaut's. At least celebrities would merit more mercy, yet they've got the least. Although they aren't just lucky bastards but the boddhisattvas of the people's media. More mundane but no less ambitious. Facing the spitting mob, they earn every respect. I don't know if there's life elsewhere, but we surely are the Galaxy's most image-conscious civilization. Glory is a vice – that was a common lesson of SUICIDE and THE CARS. Yet without The Pact there are no services rendered. The more you have, the more you owe. Life is a loan to return with interest – the rest is your extra profit. Don't forget that Jah was a Jew and we are his capitalist likeness. Charity is good business – nothing fares better than a free concert to preserve the fame – but won't buy you soul. It is Bardoesque how little defence are we secured in the multimagnetic field of the Nephilim. If you want to stay in focus amidst the competing attractions, in stead of getting torn apart by the aspects, you'd better give up all considerations and do what you will like CAPTAIN BEEFHEART. If you don't want to create more chaos, let the chaos create you. Expanding the extremes of legal art as HARRY PARTCH did is the sole method to shape the scheme of things to come in synaesthesia. The UR have no conscience to repent for alleged fathers' sins. We must learn to defy the laws of genetics. But one can't do more than what he can, and that's where all logic ends. The tiny pack of demiwolves highlight the catastrophe but provide no relief from the fear of Satan by the bribery of worship. Most of them couldn't tell crime from sin better than a Jesuit. There's no retreat like the ancestral temple. The Party ain't nobody's home.
XI/6
Though not absent from the big band era of mother jazz, supergroups are a typical offshoot of rock becoming, from rebel industry, a bona fide form of political entertainment during the swinging 60's. Best emphasized it came by roll call of the listed (CROSBY, STILLS, NASH & YOUNG; EMERSON, LAKE & PALMER) before becoming less atypical. DAVE DEE, DOSY, BEAKY, MICK & TICH were not a supergroup just crazy. The trend's best regarded as a molecular experiment – spiritual chemistry – often producing brand new elements beyond the sum of their particles. Occurring by destiny or hazard, there is no law applicable to the creative phenomenon – it is different by nature in every single case. To widen the width of his circle is the inherent duty of every prolific artist, and god knows they all are. To undertake more burden is our major pleasure. Talent is a benevolent virus that duplicates by every feedback – capacity is something we're obliged to increase as long as they let us. If you got the power, you must invest it – that's the basic principle of the human contract. As many side–projects, as many personality you are – we ought to make maximum profit of our single life. And die rich too. By the way I've just heard that the mainman of DEATH, DJ Helmut's unsurpassed fave of all things metal, has a terminal brain cancer in honour of his genius. Nomen est omen, I should say, but I'm extremely upset. These are the things that should not be happening under divine terror. Darkness is not a land beyond the light – it is inside the organic citizen. There are immortals everywhere, lurking in the flesh from Tampa to Tampere. Funeral kitsch redesigned the grave of avantgarde constructivism – the cosmic bargain is a rock operetta. Let's dedicate the whole thing to HIM. Death metal came down as a serpent to eclipse the Sun of independence shining on the parasites of Paradise. It came with a Northern blizzard sweeping through the tropics. Geography is a joke since we fly. Races aren't configured by the weather no more. One race – one climate; the rain's falling within. That far we've surely gotten by the violent impact amplifying the primal scream to the thunderous feedback of the Judgement's metalhammer. It's decadent alright, but not like the previous fin de siècle. There's little improvement between syphilis and AIDS antibiotically speaking, and our symbolism is no less pessimistic, but we're living in an age of high-tech cyberotica, aren't we? Everyone has the tools and the right to express himself, don't got to be Rimbaud. Art in the twentieth century became a medium of multiplication leading up to the bloggers' inferno. Its pros and contras are meticulously well-balanced though – in chaos you may trust. The Aryan-Viking alliance of perfect reincarnates with their genetic bag of unexperienced memories is not the spectre of the kingdom but the living realm of the undead unveiling the monolith with fire and iron. Who will compensate us for our wasted adulthood? The foundations of an Elitarian republic are heroically laid on a higher ground – to materialize it is a matter of reconstruction. But the process is out of the remotest control, due to the overkillers' hereditary antifascism: the silent conspiracy of the 24's perverted intelligence. Technology made humankind more equal than handguns – Steve Jobs was our Sam Colt if America first. Science is no longer censored by the clergy. The gate's descended and the key is in our cuffed hand. One good reason to break the chains. What's more, it's now or never. The most trivial moment. Neuropolis is lying in ruins. Socialism with a subhuman face. Horse with no name, flag with no colors. Maldoror is dead.
XI/7
The aversion of labels is a natural impulse unless you're a surf band like THE BARRACUDAS. Ambitious artists have no horizon. But when it comes to the ideological identification with messages and packaging, the post-industrial militancy behaves like innocent children playing with adult symbols in utter negligence. Nothing's to be taken by the face value in the postmodern society – if you can't detach the word from its meaning, you are a dangerous idiot and will end as an outcast of the competitive ceremony. You can never be careful enough with these things; no suit and tie will conceal the swastika carved on your chest. If you don't hate Uncle enough, you'll be transparent before the Hasidim. Art's never responsible for what it projects, but action is strictly verboten. We don't risk our life because, unlike dumb soldiers, we know its value. In the enlightened mind of the esoteric elite, paranoid schizophrenia is a protective mantle against bad conscience. The torture killers are playing it safer than any gen before them, like morbid angels enjoying calamities. Which could be colossal if it was for underworldly espionage, but as a matter of fact it's hardly even conscious. Attitude is the first thing we sample and remix. We yearn to belong but refuse to join. We're here to judge the world, not to change it. Let the hordes of emo whine over the cold. Under Satan's fabulous aegis, all we got to do is to praise the resident evil. The demonic make–up is just an anti-trendy shtick – don't mistake the actor for the performer again. Nobody wants to look like MORTIIS really. Thou shalt take no side, tells the 24's wisdom to the apostles of dark epiphany. Just get down to Hell as fast as you can. It's a bunker for latter–day sinners. Yet it's only temptation, I can but warn the Bride. The energy will go bust but no lust be satisfied. We'll never get to know what we should have done. Coming with the inherited knowledge of their ancestors from rock to waltz to classic, the virtuoso goremongers don't need the directives of BILLBOARD to invade the infernal regions of their marginal consumerhood. GOREFEST has altered the ideal of having a good time and what's coming on ever since is the enchanted propaganda of universal negation. Very good indeed, entwined with the gothic beauty of CATHEDRAL. The speedy grind of the trashy core is probably the best continuum of the Memphis tradition of virgin shock where all backward roads lead. Gore not dead. It's gonna be rotting alive alright for a long time yet to come, the boys just getting wilder in rivalry with the epigon nations. As a matter of fact, we haven't heard nothing yet. Hell is a realm of infinite innovation. Decline is a basic instinct of higher intelligence – that's what Brother Leary missed to consider. Nothing can stop the fall of man – getting higher only augments the danger. Bringing the end closer is the best Lucifer's loyal warriors can effectively do. Revealing the brutal truth about the human condition: the perennial exodus of the sheep keen on evading the slaughter. To disgust you is the chief goal at its best: defecation on the dinner-table like an Otto Mühl Show. Mixed under, over, or beyond by the manic masters of pain, good gore is popmuzik for drunken demons which is very beneficent to release. Fuck oblivion and roll the real rock. Making fun of it alone can obliterate the beast – it's the first promise of populist shamanism. Humour is the magic sword to slay the dragon of seven indignities. The exhumed deathgrinders don't try to inform you like electro-Atheists but go for the hurt: the vainest trial of all reserved for sadist cynics. As opposed to the thievery corporations of corrupted hiphop, rock music's remained a pearl jam in the whirlpool that sucks us. More contortion – more purification. The Raving Atheists Vowing Gory End are blessed with hate and hate can't be hated. It is sacrificial musicianship on Baphomet's burning altar. Indulgence in deprivation is the new protest. If the age of chaos is killing you, you'd better contribute. Stop to follow the acceleration and take over the lead. Since there is no future it all depends on us. We are dependents by tag. The slaves of freedom.
XI/8
The direct ratio established between quantity and quality can't stop amazing me at this metaphysical momentum. Both are increasing simultaneously like the source was inexhaustible. Mediocrity is an artifact of the past. Facilitated by the technological revolution, the class mutation of an overnational master race we'd best reckon since the coming of Elvis is vastly expedited. Which of course does not mean we were better treated than the scum – we all shall go down by the quantitative judgement with our Noble-prizes. Rather are we a lot more forsaken than when we were few. Fortuna single–handedly decides who'll make and who'll break and nothing can modify the throw of her dice. Bands better settle with their fates if wanna be underground legends. Mainstream success, except for its three exceptions, is the end of nobility for the Z-generation. High treason to the art of dying. If it happens, rather accidentally than miraculously, you'll be crossed out of the book of the chosen and no longer a public enemy. You'd better be a movie icon able to play anyone to preserve your identity – one-role rock-stars have a much harder time to kill their ego. The false prophecy has come true. The factories we build in the air are in utter disarray – it's often hard to tell product from residua. Good Stakhanovites put out everything sooner or later just to be heard. The mix wars of the electric battleground marking our frozen epoch are the surest sign of mass production's ultimate victory no lonely crooner will profitably outlast. Going solo is always a desperate attempt even if it works fine. The Sun ain't gonna shine any more, but that's not what I'm missing. I'm missing the stars of the night under the neon sky like a reservationist mohawk. I haven't sincerely liked anyone since ROD STEWART – not from the heart. It's a lot safer to start out with the dark wish of virtual anonymity than challenging failure amidst the hyenas of the media. Tonight when we can't differ perennial partytime from the long march of the living dead we are revisiting the core of the void. It's the ultimate transition where we're at. Rock'n'roll in the parallel empire of the good lord of the dance is a likeness of government voted on by the citizenry's manipulated taste. If you don't want to think and betray can always join a philharmonic orchestra and follow Boulez. Yet after two decades of intense propaganda, the kids wouldn't mind whom to hate. It's still government and police from grunge to trash like we were bored teenagers. Though no less fragmented than metalcores, the industrial culture rooted in the pseudo-political makeover of the new wave is still the only semblance of a movement detectable on the Elohim's allegoric radar amidst the fast extending stagnation. The machine also has the advantage of socialist allusions versus metal's obsession with bizarre legends. What THE SMITHS originally addressed was a fictitious subculture born in a coffin: an abstrahated concept of the masses in the neo-familiar Marxist/Lennonist fashion. The spectre of a sham future haunting. The bands jumping on the derailed wagon rarely seceded from the projected background since rock became a therapy of animated abreaction. Artists don't work in shifts by assembly lines but are self-exploited individuals on their own hectic schedule producing but the atmosphere of the labour camp. Though enormously increased in number, they're henceforward a proportionate minority of the overpopulation, lucky to live in this profane age when exhibitionism is of higher priority than humble virtues. Empathy for the dispossessed is a moral obligation of the ranking – hypocrisy is a preordained feature of the celebrated elite of the new monarchy. The industrial escape is a mystery train carrying the souls of coming martyrs to the unknown destination beyond the tunnel of love. Demons of Hell or saints of Eden, the universal refugee is well on their way out of the exile. All we have to dispose of yet is the guilt for joy. The Abrahamic spell doubled by the pigface Christus for us. The Antichrist on every logistic account is the counterrevolutionary rethronment of the great Pan risen with a vengeance. You don't have to commit the crime but kill it, stupid, if you wanna save sex. Simple as ever was. TESCO ORGANIZATION should make up their mind.
XI/9
Intelligence is the spirit of treason to the Earth – Lucifer's promise of the City of Eden. Slow awakening from the visceral dream of expulsion. It's always been the pivotal test of OSP's aborted propaganda campaign – the entire procedure started in its quest. Since scientific research replaced mystic revelations in deciphering messages of the unknown, intelligence became the pawn of our redemption – the eventual vessel of deliverance. It is an ultimately human attribute progressively fulfilling the evolutionary program's decoded prophecies. Not a cosmic input like belief – we have acquired it through bloody struggles with the elements of nature we're charged to surmount. Contrary to the alleged providence, this is our very contribution to the divine – the dowry of the Bride. We have a technological civilization much higher than Mesopotamian agriculture – we justly suppose offering a worthwhile alliance for the much promoted wedding with Heaven. Intelligence is the original source of blasphemy and the holy ghost of the Atheist Church at global civil war against the obsolete dogmas of soiled and spoiled liberalism. Though rather unclear by definition, the adjectival form of the classified word is ludicrously imposed on all sorts of dance music from house to techno to rave at this advanced stage of franchised fragmentation. Metal genres are only exempt because they're destructive per se. The main meaning of the term has been to separate the thinking man's tremble from the hippy hippy shake of the discothequians' oblivionism. It also carries lots of social connotations, as sworn DJ's are often concerned with environmental issues. Never the less, downtempo or dubstep, no one ever will be more intelligent than THE ADVERTS or THE ADICTS were for the last first gen. The dialectical confrontation of negation and idealism has splendidly harmonized in IDM for the electric bodies, but then tracelessly absorbed by the hypnotic void of drum'n'bass and other biomechanical soundscapes of the transcending ambiance of flotating corpses. Only rivetheads were carrying the flag of revolt over the abandoned battlefield in search for an enemy before the cybergoth sabotage. Aggrotech still is an adorable stronghold of the Blitzkrieg bop but no candidate for Grammies. Fortunately, they verily don't need it – and that is the elitarian power, mon ami. As we grow more and more, so we grow fewer and fewer. Something's going awfully wrong with the symbiosis.
XI/10
But beware of the snake more trivial than ever. The truth is smooth, baby. Every individual comes with its own set of responsibilities and they're genetically equalized. We only compete to have more, possessed by the sacrificial drive of the ego. A backlash of the quest. Many are seeking but discoveries come to one. The lucky one: the best equipped. No sex, however, prevents you from prostate cancer under the cosmic bargain's charter of human rights. The mortal toll is plain total, proving war a most luxurious effort of sterilization for willful want of an intelligent solution. Good for absolutely nothing indeed. Yet my simple proposition of ethic cleansing is automatically rebuffed as Utopian fascism by all morbid crackheads – perhaps because exactly that's what it is. The unwavering opposite to Christian benevolence. To imagine a future better than what lies ahead is virtually impossible for the new pagans burdened by experiences. The frontiers of epochs are cast by bones and crossed by rivers of blood. Just take a look on television: how rationally suited and tied leaders must bring decisions worthy of a befeathered tribal chief. But also beware of looking through the canvas. History's a museal painting in 4D – there's nothing but the wall behind it. Reality's hollow within like a holograph – a projected reproduction of the never existed. No Way Out is a nifty mantra – it makes one feel less alone. Wisdom, however, rejects such rationale. What we badly need is the lie of lies. The quintessential defect of the sapient robot's unlikely attitude is its masochistic self–denial. A logical illumination brought to you by ages of reason – the infantile disease of Atheism. Questioning the perfection of the Maker, the mortal must face its ultimate deficiency. Which is an anger of epic proportions. There lurks the major cause of suicide – it's not manic depression. Suicide is always revenge. Whoever needed so much epiphany? By all informal logic, there must be a third amplitude behind the paradoxal rule of poles – that's what 'Nuclear Reincarnation' meant to herald. Something awesome like the Buddha. But the machinehead of the 24 automatically turns away from the glimmer of totalitarian nostalgia The Party would proudly flaunt. No flirt with order can diminish the obscene charm of anarchy. Everybody covers it, but no one imagines to do the Mussolini – it was a prank call already in the first place. You had to be a bastard son like me to factually take it. Seems my sense of humour is rather limited. The Bride's just bitchin' around to the sound of sadism. Subrealism has no room in the vacuum. The Black Army Faction framed for Stilleben is ready to strike but missing the target. Time's relative travellers are as present–blind as the mortal majority of citizens – can't see farther than the phantom of censorship. Decay may grow but the power won't be given away. DAVID GEFFEN can't be intimidated. Free society easily adapts itself to new markets – moral has become a communist principle. Capitalism is digging its grave, as Khrushchev warned them. Chaos is the home of the arts and can't be purified from within. It needs an arsonist. Governments are puppets of democracy's organized crimes under the Western skies unto the East. You must commit the unspeakable like Bill Clinton to be impeached. Far the soundest for all of us Hellspawn is to retreat in the darkness and prepare for Eternity. Overnational Socialism is like a ghost ship on the ocean of malice crowded with drowning individuals that could not help each other even if wanted to. Massacre of the innocent is henceforward the main theatre of racial evolution in spite of the heroism of war correspondents. What would the land become without enmity? A festival of peaceniks. The empire of boredom. Fear is the zest of life – it gives our soul its special flavour. No thrill – no desire. The Bargain is relentless. OSP's program, on the third hand I am, is freaking out every definable stratum of the society. My global Kampf is strictly moral and no subculture shall provide it a Hinterland. Which is not a catchphrase for harvesters of horror. Too abstract for biker gangs, but too violent for unions of vampires who wouldn't kill on command. They want their lust out of it. Besides, who's speaking? I keep forgetting I'm a complete unknown in solitary confinement. Espionage quite accomplished, I must admit. I don't possess a single enemy amongst the living – is it any wonder my subconscious wants to keep it that way. Nobody hates me like you do, Sir, and I truly appreciate your Ministry's all–enduring support. Without your distrust I'd be certainly buried by now with not a soul at the funeral. Though cannot bear it gladly, criticism is all I need. I wanna be wrong like every bad boy should. Bring me the head of Karol Vojtyla.
XI/11
As you might clockwisely see through the darkness, the center of my Bardo is hollowed to a hole. There's no mnemonics to refill it – nothing worthwhile to remember. The Party is me in the closet, catatonically waiting for the need to come out. I'm a stationary fugitive on a delusional run from myself. Lost in the interpretation. A grey eminence under the black rainbow of false allegories. An imbecile nephew who cannot even paint. The most radical conceptualist ever lived, I'm like Joseph Kosuth's illegitimate son. Cannot demonstrate my vision in any artistic way. Nor can I argue with esoterists about air pollution like dependable experts. And ain't afraid of flying saucer attacks – anything but our own shit. The question is what the girls really want. To create Hell or to destroy it. If you can't please two masters at the same time, serve None and end the dichotomy. Atheist faith does not compromise. Disclosure is cool but there's little else left we wouldn't have said yet – no point to wait for the next John Cassavettes. Vainly misbehavin' for decades now, we could not alter a dot on the pattern. The orchestral maneouvres of electric warriors surely taste better, but the killing joke is on the subhumanist Necropolis grinding the bloody gore. Philia or phobia does not make the difference. The cynosure does. Necromancy is about the horror of resurrection. As opposed to the clean fun of the Sixties' hypocrite beach boys, sunny California violently transmuted into the benighted home of its aboriginal zombies dark as a dungeon. Death, especially of/to Christians, has become the single main preoccupation of the evil counterculture from industrial disco to doom metallica since about 1984. Though rooted in the very same rhythm and blues as the psychedelic furs, it was a most consequent but largely unexpected turn of the tide: towards the other side of nature unveiled. Return to the original wish that purified the intellect spoiled by philanthropic germs. The epochal foundation of the Antichristian mind was a wide bridge from KOMMUNITY FK to DEICIDE to remain in the South, with a traffic on it bewilderingly growing in both directions. Not much has changed in the two decades following Time's untimely death – things do not pass away, just extend ever stronger. New gaps open every day but the old schools never die. Premature resurgence will last for ever. Today's underground is twice as large as the surface above us – it could conquer it if the warfare was layered. Yet the slave unit has no time to waste indeed, busy with underscoring the final downfall of man with acerbic humour. Turning crime into art and vice versa, the 24's asocialist conspiracy of decay irrevocably corrupted the moral standards of the liberal society at honest feud with sexual taboos. It found an ideal camouflage in the popular myth of the vampire inoculating every genre of rock and roll and beyond, relocating its roots from the Mississippi to Transylvania. The Brotherhood don't need to be secret – it is hurled and tattooed and widely international. But wouldn't give a shit to RaceRiot the way I'm pushing the envelope. Even in Venezuela, crime is the goddamn business of the police unanimously hated with every reason. Everybody knows the streets are for the mean and you're a fucking snob if don't like it. We wouldn't have LOU REED if it wasn't for the wild side. I find it very hard to orientate in the urban meadows without any principle left. It would drive Goebbels insane. There's no room without the ivory tower. Stage is our only home to get isolated. We are guest workers of an invisible culture, producing souvenirs for aliens. Nobody would notice if they remained undone. Any finely chiselled, the box is not the ultimate object. Its theoretical function is to hold something ideally more valuable than itself. Spectrum without focus is form without content – senseless reflection of the overall collapse. The media have shut our third eyes pretty close – everything happened as the Marshall had foreseen. The means have replaced the aim, the praxis became theory, the movie is about shooting itself. The message is about the medium. End of transmission.
XI/12
The equalifier's present-day embodiment is music television: the video that killed the radio star. The top gun of 1984. Though sound and vision have always been one couple by our organic upbringing, MTV's consumerist approach to overproduction profoundly changed our collective apprehension of the music business. It augmented the produce to its own commercial and manifested promotion as the most complex form of functionalist art. It was a Meisterschaft of the capitalist multimedia. Picture to a song as opposed to songs supporting stories effected an incredible switch in our sensory perception of the tragedy being born from popmusic. The background coming into the fore, sound become an illustration of the vision written like scripts of the unseen movie. Changing the r'n'r formula at its core, the putsch of affordable video art extended the power of rhythm very widely. Technology is the people's renaissance. The result was immediate and global as we're used to it by now. All divergent branchings of the global Fluxus gently merging in the avantgarde for the masses, we have learned practically overnight to distinguish our flamboyant being in the different views of Infinity's overlaying windows. Which is really something, isn't it? A quantum leap of our great specie's intelligence. The unburnable library of New Alexandria in the Air is wide open to everyone for free, a good director can compress into three pulsing minutes all the semantic legacy of the cinematic lingo from Dziga Vertov to Akira Kurosawa. The reason why so few do make use of the opportunity is not a financial matter in the homemade era – it is entirely due to the uncertainty factor arresting the elite. It's very hard to progress where anything goes. There's no way to distinguish two fishes of the stream so fast and wild. It is trying enough to count them. When you glimpse some quality in the flow, it's already faded into the grey matter of the quantitative countdown. All we see is video gaga. Sacrilegious youth without past fooling around with obscure relics in ostentatious posturing of their egos, infatuated with crime and more disrespectful towards sex than old–time burlesque. As opposed to best–when–minimalist concert footages, most promotory aims at giving a look on their subjects as complex as they'd certainly deserve. There you really can god it. Stripping the soul is always appealing, but even if blinded by the flashlights, you can better detect the divine presence behind the smoke, whatever deafening the live experience may be. Rock'n'roll, first and last, is a stage drama and loses a lot of its power as a document if not edited properly. I've witnessed no more than ten concerts in my life but they were always magic for memory apart from the public. Any better may be the virtual, no machinery will eliminate our shamanic roots any time soon. Moreover, the inventive effects, didactic or abstract, automatically eliminate the gravity of any information if carelessly overused. The average TV watchmen are ready–made monoliths – like or dislike but nothing will ever change their taste, you can be sure. Without the mission's protective colouring, freedom will get and never let you go: it'll swallow, grind and shit you into Hell. Only bands unafraid of controversy can touch down to the sinking bottomline. And such are the rarest types of rock'n'roll's animal kingdom at this season of the abyss, hardly taken any seriously even if crowned. Though the amount of explosives sampled on our record collections could blow up the universe, no hacker imagines to bomb enemy targets in a real raid or something. We don't even know who they are – the simplest is to kill everyone. If you insert Riefenstahl, make it sure it's ambiguous enough. Dracula with a swastika would better slip through the censorship. I always thought I have authored the smartest copyright in my madness. Despite the dictatorial reign of the electronic artilleries' faceless militia that give us our daily orders, a hit song's preeminent factor is henceforth its performing unit – anonymity is a dream of the dreamless. There's always future in the boyzone. Rock is personality cult on the first plane – that's where it opposes traditional music academies. Talent is conditional but won't suffice to chart. Albeit through the hardest labour, stars are born to shine and that's exactly what they'll do behind the guise of humility. It'd be the same unjust to say that only shit sells though. There's absolutely no rule decodable and we'd better leave it like that for now. The swine positively like diamonds. The problem is not the market – blessed are those that can invade it. The problem is the overall Götterdämmerung. We do not trust in any of them and there are no replacements. Now we're really left on our own devices and all in all it's a very positive outcome. Just listen to CATTLE DECAPITATION.
It's a beautiful day of the new Millennium's first spring outside the dirty window of my empty room looking at the Canadian government's emigrant garden in Kafka's Amerika. My apartment is located in the same office complex where I acquired my citizenship fifteen years ago by what I'd call a freak miracle. Though permanently aggressed for the color of my mohawk, I feel much safer surrounded by guards any hostile. I know how relative but what do I have. I need protection like an animal. There are even nicer ones who just find me funny. With the ethnicities in the doorway the situation's much more complicated. Whereverfrom, they're all looking at me like I was visiting their country by the dreamscape. They seem knowing that I'm a double–enemy: a universal refugee in my homeland. Vulnerable to the marrow. Sometimes they are Hungarijans speaking out loud, so I can precisely know what they're thinking. I try not to listen but those voices, you know, penetrate the ears. Out of every intelligent service, I am reduced for spying upon myself. It's the end of the line, isn't it? I've learned to do the nice guy very well by now, I walk with the grace of a punk from Egypt, and if arrested I just smile and tell that I'm residing here. It's great to be a tenant – I couldn't spend a night in a house. Unless I lose my mind, which happens less and less frequently, I behave like any gentleman would, just a hint more neurotic for authenticity's sake, and lie anything about what I'd be doing to my curious neighbors. But behind the door I spend 99% of my time I stand unmasked before the Judges: a terminally unemployed exile cleaning the floor to lie on. Hanging on the welfare of my spouse that can be cut off any moment if the truth comes out – that indeed I'm not legitimately mad but a pitiable cheater. Nothing works for me alone – it's Gina who had to go insane to be diagnosed with bipolar disorder; I'm only under her umbrella, in the familiar aspect. The social benefit is hardly sufficient for rent and bills – to buy a pair of new shoes is a luxurious desire. In the disability glare of the observatory I'm a ghost without limbs – the absolute nobody. Really a dead punk with no valuables or assets – looks don't deceive. Never owned a car – cannot even drive. My status is most detrimental and there isn't a thing I could do about it. You may say it's all my fault and that's absolutely right. I'm waiting patiently to be beheaded for it but not motivated to display my wounds, I hope you understand. A noble man can't perform the lover when he hates himself like shit. The real picture of Aleph and Ta is very sad indeed. No matter the pathetic kismet, she keeps on taking all the sacrifice to keep me alive with no fun compensating. I'm exploiting my bride like a slaveholder, only to argue if she makes a mistake. Not an enthralling portrait of the groom in any antithetic sense. I'm sucking my bitch's blood with no sex in return, wondering why she has to go fucking nuts. That's not a marriage between a man and a woman. It is the last couple on Mars again. Cheap reading but disgustingly true. I feel like a monster ashamed to have occurred. The acquired certainty of failure deprives me of willpower. Let alone the appearance problem graver day by day. I don't wanna be too confessional on the pretext of this letter from Bardo to Bardo, but I hate to apologize. I am aging like a baboon, though have never been young. Something missed out on me. Alias Janine's exotic dancing work is a criminal secret but far under the minimal wage and even more viciously threatened by the biologic clock. It doesn't bring more to the kitchenette than one meal a day; thank God I'm anorectic. The rest goes into smokes, but a bottle of wine is already impossible to afford. And that's for two decades of intense workship by now on Idunno what. If this is real, I don't know what can't be. I'm transmitted by error to the terrain like a virus that cannot spread. Born to be cast out. My existence as a discarded robot is a moronic burlesque: a Poltergeist amidst Cyberpunks. The anachronistic anarchomystic, as the operetta says. The Word is a pun.
XI/2
I hate to observe things, but it's remarkable how our atavistically fragile communication has come to an all–time break since I'm working on this 'Letter to Bardo', Sir. I'm not surprised though: it is the main scheme of my semi–life as a scavenger. The original spell put on me by the sentence. The curse of the I – price of the embodiment. I'm inserted in an antagonistic milieu. A nominal amongst verbs. For some reason or not, I'm repulsing dialogue and that's the end of the Word as a human being. I have become a monologue spoken to myself in the endless monotony of a mysterious solitude. I try to objectivate the situation but it's not easy with a missing subject wrapped in obscurity for poetry's sake. To express myself is the last thing I ever wished. Your white silence versus the black noise I'm industriously promoting finely signals how fed up Your Timeship must be with this boring confessional of a deviant parasite in place of a scholarly overview of the aggro–industrial subculture as ordered. Like Job used to say, I can't help it at all. I'm not doing this for money, hence cannot resist the obscure lure of fun. Lupus Dei's ideal of fun is woundlicking. And cannot stop it now; I must keep sending this letters even if you don't wanna receive them. That's the way I do it since time immemorial. Nothing else is on my autonomous schedule, you see; I must bring this to some end at least, costs what it costs. The investment obliges – my cosmic bargain is a typically metacapitalist enterprise. It's very kind of you giving me kicks to function: I have no idea what I'd be doing if you hadn't initiated this junkmail. For inspiration have I none, how could I? Maybe you are just patiently waiting for my swan–song busy as usual – a grace I never had my share of. I have no arms to the struggle – 888 is counted out of the book of life. I've got no more than six hours awake alone in the night. If my one and only woman cannot sleep, and she is insomniac, I lose all that time and hate her for it with a terrible passion. Vainly I'm missing her madly when not around due to the paranoia Paradise. The rest of the days I spend in a slumber even whilst walking. I feel like an archetype if anything at all. The big year of the turn is as hollow as can be – time crawls. Only the Calendar works for those that can use it. Another year, another film. How I'd prefer to be in Martin Scorcese's snakeskin! In stead of doing Taxi Driver in the dark for good. Every year I buy my new agenda, just to throw it out empty at the end. Only my unaccomplished homeworks are marked in it to be ritually transscribed to the next year's protocol just like starting over again and again. There are entries I'm copying since 1984. That's all that remained of communist me: the compulsory conniver. I only can proceed by planning my cities – through the revamped five–year plans of New Jerusalem. Old habits die hard. But it's never–never for ever and ever. My lack of dopamine has grown to hyperkinetic disorder. Joy for me is equal to suffer; I'd be a masochist if needed it. What I need is need. I've got nothing to share but my dilemmas. I'm a coward alright, but really don't want that now the cowards identify themselves with me. I love the strong and the brave with all my lamentable dialectics. True spies are at work and love, not frustrated lotus–eaters. They are not obsessed with the media, and proud to be invisible. I'm only a shadow on the Berlin wall from 1979. Can only exist on photos scrupulously selected. If the picture starts moving I'm already dead. Best animated as a talking asshole farting thoughts. The notion of departure became the homeward bound of romantic industrialism, or that's what they exclaim. I can't afford to doubt what I overhear and mulishly refuse to learn from my mistakes. I prefer to be wrong and that's my antithesis. I'm living the dream of an unseen master and it's an ordeal for a personality who cannot split. Vanity is a torture when you are cast out. Albeit I could better handle the paparazzi than a princess. I like them more than dogs. All I ever wanted to be was the talk of doomtown. I'd betray Judas for five bucks.
XI/3
OFRA HAZA died the other day; the strangest news I heard for a long time. She had AIDS as rumours have it. Albeit probably contracted by accident, it sounds like a joke of the Kabal. The bacteria mutates but destiny's quite the same as in B.C. 2000. Though I'm only an overage homeboy, she was like an icon of hope to me: one of my favourite mother figures. I always saw her as the Queen of New Jerusalem in my movie within. Any abstract we may try, it is inevitable to personify phantasms in a world so catastrophically split between material and spiritual. Every religion was born from that awful notion of immortality, and Atheism can't be less fabulous. Jehovah must be lying to his witnesses: providence there is none as far the third eye can see. It's always a relevant message when beauty dies – getting shocked makes you feel less abandoned. It's all about redemption, I guess, as reinterpreted for the multimedia age. Stars are bred for sacrificial purposes. To die shining is the most they can do. It's also a safe credit for Eternity any high a price. JAYNE MANSFIELD would never get old and Marilyn's still mourned like yesterday. So maybe there is providence after all, just cruelly disguised. Who knows – not me. I'm just a submachine. It was a good feeling to have a woman around capable of global domination beyond the loyalty and the treason SHAKIRA did not have to struggle with so profoundly. She was a clean source of subtle bliss amidst the resurgence of medieval witches turning battlecries into maudlin arias. A sister of mercy versus the ego–trippers of dark electronics. Gothic retro, from industrial to metal, opened a room for women in rock larger than any preceding riot, letting the ether in to purify psychobilly. It's quite about there – around the days of BLONDIE – where I draw my thin red line between the two witches: the original fancy and the real fake. The conscious instinct and the unconscious craft. The artificial and the natural. Classic training and artistic excellence mean nothing without RONNIE SPECTOR's soul medieval babes are as badly lacking as TINA TURNER's body. Wish can't be mastered without will, darlings. Retro shouldn't be more depressed than SADE and futurism less autocratic than GRACE JONES. The eighties' alternative mainstream is always an ideal base of comparison. You may think I've lost my touch, Sir, but it's more complex than that: it is time that stopped in the revolutionary sense. The future is right here and doesn't look so good. Although a flexible suitor eager to be tempted, I am allergic of the new sirens' bad vibes to a lethal degree. Vainly I'm unattracted, their repulsion could kill me just the same. No oscillator can eliminate the false overtone of spoiled emotions. I was raised on JANIS JOPLIN, so I know what is sincere. No, I don't wanna turn back any clock – thank God those days are over. I wouldn't miss a minute of it, but I'm fairly lost between so many extremes. I don't believe too much in magic but the devil undisguised disgusts me a lot. No screeching offensive of frigid harpies shall eclipse my vulgar dream about the City of Eden. Where joy is commanded and aging forbidden. And the gates will never be closed.
XI/4
The conglomerate sound of metal hammer and chamber music blending into hypnotic anthems on the devil's turntables was a brilliant hallucination of Osh. After so many upside down and round and round, a giant leap into nowhere. Reconstructivist idealism and heathen decadence created a unison unprecedented in elitpop culture. Guitarist or synthetist, the width and length of the wave harmonized sociopolar differences and elevated dancing to a political stature. Transforming thus the wasted energy of social unrest into an esoteric confrontation. But nothing's built to last without an efficient stronghold. Even Molotov cocktails expire if unused. Sometimes I severely wonder how dark it ought to get yet before calling it a night. Are BLOOD DUSTER or ANAL CUNT just latter–day rebels like SWEET and SPARKS were in the heydays of theirs? Will they be in thirty more years nostalgically remembered as icons of innocence lost? When gore was just a teenage fantasy? Aren't we too D.E.V.O.? I'd like to think not, but then we're at the unmistakable end of it all, I hope. The fall's enormously accelerated – Gravity's on the top of its power. Eternity is a stone's throw away at such a point of rotation. I'm strongly suggesting to draw a line as fast as possible, never mind the tempo changes. It is not between freedom and censorship. It is between sex and crime. As long as moral is hijacked by the Christians, there won't be room for Baphomet's justice in the Occident. Sooner will it be reconquered by the Ottomans. Bewildered by the demon of liberty, mankind must learn to censor its artistic indifference and humanitarian patience. Passive Atheism is involuntary suicide. We must rise up and fight the Elohim's corrupted bargain. The war is metaphysical between the cohesive and the fragmenting forces; there's nothing left to talk about pop music. We all know it failed but cannot see how. After five decades of rock around the clock, the first world's no better united than tribal Africa. Commerce is thriving upon racist economies of geopolitical interests where most people would give their only life to annex a bare mountain to their country. Or for the holy name of their monstrous gods and insane prophets. Although only music can unite the elite for a spectacular showdown beyond the linguistic barriers. Every quest leads to the source; the main stream is only the smartest way to get there. But it's extremely risky even for MICHAEL STIPE. It requires a total blessing of the genes. If you cannot challenge erosion, you'd better remain a lonesome giant like BILL NELSON breaking the beat of his heart. Miracles happen when dichotomies collide – forget about the secrets of Fatima; thus I advise you. If we, the UR, would be alien spies, we'd surely deserve our special protection from our masters. We should be excepted by now with so much self–consciousness. Half of the transition is heroically done. We have transformed our views about afterlife radically. All we need is some reinforcement. And since God is None, it must be generated from within. It is very important to comprehend in every Latin Quarter that this judgement'll be the final under our Sun, even if nothing happens. Never mind what the Dalai Lama has to say. Only instincts are forgiven – consciousness is facing an implausible peril if acting up. The extended arms of the universal refugee can't compensate for the lost wings of desire. The Z–generation's far too experienced to take an initiative. Everybody's crying but we faith no more. Time took with it our self–esteem when died. The diabolic illumination of the snake paralyzes the human will. Masked and armoured, the crusaders are hiding in the light in stead of battling the evil where it dwells. They're not avenging angels as publicized but addicted drinking buddies. It's still rock'n'roll, I know, but when you get beyond artistica, there's nothing tangible in the darkness. The soul is dissected with a dialectical chainsaw. They would scream genocide but vote against death penalty. It is a tedious fanship when your idols are your main enemy.
XI/5
There'll always be new wells burst in the western country, but no vintage alternative can restore the original singing cowboys, I'm certainly afraid. This is a late generation lost on the skids. Very sweet but very hopeless. Delicious remedy for the dying, but when all you need is guns they hurt little good. HANK WILLIAMS III is a perfect evidence for double–treason's supremacy but no saviour of anyone. NO DEPRESSION or TERRORIZER – all Mags are lying when it comes to issues. The main problem with the coup of decay is its fervent degradation of the last fascist virtues we are left at our faint disposal. Which is more harmful than DIE HARD RECORDS under its opposite banner. The big setback of Hades' overall spiral – even love spirals downward at this baleful hour – is the compromise that comes with it: the atavistic resistance to revenge anything they've done. A lot like the nihilist futurism of cyber–fiction, descent into distant myths can be a grave neglect of the Great Commandment displayed on OSP's Altar. Old reproduction sold as new blasphemy. Fatalism versus fanatism. Unless you're ERIC CLAPTON, to do one's best is frankly not enough. No means justify the missing aim any longer. Ecclesiastic differences aside, all fables are revived tonight as a single collective heritage of the blackened youth in search of identity. No ancient deity's safe when Time's dropouts are looking for a band–name exceeding primitive ideologies. Whether angel or devil makes no difference for surfers of the dark waves freely borrowing from the inexhaustible image bank from Eddas to Vedas. No need to worship or even know them, the sound of their names is completely enough for detection. Sacrilege and rebirth are indiscernible in the mirror of pop: Atheism don't deny any god, just flouts to discriminate. That's where it's superior to Raisms. True faith is the traitor's faith in the agnostic catacombs of the music industry. We don't reckon time as we used to before 1984. Bela Lugosi is apparently undead; its patron spirit defending us from the killers next door. Horror is our best shield from reality's Mafiosi. Ars Moriendi will save you no trouble when it comes to knifepoint. Are we many or are we alone, that's what we don't know. To market world domination is always a nice idea, but the sheep with the black mark – let's call it the Tribe of QUORTHON – are apparently the smallest minority since early gnostics in the subterranean jungle, held together by collaboration solely. The lonesome harvest is happening in dreamtime: welcome the wanderers without destination. Never, never, nowhere, nowhere. The aboriginal superman is back in space suit. Demanding a happier end that'll validate the struggle for survival. I know we ain't worthy, but even then. We are well capacitated though. We can build a Building beyond habitation any day now. All we need is power and guarantee and it's not undeserved. Some of us are very good dogs. MIKE PATTON's work schedule is tighter than an astronaut's. At least celebrities would merit more mercy, yet they've got the least. Although they aren't just lucky bastards but the boddhisattvas of the people's media. More mundane but no less ambitious. Facing the spitting mob, they earn every respect. I don't know if there's life elsewhere, but we surely are the Galaxy's most image-conscious civilization. Glory is a vice – that was a common lesson of SUICIDE and THE CARS. Yet without The Pact there are no services rendered. The more you have, the more you owe. Life is a loan to return with interest – the rest is your extra profit. Don't forget that Jah was a Jew and we are his capitalist likeness. Charity is good business – nothing fares better than a free concert to preserve the fame – but won't buy you soul. It is Bardoesque how little defence are we secured in the multimagnetic field of the Nephilim. If you want to stay in focus amidst the competing attractions, in stead of getting torn apart by the aspects, you'd better give up all considerations and do what you will like CAPTAIN BEEFHEART. If you don't want to create more chaos, let the chaos create you. Expanding the extremes of legal art as HARRY PARTCH did is the sole method to shape the scheme of things to come in synaesthesia. The UR have no conscience to repent for alleged fathers' sins. We must learn to defy the laws of genetics. But one can't do more than what he can, and that's where all logic ends. The tiny pack of demiwolves highlight the catastrophe but provide no relief from the fear of Satan by the bribery of worship. Most of them couldn't tell crime from sin better than a Jesuit. There's no retreat like the ancestral temple. The Party ain't nobody's home.
XI/6
Though not absent from the big band era of mother jazz, supergroups are a typical offshoot of rock becoming, from rebel industry, a bona fide form of political entertainment during the swinging 60's. Best emphasized it came by roll call of the listed (CROSBY, STILLS, NASH & YOUNG; EMERSON, LAKE & PALMER) before becoming less atypical. DAVE DEE, DOSY, BEAKY, MICK & TICH were not a supergroup just crazy. The trend's best regarded as a molecular experiment – spiritual chemistry – often producing brand new elements beyond the sum of their particles. Occurring by destiny or hazard, there is no law applicable to the creative phenomenon – it is different by nature in every single case. To widen the width of his circle is the inherent duty of every prolific artist, and god knows they all are. To undertake more burden is our major pleasure. Talent is a benevolent virus that duplicates by every feedback – capacity is something we're obliged to increase as long as they let us. If you got the power, you must invest it – that's the basic principle of the human contract. As many side–projects, as many personality you are – we ought to make maximum profit of our single life. And die rich too. By the way I've just heard that the mainman of DEATH, DJ Helmut's unsurpassed fave of all things metal, has a terminal brain cancer in honour of his genius. Nomen est omen, I should say, but I'm extremely upset. These are the things that should not be happening under divine terror. Darkness is not a land beyond the light – it is inside the organic citizen. There are immortals everywhere, lurking in the flesh from Tampa to Tampere. Funeral kitsch redesigned the grave of avantgarde constructivism – the cosmic bargain is a rock operetta. Let's dedicate the whole thing to HIM. Death metal came down as a serpent to eclipse the Sun of independence shining on the parasites of Paradise. It came with a Northern blizzard sweeping through the tropics. Geography is a joke since we fly. Races aren't configured by the weather no more. One race – one climate; the rain's falling within. That far we've surely gotten by the violent impact amplifying the primal scream to the thunderous feedback of the Judgement's metalhammer. It's decadent alright, but not like the previous fin de siècle. There's little improvement between syphilis and AIDS antibiotically speaking, and our symbolism is no less pessimistic, but we're living in an age of high-tech cyberotica, aren't we? Everyone has the tools and the right to express himself, don't got to be Rimbaud. Art in the twentieth century became a medium of multiplication leading up to the bloggers' inferno. Its pros and contras are meticulously well-balanced though – in chaos you may trust. The Aryan-Viking alliance of perfect reincarnates with their genetic bag of unexperienced memories is not the spectre of the kingdom but the living realm of the undead unveiling the monolith with fire and iron. Who will compensate us for our wasted adulthood? The foundations of an Elitarian republic are heroically laid on a higher ground – to materialize it is a matter of reconstruction. But the process is out of the remotest control, due to the overkillers' hereditary antifascism: the silent conspiracy of the 24's perverted intelligence. Technology made humankind more equal than handguns – Steve Jobs was our Sam Colt if America first. Science is no longer censored by the clergy. The gate's descended and the key is in our cuffed hand. One good reason to break the chains. What's more, it's now or never. The most trivial moment. Neuropolis is lying in ruins. Socialism with a subhuman face. Horse with no name, flag with no colors. Maldoror is dead.
XI/7
The aversion of labels is a natural impulse unless you're a surf band like THE BARRACUDAS. Ambitious artists have no horizon. But when it comes to the ideological identification with messages and packaging, the post-industrial militancy behaves like innocent children playing with adult symbols in utter negligence. Nothing's to be taken by the face value in the postmodern society – if you can't detach the word from its meaning, you are a dangerous idiot and will end as an outcast of the competitive ceremony. You can never be careful enough with these things; no suit and tie will conceal the swastika carved on your chest. If you don't hate Uncle enough, you'll be transparent before the Hasidim. Art's never responsible for what it projects, but action is strictly verboten. We don't risk our life because, unlike dumb soldiers, we know its value. In the enlightened mind of the esoteric elite, paranoid schizophrenia is a protective mantle against bad conscience. The torture killers are playing it safer than any gen before them, like morbid angels enjoying calamities. Which could be colossal if it was for underworldly espionage, but as a matter of fact it's hardly even conscious. Attitude is the first thing we sample and remix. We yearn to belong but refuse to join. We're here to judge the world, not to change it. Let the hordes of emo whine over the cold. Under Satan's fabulous aegis, all we got to do is to praise the resident evil. The demonic make–up is just an anti-trendy shtick – don't mistake the actor for the performer again. Nobody wants to look like MORTIIS really. Thou shalt take no side, tells the 24's wisdom to the apostles of dark epiphany. Just get down to Hell as fast as you can. It's a bunker for latter–day sinners. Yet it's only temptation, I can but warn the Bride. The energy will go bust but no lust be satisfied. We'll never get to know what we should have done. Coming with the inherited knowledge of their ancestors from rock to waltz to classic, the virtuoso goremongers don't need the directives of BILLBOARD to invade the infernal regions of their marginal consumerhood. GOREFEST has altered the ideal of having a good time and what's coming on ever since is the enchanted propaganda of universal negation. Very good indeed, entwined with the gothic beauty of CATHEDRAL. The speedy grind of the trashy core is probably the best continuum of the Memphis tradition of virgin shock where all backward roads lead. Gore not dead. It's gonna be rotting alive alright for a long time yet to come, the boys just getting wilder in rivalry with the epigon nations. As a matter of fact, we haven't heard nothing yet. Hell is a realm of infinite innovation. Decline is a basic instinct of higher intelligence – that's what Brother Leary missed to consider. Nothing can stop the fall of man – getting higher only augments the danger. Bringing the end closer is the best Lucifer's loyal warriors can effectively do. Revealing the brutal truth about the human condition: the perennial exodus of the sheep keen on evading the slaughter. To disgust you is the chief goal at its best: defecation on the dinner-table like an Otto Mühl Show. Mixed under, over, or beyond by the manic masters of pain, good gore is popmuzik for drunken demons which is very beneficent to release. Fuck oblivion and roll the real rock. Making fun of it alone can obliterate the beast – it's the first promise of populist shamanism. Humour is the magic sword to slay the dragon of seven indignities. The exhumed deathgrinders don't try to inform you like electro-Atheists but go for the hurt: the vainest trial of all reserved for sadist cynics. As opposed to the thievery corporations of corrupted hiphop, rock music's remained a pearl jam in the whirlpool that sucks us. More contortion – more purification. The Raving Atheists Vowing Gory End are blessed with hate and hate can't be hated. It is sacrificial musicianship on Baphomet's burning altar. Indulgence in deprivation is the new protest. If the age of chaos is killing you, you'd better contribute. Stop to follow the acceleration and take over the lead. Since there is no future it all depends on us. We are dependents by tag. The slaves of freedom.
XI/8
The direct ratio established between quantity and quality can't stop amazing me at this metaphysical momentum. Both are increasing simultaneously like the source was inexhaustible. Mediocrity is an artifact of the past. Facilitated by the technological revolution, the class mutation of an overnational master race we'd best reckon since the coming of Elvis is vastly expedited. Which of course does not mean we were better treated than the scum – we all shall go down by the quantitative judgement with our Noble-prizes. Rather are we a lot more forsaken than when we were few. Fortuna single–handedly decides who'll make and who'll break and nothing can modify the throw of her dice. Bands better settle with their fates if wanna be underground legends. Mainstream success, except for its three exceptions, is the end of nobility for the Z-generation. High treason to the art of dying. If it happens, rather accidentally than miraculously, you'll be crossed out of the book of the chosen and no longer a public enemy. You'd better be a movie icon able to play anyone to preserve your identity – one-role rock-stars have a much harder time to kill their ego. The false prophecy has come true. The factories we build in the air are in utter disarray – it's often hard to tell product from residua. Good Stakhanovites put out everything sooner or later just to be heard. The mix wars of the electric battleground marking our frozen epoch are the surest sign of mass production's ultimate victory no lonely crooner will profitably outlast. Going solo is always a desperate attempt even if it works fine. The Sun ain't gonna shine any more, but that's not what I'm missing. I'm missing the stars of the night under the neon sky like a reservationist mohawk. I haven't sincerely liked anyone since ROD STEWART – not from the heart. It's a lot safer to start out with the dark wish of virtual anonymity than challenging failure amidst the hyenas of the media. Tonight when we can't differ perennial partytime from the long march of the living dead we are revisiting the core of the void. It's the ultimate transition where we're at. Rock'n'roll in the parallel empire of the good lord of the dance is a likeness of government voted on by the citizenry's manipulated taste. If you don't want to think and betray can always join a philharmonic orchestra and follow Boulez. Yet after two decades of intense propaganda, the kids wouldn't mind whom to hate. It's still government and police from grunge to trash like we were bored teenagers. Though no less fragmented than metalcores, the industrial culture rooted in the pseudo-political makeover of the new wave is still the only semblance of a movement detectable on the Elohim's allegoric radar amidst the fast extending stagnation. The machine also has the advantage of socialist allusions versus metal's obsession with bizarre legends. What THE SMITHS originally addressed was a fictitious subculture born in a coffin: an abstrahated concept of the masses in the neo-familiar Marxist/Lennonist fashion. The spectre of a sham future haunting. The bands jumping on the derailed wagon rarely seceded from the projected background since rock became a therapy of animated abreaction. Artists don't work in shifts by assembly lines but are self-exploited individuals on their own hectic schedule producing but the atmosphere of the labour camp. Though enormously increased in number, they're henceforward a proportionate minority of the overpopulation, lucky to live in this profane age when exhibitionism is of higher priority than humble virtues. Empathy for the dispossessed is a moral obligation of the ranking – hypocrisy is a preordained feature of the celebrated elite of the new monarchy. The industrial escape is a mystery train carrying the souls of coming martyrs to the unknown destination beyond the tunnel of love. Demons of Hell or saints of Eden, the universal refugee is well on their way out of the exile. All we have to dispose of yet is the guilt for joy. The Abrahamic spell doubled by the pigface Christus for us. The Antichrist on every logistic account is the counterrevolutionary rethronment of the great Pan risen with a vengeance. You don't have to commit the crime but kill it, stupid, if you wanna save sex. Simple as ever was. TESCO ORGANIZATION should make up their mind.
XI/9
Intelligence is the spirit of treason to the Earth – Lucifer's promise of the City of Eden. Slow awakening from the visceral dream of expulsion. It's always been the pivotal test of OSP's aborted propaganda campaign – the entire procedure started in its quest. Since scientific research replaced mystic revelations in deciphering messages of the unknown, intelligence became the pawn of our redemption – the eventual vessel of deliverance. It is an ultimately human attribute progressively fulfilling the evolutionary program's decoded prophecies. Not a cosmic input like belief – we have acquired it through bloody struggles with the elements of nature we're charged to surmount. Contrary to the alleged providence, this is our very contribution to the divine – the dowry of the Bride. We have a technological civilization much higher than Mesopotamian agriculture – we justly suppose offering a worthwhile alliance for the much promoted wedding with Heaven. Intelligence is the original source of blasphemy and the holy ghost of the Atheist Church at global civil war against the obsolete dogmas of soiled and spoiled liberalism. Though rather unclear by definition, the adjectival form of the classified word is ludicrously imposed on all sorts of dance music from house to techno to rave at this advanced stage of franchised fragmentation. Metal genres are only exempt because they're destructive per se. The main meaning of the term has been to separate the thinking man's tremble from the hippy hippy shake of the discothequians' oblivionism. It also carries lots of social connotations, as sworn DJ's are often concerned with environmental issues. Never the less, downtempo or dubstep, no one ever will be more intelligent than THE ADVERTS or THE ADICTS were for the last first gen. The dialectical confrontation of negation and idealism has splendidly harmonized in IDM for the electric bodies, but then tracelessly absorbed by the hypnotic void of drum'n'bass and other biomechanical soundscapes of the transcending ambiance of flotating corpses. Only rivetheads were carrying the flag of revolt over the abandoned battlefield in search for an enemy before the cybergoth sabotage. Aggrotech still is an adorable stronghold of the Blitzkrieg bop but no candidate for Grammies. Fortunately, they verily don't need it – and that is the elitarian power, mon ami. As we grow more and more, so we grow fewer and fewer. Something's going awfully wrong with the symbiosis.
XI/10
But beware of the snake more trivial than ever. The truth is smooth, baby. Every individual comes with its own set of responsibilities and they're genetically equalized. We only compete to have more, possessed by the sacrificial drive of the ego. A backlash of the quest. Many are seeking but discoveries come to one. The lucky one: the best equipped. No sex, however, prevents you from prostate cancer under the cosmic bargain's charter of human rights. The mortal toll is plain total, proving war a most luxurious effort of sterilization for willful want of an intelligent solution. Good for absolutely nothing indeed. Yet my simple proposition of ethic cleansing is automatically rebuffed as Utopian fascism by all morbid crackheads – perhaps because exactly that's what it is. The unwavering opposite to Christian benevolence. To imagine a future better than what lies ahead is virtually impossible for the new pagans burdened by experiences. The frontiers of epochs are cast by bones and crossed by rivers of blood. Just take a look on television: how rationally suited and tied leaders must bring decisions worthy of a befeathered tribal chief. But also beware of looking through the canvas. History's a museal painting in 4D – there's nothing but the wall behind it. Reality's hollow within like a holograph – a projected reproduction of the never existed. No Way Out is a nifty mantra – it makes one feel less alone. Wisdom, however, rejects such rationale. What we badly need is the lie of lies. The quintessential defect of the sapient robot's unlikely attitude is its masochistic self–denial. A logical illumination brought to you by ages of reason – the infantile disease of Atheism. Questioning the perfection of the Maker, the mortal must face its ultimate deficiency. Which is an anger of epic proportions. There lurks the major cause of suicide – it's not manic depression. Suicide is always revenge. Whoever needed so much epiphany? By all informal logic, there must be a third amplitude behind the paradoxal rule of poles – that's what 'Nuclear Reincarnation' meant to herald. Something awesome like the Buddha. But the machinehead of the 24 automatically turns away from the glimmer of totalitarian nostalgia The Party would proudly flaunt. No flirt with order can diminish the obscene charm of anarchy. Everybody covers it, but no one imagines to do the Mussolini – it was a prank call already in the first place. You had to be a bastard son like me to factually take it. Seems my sense of humour is rather limited. The Bride's just bitchin' around to the sound of sadism. Subrealism has no room in the vacuum. The Black Army Faction framed for Stilleben is ready to strike but missing the target. Time's relative travellers are as present–blind as the mortal majority of citizens – can't see farther than the phantom of censorship. Decay may grow but the power won't be given away. DAVID GEFFEN can't be intimidated. Free society easily adapts itself to new markets – moral has become a communist principle. Capitalism is digging its grave, as Khrushchev warned them. Chaos is the home of the arts and can't be purified from within. It needs an arsonist. Governments are puppets of democracy's organized crimes under the Western skies unto the East. You must commit the unspeakable like Bill Clinton to be impeached. Far the soundest for all of us Hellspawn is to retreat in the darkness and prepare for Eternity. Overnational Socialism is like a ghost ship on the ocean of malice crowded with drowning individuals that could not help each other even if wanted to. Massacre of the innocent is henceforward the main theatre of racial evolution in spite of the heroism of war correspondents. What would the land become without enmity? A festival of peaceniks. The empire of boredom. Fear is the zest of life – it gives our soul its special flavour. No thrill – no desire. The Bargain is relentless. OSP's program, on the third hand I am, is freaking out every definable stratum of the society. My global Kampf is strictly moral and no subculture shall provide it a Hinterland. Which is not a catchphrase for harvesters of horror. Too abstract for biker gangs, but too violent for unions of vampires who wouldn't kill on command. They want their lust out of it. Besides, who's speaking? I keep forgetting I'm a complete unknown in solitary confinement. Espionage quite accomplished, I must admit. I don't possess a single enemy amongst the living – is it any wonder my subconscious wants to keep it that way. Nobody hates me like you do, Sir, and I truly appreciate your Ministry's all–enduring support. Without your distrust I'd be certainly buried by now with not a soul at the funeral. Though cannot bear it gladly, criticism is all I need. I wanna be wrong like every bad boy should. Bring me the head of Karol Vojtyla.
XI/11
As you might clockwisely see through the darkness, the center of my Bardo is hollowed to a hole. There's no mnemonics to refill it – nothing worthwhile to remember. The Party is me in the closet, catatonically waiting for the need to come out. I'm a stationary fugitive on a delusional run from myself. Lost in the interpretation. A grey eminence under the black rainbow of false allegories. An imbecile nephew who cannot even paint. The most radical conceptualist ever lived, I'm like Joseph Kosuth's illegitimate son. Cannot demonstrate my vision in any artistic way. Nor can I argue with esoterists about air pollution like dependable experts. And ain't afraid of flying saucer attacks – anything but our own shit. The question is what the girls really want. To create Hell or to destroy it. If you can't please two masters at the same time, serve None and end the dichotomy. Atheist faith does not compromise. Disclosure is cool but there's little else left we wouldn't have said yet – no point to wait for the next John Cassavettes. Vainly misbehavin' for decades now, we could not alter a dot on the pattern. The orchestral maneouvres of electric warriors surely taste better, but the killing joke is on the subhumanist Necropolis grinding the bloody gore. Philia or phobia does not make the difference. The cynosure does. Necromancy is about the horror of resurrection. As opposed to the clean fun of the Sixties' hypocrite beach boys, sunny California violently transmuted into the benighted home of its aboriginal zombies dark as a dungeon. Death, especially of/to Christians, has become the single main preoccupation of the evil counterculture from industrial disco to doom metallica since about 1984. Though rooted in the very same rhythm and blues as the psychedelic furs, it was a most consequent but largely unexpected turn of the tide: towards the other side of nature unveiled. Return to the original wish that purified the intellect spoiled by philanthropic germs. The epochal foundation of the Antichristian mind was a wide bridge from KOMMUNITY FK to DEICIDE to remain in the South, with a traffic on it bewilderingly growing in both directions. Not much has changed in the two decades following Time's untimely death – things do not pass away, just extend ever stronger. New gaps open every day but the old schools never die. Premature resurgence will last for ever. Today's underground is twice as large as the surface above us – it could conquer it if the warfare was layered. Yet the slave unit has no time to waste indeed, busy with underscoring the final downfall of man with acerbic humour. Turning crime into art and vice versa, the 24's asocialist conspiracy of decay irrevocably corrupted the moral standards of the liberal society at honest feud with sexual taboos. It found an ideal camouflage in the popular myth of the vampire inoculating every genre of rock and roll and beyond, relocating its roots from the Mississippi to Transylvania. The Brotherhood don't need to be secret – it is hurled and tattooed and widely international. But wouldn't give a shit to RaceRiot the way I'm pushing the envelope. Even in Venezuela, crime is the goddamn business of the police unanimously hated with every reason. Everybody knows the streets are for the mean and you're a fucking snob if don't like it. We wouldn't have LOU REED if it wasn't for the wild side. I find it very hard to orientate in the urban meadows without any principle left. It would drive Goebbels insane. There's no room without the ivory tower. Stage is our only home to get isolated. We are guest workers of an invisible culture, producing souvenirs for aliens. Nobody would notice if they remained undone. Any finely chiselled, the box is not the ultimate object. Its theoretical function is to hold something ideally more valuable than itself. Spectrum without focus is form without content – senseless reflection of the overall collapse. The media have shut our third eyes pretty close – everything happened as the Marshall had foreseen. The means have replaced the aim, the praxis became theory, the movie is about shooting itself. The message is about the medium. End of transmission.
XI/12
The equalifier's present-day embodiment is music television: the video that killed the radio star. The top gun of 1984. Though sound and vision have always been one couple by our organic upbringing, MTV's consumerist approach to overproduction profoundly changed our collective apprehension of the music business. It augmented the produce to its own commercial and manifested promotion as the most complex form of functionalist art. It was a Meisterschaft of the capitalist multimedia. Picture to a song as opposed to songs supporting stories effected an incredible switch in our sensory perception of the tragedy being born from popmusic. The background coming into the fore, sound become an illustration of the vision written like scripts of the unseen movie. Changing the r'n'r formula at its core, the putsch of affordable video art extended the power of rhythm very widely. Technology is the people's renaissance. The result was immediate and global as we're used to it by now. All divergent branchings of the global Fluxus gently merging in the avantgarde for the masses, we have learned practically overnight to distinguish our flamboyant being in the different views of Infinity's overlaying windows. Which is really something, isn't it? A quantum leap of our great specie's intelligence. The unburnable library of New Alexandria in the Air is wide open to everyone for free, a good director can compress into three pulsing minutes all the semantic legacy of the cinematic lingo from Dziga Vertov to Akira Kurosawa. The reason why so few do make use of the opportunity is not a financial matter in the homemade era – it is entirely due to the uncertainty factor arresting the elite. It's very hard to progress where anything goes. There's no way to distinguish two fishes of the stream so fast and wild. It is trying enough to count them. When you glimpse some quality in the flow, it's already faded into the grey matter of the quantitative countdown. All we see is video gaga. Sacrilegious youth without past fooling around with obscure relics in ostentatious posturing of their egos, infatuated with crime and more disrespectful towards sex than old–time burlesque. As opposed to best–when–minimalist concert footages, most promotory aims at giving a look on their subjects as complex as they'd certainly deserve. There you really can god it. Stripping the soul is always appealing, but even if blinded by the flashlights, you can better detect the divine presence behind the smoke, whatever deafening the live experience may be. Rock'n'roll, first and last, is a stage drama and loses a lot of its power as a document if not edited properly. I've witnessed no more than ten concerts in my life but they were always magic for memory apart from the public. Any better may be the virtual, no machinery will eliminate our shamanic roots any time soon. Moreover, the inventive effects, didactic or abstract, automatically eliminate the gravity of any information if carelessly overused. The average TV watchmen are ready–made monoliths – like or dislike but nothing will ever change their taste, you can be sure. Without the mission's protective colouring, freedom will get and never let you go: it'll swallow, grind and shit you into Hell. Only bands unafraid of controversy can touch down to the sinking bottomline. And such are the rarest types of rock'n'roll's animal kingdom at this season of the abyss, hardly taken any seriously even if crowned. Though the amount of explosives sampled on our record collections could blow up the universe, no hacker imagines to bomb enemy targets in a real raid or something. We don't even know who they are – the simplest is to kill everyone. If you insert Riefenstahl, make it sure it's ambiguous enough. Dracula with a swastika would better slip through the censorship. I always thought I have authored the smartest copyright in my madness. Despite the dictatorial reign of the electronic artilleries' faceless militia that give us our daily orders, a hit song's preeminent factor is henceforth its performing unit – anonymity is a dream of the dreamless. There's always future in the boyzone. Rock is personality cult on the first plane – that's where it opposes traditional music academies. Talent is conditional but won't suffice to chart. Albeit through the hardest labour, stars are born to shine and that's exactly what they'll do behind the guise of humility. It'd be the same unjust to say that only shit sells though. There's absolutely no rule decodable and we'd better leave it like that for now. The swine positively like diamonds. The problem is not the market – blessed are those that can invade it. The problem is the overall Götterdämmerung. We do not trust in any of them and there are no replacements. Now we're really left on our own devices and all in all it's a very positive outcome. Just listen to CATTLE DECAPITATION.
χ
XII.
XII/1
Breaking obsolete rules of the secrecy of correspondence, Gina has uploaded this private letter of mine on NOVA AKROPOLA's web site as a subdomain named "Bardo" against my latest will. I only can't remove it because do not know how – I hardly can use a browser alone. To see the texts ePrinted is terrifying though – the irreversibility of publication frightens me to living death. And though it should be my most recent opus, I can't recognize a syllable. It seems like written an immense time ago by someone else stupid I disagree with in almost everything. It depresses me deeply to read it like that, and makes the continuum very difficult indeed. Does the Word prefer to be unread? It's very possible. My little mind is splitting to smithereens. What on Earth have I thought it being interesting what I think. I am repeating the same mantras clause after clause screaming in an evacuated space with no sound coming out of my ears. It is no study of anything but a message in a dream from me to me. Diary of an undead – the book of no days. No conclusion, no prediction. Just the yammer of an uncool cat. I should profoundly rework the whole shitload or just pull the sweet little grey book down on Osh's toilet where it really belongs. If it was just a manuscript I could burn it as I used to – to discard oneself is much more cumbersome with today's technology than the autodafé of "THE BOOK" was fifteen years ago. Now that I'm saved as a http document, I feel very uncomfortable. I'm not ready to live yet and a liar of ample proportions. Every word I say is untrue – I couldn't perform none of my eight-pointed characters if suddenly upstaged. To tell the sad truth to you, I can't bear nobody around me – conversations only lacerate my brains. I don't want to hear them and got nothing to say. Talking for me became an utter sacrifice. Isolation is just the right tank for a red soldier turned blue. I'd need a most serene temptation to leave it. I had a very long awakening but finally I'm up. I can see me from above and no chance. My animation is profoundly suspended. I look worse than Nosferatu though not even immortal. I'm surely safer as a party of one. Boy alone at home. No orgy with the depraved as fantasized. That's why my wife is screaming `fuck yourself` at 3 AM neglecting our oriental neighbours. She knows I have a terrible problem. I cannot beg any more and that's the end of a tramp. It does not mean I'd be a nobler man, just more of a bum. Every night I go to sleep with oaths in my head. I'll get up as a new entity tomorrow and everything will be fine. But every morning, that's 3 in the afternoon, is a fit of depression. Exhausted by the nightmares and nothing to do. Tomorrow never comes; it's always yesterday in my mental home with no sign of life. I'm living in a progressive past of all tenses. You must be damned if fear is your sole motivator to exist. That's all I have to write about – what can a sober poet do? How I wish to get drunk once, but my intestinal allergy to alcohol prevents me to forget. Still I could be a junky if I could afford drugs. These fucking Ginseng extracts do not help much. Maybe it's all providence and I shouldn't complain all the way down like an Antijob. I wanna be worthwhile, you see; deserve to consume the Prince's air supply with a vengeance. But my most evil karma wouldn't let me hate. There's no rock'n'roll suicide for an old man's child in the psychotic service of an insane Godhead. No, it can't be me. It can't be anyone. This is an absurd plot with no lesson whatsoever. Dear Bardo, please let me out.
XII/2
Am I going insane or getting normal – that's been the basic question ever since I'm posing. Do you remember, Sir, the Jewish Cabaret wherefrom the City of New Jerusalem rose on the wallpaper eight seasons before the Year of Change? Those were my last days of vain hope. When I was yet original enough to put off renegade Buddhists. Expelled into outer time, all my works have superannuated meanwhile. My unprotected copyrights got stolen by the Zeitgeist and delivered to the professionals. What I used to have as primal revelations are nowadays' commonplaces. And don't have a single new idea since 1984. It's the same old treason we knew since '65. I'm burned out without ever been in flames. Never the less, it's too late to modestly shut up now. Persistence is futile but capitulation is impossible. I'm still getting drafted – I feel it in my veins. My blood's like an ink flow. In the idle waiting for a miracle, Apocalypse becomes attractive like light for the fly – the unavoidable destination. I'm like any postmodern artist, just not as gifted. I behave like a docile ghost on the hard ship, taking everything the crazy crew say quite literally. They attract and repulse me just the way they want to. I'm following up most loyally on their directives and would never question why are we sailing towards Hades. I understand very well where the wind blows from. But there is no day without disillusion to keep my heart bleeding gently. The Bridehood is like a woman to me – I feel damn betrayed when she proves to be disloyal. I'd like to scream and shout at her, but like I say no word would leave my muted mouth in this endless nightmare I call life. They are numerous and rowdy – how could they overhear my lonesome serenade? Vainly I went to interview some girls for my nuclear emission, I only brought more shame on me than I could handle. My knees were shaking like a rabbit's and my fingers could not grope. I was supposed to seduce by the script but instead I was acting like a neurotic psychopath before my starring subjects thrice as young and much saner. How they expect someone like this to believe in himself, I cannot grasp. It is a very good test though, I must admit. When I'm in the situation I should be striving for, I forget all those bleeding nights and turn into the helpless mirror of my beholders: a par excellence supernobody. An alien prisoner of reality, to poetrify it. Of all the 'Visitors' of "NOVA AKROPOLA" EDWARD KA-SPEL was the only one to politely notice 'MUSIC VS. GREED' on the Matrix. But even him I couldn't hold up longer than the ten minutes for filling the Self-Evidence. He answered "obscure" to all but one questions by the way (to the main enemy he replied "them"), and hurried to crawl back to the interrupted soundcheck. It never got down to the Party of Overnational Socialism, just gave him a card he instantly lost. And that was far the best interview I've succeeded to make. Most of the times it was G.I.N.A. who executed the task whilst me hiding in the doorway. I'll never forget how she cried in the aftermaths. She was quite sweet and healthful way back then, keen of staying in some better company than my demons for a change. But I couldn't let that happen – I had to save our image by instant disappearance. My mysticist strategy was to let the message speak for itself without myself disauthenticating it – if I ever had a call-back, I could have shined with glory. But miracle is what you make – they won't come by praying for them. The acts left for the next city and never kept in touch. No one ever visited my websites promoted – the Octagram worked no magic on the few. Seven would have done better maybe – my number's too lacklustre. I'm terribly sorry for everything, but be it said in my excuse that agitation has never been what I felt cast for. The agency fucked me up. This cabaret ain't Jewish at all, old chum. But that I'm the true Dalai Lama is beyond the shadow of a doubt.
XII/3
As you have well seen next to unfortunate me in the dark days of SPIONS, the alleged project we informally signed up to complete is an obsessive-compulsive monster that'll relentlessly obliterate you and your wives with no potential ever brought to fulfilment. I perfectly understand your acquired disgust from my way to Hell, and sincerely regret having involved you in the inarguably biggest nonsense of mankind's decrepit history. As far as the story goes, the Oshist trip was a faux pas. The rhapsody in black I'm emitting to you in this soundless letter is like gravestone carving – no longer in need to be scored. Can forget about 'The Antichrist Overture' big time. I'm still using it for the signal of "NOVA AKROPOLA" where I simulate hiding from the world, but it sounds like the saddest abuse of it. In the wells of artificial amnesia, Your Timeship is my only witness. I don't want to blackmail, but if you, the first and last man standing by, desert me too, I'm ultimately finished with my memoirs. Not as if it mattered; shouldn't even mention it. You have ruthlessly declared me counterfeit by alliteration ten dead years ago already, and it still fits me like a glove. Though advertising myself as Ph.D. in Mendacity, my course of lying was the miserable errand of a blind passenger seeking illumination he couldn't comprehend. Beside all the other things I'm missing, I could not lie either – it was another lie only. A current shortly cut. In the end of testification I had no new seed to sow, just going against the rotted grain like an anxious reaper. "Last chance"; "Nothing to lose"; "Now that we can" etc. A holy campaign, but without a band backing it all sounded too familiar for the 24's experienced eardrums. Without the artistic camouflage you are the naked enemy. I never had a positive feedback but the few negatives I got would call O.S.P. the lurid whimsy of a dangerous madman in the best case, and Osh knows they were right. He knows, but wouldn't tell me what I'm supposed to play. I'll never have the occult insight, nor the anarchist charm. Never owned a credit card to support my communist claims. No money – no style: my tasteful instinct doesn't allow me to behave well. I'm not coming with a bouquet of red roses – all I can offer the Bride is the privilege to save me. I'm everything I never wanted to be – a dummy of repulsion. "I'll do anything for you, just give me your power." The bargaining beggar is here swindling for your dowry. I truly admire good manipulation, and love to be tempted, but could never compete with the dumbest candidate of any election. Don't know economy, don't know agriculture. Very little about history. Only know what a wonderful world this could be if she loved me too. But I'm just swirling like an impotent petal in the wind. Listening to my silent thoughts coming through the air tonight as atmospheric musick evolves. At the worst of my madness I think my wires are tapped; although I'm only losing the race left behind. Time doesn't matter if you have no right for your copy. If I could speak up now, it'd sound like plagium. The boys are doing it fine – if my ego was killed truly, I should be glad. But I'm just an aborted reincarnation awfully miscarried by his heavenly mother. A real dying foetus subsisting on recycled discharge. The unborn king of the bottom. I'm trying superhard but cannot get proud of it.
XII/4
What I am here for is an enigma, Sir. Even to ask it is an impertinent delusion. Without the allegory's uncanny disguise, I'm a mistreated captive of the circumstances, arrested by both parties I was to mediate between. Double fall for a double agent. Paranoia combined with penury is a lethal ordeal for the mentally challenged. It compels me to live the most monotonous life affordable in my private asylum, without the slightest risk to be taken. The tiniest change of an established habit may cause a major catastrophe. Routine engenders phobias – for a prisoner of bad conscience every motion's a ritual ordeal. I can't cut my nails without exorcism. If that's not worse than death then what is? I always wanted to spread by rumours but could not reach the importance – can only talk to myself about myself. Alone in the Bardo where 'to' equals 'from'. I am my own prosecutor and defence and truly have no guess whether I'm innocent or guilty. There's an unspeakable chaos in my dream theatre well reflected in my reality's status quo. Legitimately I'm an autotheist refugee without credentials. Universally untrustable – almost godlike. Longing to kill the crime when can't even save my own sex life. A romantic oddity, isn't me? This test can't be stood without oblivion and the Judges should know it better. I have no reason to feel so mortified. Dismissed for a lifetime, I can't just jump off a roof as ceaselessly urged by formal logic – why in the world didn't I do it before? How many scars could I have spared, let alone the decay of aging! I should profit yet from the sufferance invested. Malcontent self–hate will eat up one's broken heart, I'm telling you. It's rather apathy than persistence that keeps me inhaling. When you are somebody you always can turn towards the inside for restitution, but when nobody knows you you'll become the lodger of a shallow grave yearning for rebirth like a hollow spectre. Twenty–one years after the short summer of espionage, I can't even deceive myself any longer. In the overall misery of Black Nirvana one gets extensively used to nothingness and too easily contented with the dimmest light of hope – the mental state of a drifter is the most violent trial of humility. As opposed to the common sense, bumhood is not a social issue. One does not become but is born to be a beggar – I am a desperate evidence for it. I never could work for money or fight for a right. I'm a man of gigantic compromises. If I can get a good espresso, it is my red-letter day. Not a brilliant adventure, is it? Misfortunately, I'm no social climber, not even a crawler; graduality scares the shit out of me. That's why I'm standing in intense paralysis since 1984 as unpredicted. Only the biological clock keeps on ticking. Only a scandal could have catapulted me into life – I tried my best but couldn't make any. I am stillborn but much too old to face it. My jealous intellect automatically reject the mortal way but offers no alternative to go. I keep cogitating but just cannot be. The meanest of all the syndromes is the losing of impatience. The mirage of The Building is dissolving like a bad pipedream – you can see it in my eyes bereft of looks. Counting cents contributes, but it's not really a fiscal matter any more. I'm trying it every week like an amateur numerologist, but hitting the jackpot would confuse me more than meeting my Maker in fact. My devotion to the Kapital is an infantine pretence. The silly fancies of victory wisely faded, I'm devolved to a machine functioning without energy. A free dog craving for the leash. My only goad to proceed on the death row is selfish panic. I must be possessed with the tormented spirit of negation – fuck Satan! Characteristic of the Luciferian nature of perfect imbalance. Nothing I hate more than to be an outlaw – it doesn't suit me the least bit. I'm living my life in constant sin. "Join me, join me, here I come. The Party of the Living Dead. Bringing you the Traitor's Compass." Antichrist contra fate sings the 'Marchant' marking time at a secret location, disinclined and uninspired, out of every tune like a mono-maniac. Live as a symbol, die as a symbol. Passive hence helpless – an intransitive loser. A synonym of nothing. A verb without conjugation. A crippled embodiment of the antifable. Arch enemy of all prophets.
XII/5
There goes the son of None again. An elderly punk in dry-cleaned rags, sleeping in the dark whilst the boys are playing with their instruments on the holy ground out there. Fighting nothing but mischievous sprites invading my solitude through the media – television is the gate of Hell opening in your bedroom at this uncanny age. I could always change the channel if so wanted, but prefer shit like anybody else. And that's because I'm human after all – I should better be proud of it. I have to know what's going on, thus I excuse. Can't turn my eyes away as if it was real. But then I cannot grasp a thing and loose every desire to become a space cowboy. My odious empathy with victims is plain disgusting. And it's not because I'm a lazy bastard solely. There is more to it and far beyond my power never given: the karma-mania of my evil soul. I'm under a continuous harassment of demons, doctor Bardo – the more I care, the more vehemently. I know you hate me lamenting all the time in stead of praising the industrial manpower as commissioned, but whom should I tell it? I'm writing to Time, I hope you understand. Like every closet exhibitionist, I like to confess – when you're innocent it's truly therapeutic. It's not just me-me-me – I've never been like that. Only the legend has it. I'm only trying to make sense of an absurd situation: make my unique example at least edifying. I'm just a profiteer abusing his bad luck. The unfollowable leader's unseen archetype. Things I adore I'm disallowed to enjoy: the vaguest lights of euphoria are immediately extinguished by my omnialert guardian devil charged to hold me down. I'm very cautious with wanting anything therefore – do not need more deprivation. I cannot lift the telephone any more even if it's ringing – it can be aggression, error, soliciting, or the Welfare office. I know my choices by heart with no expectation left. I'm in perfect control over my dream. No illusion is better than disillusion. Positive thinking is positively forbidden in my masochist snare full of snakes. There's no point to lie here, not to yourself. The slightest wish of joy is cruelly punished in no time. I am formally drilled for paranoia by heartless robotniks I can't even fathom. The Buddha couldn't stand a test so low. I'm no longer afraid to fear but would give my kingdom any time for some fun to have – and they know it. As a traitor to his race, I'm utmost distrusted. The last thing they want to see me rich and famous – it's not my image at all. Sad but true. I would die on a yacht in three sunny hours like a shadow. I am just chatting about desire. The dismissal does not surprise me, but I'm expected too much by the trainer. May I not become an empty slogan, please? My fading ambition never served me well – I consequently misunderstood all the things I saw like a malicious virgin. Raised on pop music, I'm consuming art at the face value like a carnivore. I only buy the cover, and that's often misleading. Images of the living dead are sheer marketing devices open for debate. Intelligent people do not mean what they say. It's a spy's world. FEINDFLUG or BLOOD AXIS are but critical explorers of a certain historical period. Only the hate of censorship unites browsers of the world, no matter for what and where you stand. Diabolus reigns over chaos with a red rat hand. Everyone has his own universe to carry and the capacity is growing in a time lapse. I surely am the last alternative on the Eternal's agenda. Kept in obscurity if all else fails. Not a high rank, is it? I could be screaming in a desert. Only the maddest of the mad would join the Party if it ever existed. I should do better than that, I'm afraid. Besides, I'm an abominable fraud of a collectivist with my misanthropic background. I never could join anything at all by myself. O.S.P. is only a reproduction of something I sought but could not find. But even this is untrue: I've never been earnestly seeking anything outside my egghead. I lived my life as a walking hiatus. Never voted in an election or was counted in census – on the social plane I don't legally exist. Nothing I craved more, but never been a member of any club, group, gang, or organisation – that's how I became the leader of the solitary for never and never. Everybody must be something. I wish I could cheat but don't have the brains. Since I lost the passport that delivered me from the genetic emigration more than two wasted decades ago, I am an immigrant to nowhere land. Only my beloathed name is haunting me at the clinics I regularly visit to entertain my chipmunks. Days of hysterical lethargy following. Is this the war I'm spelled to wage? The scope of my struggle? Life without parole? The Man Without Ego? My God, what have I done!
XII/6
The major wrong with the assessment of postmodern anarchy is its incompetent nihilism mistaking the means for the goal. We're busy creating new styles but automatically refuse to plan the unpredictable. Which is more intelligent than communist economy but a catastrophic failure of capitalist fatalism. Hazard must be fought by all means like dictatorships do. That's why fascism is our only hope – the hope what we deserve. Without risk nothing is taken. Errors may be forgiven but there's no pardon for avoidance. Sensitivity is a sly spy but we are not around to enjoy supremacy. Our vocation is to bring the endless repetitivo of deconstruction to an ultimate halt. That we cannot tell Beauty from Beast any more is the wrong end of the Androgyne reconstruction – sorry for sounding like an Atheist bigot. The Sadist elite of the crucified vampire did not initiate any rise of the titans but have beaten a Platonic retreat to the dark side of redemption. What unifies synthpop and techno from soft to hard is their futurist nostalgia: the atavistic longing for the memory of Eden. Industrial dancecore or ethereal din, the beat goes on towards the white noise of the silent order since PORTION CONTROL. Yet the Z-generation is an exhausted progeny. Their superhuman creativity is the proof for it. Studios are like bunkers in the raid – a room for hate amidst the peacecrime surrounding. Such conflicts were unlikely in punk-punk: the first self-conscious revolt in style soon turned into the last spontaneous riot of teenage jubilee. Long degenerated, the anti-British invasion of the Seventies' end had been the blasting advent of the counterrevolution the UR was envisioned to declare. The beginning of a post–collective gathering. In other terms, it was the return of Ishtar to recuperate her lost crew from the captivity of the cannibals. It is spaceship-building since 1979 without knowing where to go. After all said about it, punk spoke for itself needless of interpreter. Nothing before or after made that point clearer. It forever breeched the pact with the conservative policy of music business. It turned prog into reg, so the backward march could begin. It was designed against the clock – to get and not to give. A new attitude was born – that's what SPIONS was trying to incorporate. Punk's moral was rotten but without legal worries – it wanted everything with no reason why. This will to dominate made the boys fascist, not the desecration of the swastika. It was by the retrograde misfits and not its established virtuosos that rock'n'roll reached its legitimate adulthood, evidencing the margins possible influence on the central intelligence. Punk was an invasion from inner space: the arrival of class-mutation. Naturally protected from temptation, the self–made aliens did not drop out but violently assaulted the system, openly claiming for the extreme right of a distinct society. All it needed was a torchbearer and it wasn't Malcolm. Someone greater than him should have come but didn't – the Soviet model doesn't adapt to Lennonism. The original spawn of Euro-American punk rockers weren't simply the next clash – they were the first velocitated traitors on the genetic road: the beginning of the immortality campaign. It neutralized the virus of the Sixties' love epidemic, and gave some dirty shelter to the refugees of the garden sick of fake delight and allergic to cinnamon. As the true harbinger of decay, it was the prime movement of overnational socialism we'll never have to betray. Although intellectually dominated, it was the sinful few that took over the Endzeit in a classless pact with the rising record labels of the supercapitalists. For a brief moment we thought we can derail the wheels of Time. Nothing compares to getting fooled again.
XII/7
The historical relevance of the summer of hate was its endearing crush on a final solution. It brought the battle of gens from background to centerstage drastic and plastic, changing the terms of entertainment much more radically than psychedelia. It made rock'n'roll irreversibly dangerous beyond protest and hooliganism: punk formally liberated its preoccupied soul. It was tribal but it was against tribalism. That's what affiliated the rhythm of speedo with reggae music. Roots punk demolished the last wall between stage and public in the dream theatre of tragedy. Why it died by victory is unnecessary to analyze: it had no future. Unlike the untrustable hippiedrome, punk made no promises to fulfil. It was all about destruction, that's how it began. It had nothing to do on the charts. Traitors turned their coats of many colours indeed, but the best of the mutants – mutatis mutandis – remained loyal to the spirit of '77 with obvious reasons. Those were the best years of our lives. But nothing lasts forever except the heaviest metal. When the power turned pop, the war was practically lost as it had to be. Hate without a target will eat itself. Coup d'êtat completed, the whole white riot disintegrated into belligerent fractions only collaborating in artistic matters since JAPAN broke up too. There is a brotherhood but it's grown invisible in the protective grey. We turned around, went back. To our sweet home Underground. May the newcomers be ever so great – GREEN DAY and THE OFFSPRING are for instance excellent – no one can look back in the same anger as pioneers used to. Revolution can't be prolonged once it's been won: what follows is pure agony after the ecstasy's gone. It is counterrevolution that has to stay permanent and that's what industrial music was programmed to manifest in alliance with the Gothic subculture inoculating the media. Finally the Vikings nailed it all, drawing all darkwaves together in their symphonic black ocean. So many generations, so little while. Consumerism embraced anarchy with greed, like the Witch Mother her little monster baby. We entered the vacuum of perfection crammed with the wonders of new technologies. Humanity seems to be on its artistic peak but without any movement of the stream every new boost of energy will only double the pressure of stagnation. An immediate implosion is quite predictable. Decline became the main feature of the age of Aquarius so far – it's not what had been predicted. Whilst lonesome shepherds went beating the new tracks, the newborn sheep was prompted to re–scatter. There's nothing left to follow but our own shadows against the Sun. In the Pandemonium of the raving house evolution needs no revolution. It goes straight and swift with no ministry of propaganda required. I've been abominably led astray. Almost abducted. The liberation lobbies inherent antifascism cut the blossom in the bud. Only the Oi boyz carried on the exploited torch fine but in the wrong direction. The problem is not emigrational simply. It can't be solved but by a moral dictatorship preferably world-wide. Punk never went for retaliation but for the same freedom as its hippy parenthood – frankly, it was an extension of the left wing with the feathers of the right. Just somewhat higher intelligence as usual. Hate is not an antidote to love but an integral part of it – one of the Word's ten commandments. The crass rooted syndicate could not comprehend the law of subrealism as well as new waves of metal or the disco infernos did – it had to join up with its original enemies to continue the quest. Those that couldn't do it fossilized or retired. Punk's not dead but a great deal worse: it is living too whilst aged without grace. In the meantime the world went tumbling down under the sign of the horn turning the memory of a free festival into the mudfest of the second Woodstock – now that's what I call de-evolution. Let alone the rap roar. The hellborn regimen of 666, muscled like enslaved gladiators and dressed to brutally kill, brought a premium refreshment to the death bed of time with no political engagement incorporated. That's why they're called Satanist. In stark opposition to the Band-Aids of philanthropic renegades, the New Barbarians in the Machinenwelt finally delivered the bad news to the risen children of Odin. The way out is outwards – just stay in the dark. Like parasitic angels of grievance, the Norse invasion raising Ibsen has mercilessly overpowered the amateurs of demolition with nuclear weapons of mass destruction replacing the pistolettos of World's End. It was a long long march from Malibu beach to the grotto of Gothenburg but it's made and done. Mao can rest in heavenly peace.
XII/8
The most delicate issue of all when it comes to popular music is the melody factor. Second is the song structure, third the arrangement. The lyrical content is pretty much a surplus largely limited by the rhymes. After at least three decades of neo-classicism, to define what is the folk's music, as opposed to Haydn, would be ludicrous in the underground's sweet home of the unpopular. It's really easier to be a low droner than a speed trasher – take as few risks as possible. BRIAN WILLIAMS made the wisest choice, what a pity he thinks it lustmord. Olden–classic composers like GAVIN BRYERS have a jolly good time in oblivion and, bereft of the virtue of vanity, do not need the income of a wider exposure. Any place is safer than the present when you wanna play. You'd better focus on eternity. On the other end of the equation, the bruitist minority's successfully annihilating the old concepts of beauty for the beast's sake. Since LUIGI RUSSOLO in particular, music is no ode to joy but a technique to torment its devoted audience. Entertainment through pain is not only a side show of the FM circus, but a plain exercise in ars moriendi – at least for the torturers. The arrival of rock'n'roll, considerably the biggest input of the sonic fruition since the battle king, profoundly altered the goal and the function of music in the social intercourse. It has, swiftly as an aero in the heart of Time, become the main engine of society and caretaker of the youth culture. Beside the rhythm it introduced, it has created a new race – originally called teenagers – defined but by their age category sans geopolitical frontiers. Rockers of the Fifties were the first of the homeless – a separate nation above family and class, tongue and belief. God bless America for that. Music pretended to be an overnational language long before the 17th Century – telecommunication only made it possible. Metal machine music is by nature more bound to universal time than local climates. There is darkwave in Hawaii and deathmetal in Judea. It's a viral infection no government could prevent. The left wing of heavy metal turning progressive – best illustrated by the KING CRIMSON Bridge – was no antidote but sheer extension of psychedelia's blissful chemotherapy. A lot like black death embraced the Gothic Weltschmerz. Styles change but the scheme remains the same. No synthesizer will outdate the nightingale machine. Instruments were invented to simulate and challenge the noises of nature; creating our own sound had a major role in the reconstruction of an exciting environment. The collective mood music may create is largely akin to the atmospheric changes of the weather reported: a combination of recurring patterns in an endless variety of new nuances. The sound of music is always reproduction, from THE SONS OF THE PIONEERS to DYING FETUS. But the borderline between art and entertainment has been irreversibly eliminated by the monoculture. The best of contemporary avantgarde is Norwegian blackmetal: the most regimented form of rock'n'roll ever (ARCTURUS, SOLEFALD, ULVER). Anyone referring to BURZUM you can trust. Now it's called prog again but the regressive quality of the Scandinavian foray of Satanist warriors is unquestionable. If you still can tell past from future, you're out of touch with the subreal life on this planet. Albeit cast out of the mainstream of Babylon's melismatic ho's, New Jerusalem's dark bordello is ruling the Great Syzygy. Awards, however, go to the best selling, and there's nothing wrong with that in the theory. Even six feet underground you're measured by the capital – only the maddest mortem would work for himself. The quality's always at war with the quantity. You won't be loyal to the margin if not striving to leave it. Treason is the primal urge of every human being germinated from the seed of Adam. The social equilibrium has drastically tilted in the last half century: the center's growing narrow but the extremes expand quite infinitely. Let's make no mistake about it, expansion does not mean a growth of power but the exact opposite to it: disintegration and collapse that'll never be able to stand up against the united gangsters of the hiphop community if it comes to a battle for the market. Viking black is a white supremacy. A terminal sect under certain extinction. Any melodic, death is death.
XII/9
With full respect to ATRAX MORGUE, I'm a guilty sucker of the melodians, no need to apologize. Since my earliest childhood, I've been infatuated with harmony. Remember, I was raised on EVERLY BROTHERS and it sure cannot get closer. So why am I so attracted to trash and grind like a suburban runaway? Am I an overnational snob lying to myself or have the Hellspawn perverted my taste? I was a glitter-loving fan of glam beguiled by fake Androgyny not so long ago. It'll always be my first home, I can swear on that. But there is tremendous beauty in the beast, just like vice versa, if not afraid of another point of view. Maybe I'm just a masochist who likes to be displeased. And they always insert something nice for extra tease reminding the tonal past dead like time amongst all that vital remains. The grinding voice of death is a most correct expression of the final nostalgia for what we haven't become. It's not reminiscence but another kick in the eye. GORE BEYOND NECROPSY can be as reassuring as BIG IN JAPAN if pricked up your third ear. It's no matter of generations any more. In a realm extending through deviation, the scene is an entangled network of opposing derivatives in the abounding jungle of organized noise. But the message of all devilitated genres is strikingly the same from Neue Deutsche Härte to Raw Cult Black Metal: we all love DOCTOR FEELGOOD but the funtime is over. Doomsday foxtrot is Saint Vitus' dance. Amidst the multiplying opposites of the global cacophonia one thing is, never the less, cocksure: we cannot do it without the song. It can dissolve, dissect, dismantle, discard but won't leave us alone with the clamor of the spheres. NICK DRAKE lived, lives, and will live again. Harmony, of course, is relativity's favorite subject – only twins might have an identical perception of it. One man's emo is another man's gore. Luckily enough, there aren't more than twelve tribes and they won't be inconsiderately judged. There's no bad news without a good one – the balance works both ways in perdition. Not so harmoniously though under the chaotic circumstances of the quaking Middle Earth. Interventions come too early and stay too long as the program is sabotaged by the infernal putsch. To correct it is impossible by now, hence absolutely useless to try. Terra is a rehabilitation camp for the scum of the spirit world. Human existence is a garden of frustrations. We'd better avoid going deeper into it – we'll never get out. The surface is far the safest place to hide. Do what you will and never mind the consequences. That is rock'n'roll's Antigospel to the ontologically challenged.
XII/10
Pop, though most evanescent by nature, is the best purifier we've ever been tried on. It has created a culture unprecedently sexy. Dead and buried many times in the name of god and man, it can't be killed – it rises in three days like Dracula. It is hard to define what it actually means though in the computer age of the people's global republic, but doesn't matter. Very few things are left there mattering. And they're all underground, at least in subgenius. What we thus call pop in its extended version of today is still the sole overnational force, even in the wrong hands, between Nazi skinheads and gangsta Niggaz. Time bombs extinguish no sooner they go off and will have to be replaced with a newer one duly updated. And except for the entartete Kunst of freestyle, the new is always better. This is a fundamental law of the Atheist dynamics. We advance by permanent denial on the road of treason. Peak is the end of every revolution. We ought to turn the opposite way immediately, not to fall behind and slow down. From zig to zag we go instead of straightforward in the magnetic field of polar attractions. It's terrible but what can you do? We are to waste all the cosmic energy on wars of hegemonies. You cannot win – that's a promise to keep in mind whatever you do. Even the greatest stars turn into dust if cannot betray themselves like Aladin Sane. Although the span of retro waves is widely narrowing, to play one's living ghost is a horrendous ordeal of survival only giants can undertake. TOM JONES is one of them. If you can't enlarge your width – and it happens by stretching out with both arms – the circle will close on you and you'll become an ugly wax figure in the hall of fame. We are visiting this sullen planet at the most crucial moment of its transition so far and we are not here to save it like Joseph Beuys was. Consciousness is not a transcendent bequest but our own legacy. We gained it through bloody civil wars. The ultimate truth is that opposites don't exist – it is us who are delusional. Nuclear reincarnation starts in the living mind. The compass we navigate by is only a console to take over the game: the control over destiny. Yes we can, no we can't – that's how the endless countdown goes in Alice's wonderland. We ain't got a clue about what we are. Thence we play master and servant in singular first person. The City of Eden is a third state of the mind outside the Bargain's jurisdiction. The mission of the UR, if you want to tribute Lovecraft so much, is to wake up the sleeping godhead from its nightmare. Destroy the program that enslaves us from within, so we could depart with full awareness. But worry ye not – what's been done remains done. Zarathustra doesn't want you to go back analogue. Only have to eliminate the vultures of freedom. Albeit potentially involving everyone, the quest goes on for the song of songs of the week. You must please like an angel in order to beat them. TIAMAT is a most didactic example for that. Dark tranquility is not a relaxative but a sheer act of violence. You must be extremely cautious when choosing your path and never deviate from the destination. You are nothing if you don't belong – I am the breathing proof for it. Any hard to find it out, side must be taken. You can't just cross over without a Hinterland with false visas for ever. The enemy will capture you and that's the end of espionage. You'd much better be wrong than uncertain. New Jerusalem has no room for the lukewarm and tolerates no hesitation. Treason is never silent for the UR – uncategorizability is a crying shame in a world based on division. Neutrality is a crime against all the ten commandos. If your love ain't sure at the first sight, don't give it a second chance. Listen to your heartbeat to avoid compromises. You don't make the music for your own enjoyment, do you? You have to use your gift to make money from it or else there's no return. Community is imperative for every solitary soul. Its only alternative is the asylum. Stick or change but don't expand further than the limits of the current. Those jazzy house mixes do not fuse but confuse. You can't embrace everything if not standing against one. The empty quarter of hate must be kept unspoiled. Any way you turn, there's always a wall to face. Only a techno animal can afford to prey on alien blood.
XII/11
Unlike chamber music for chamber people, rock'n'roll first of all is performance art where technicality is required but does not suffice. Any well rehearsed, a good rock show is the improvised ritual of an interactive worship. It is neither revue nor theatre but a third kind of entertainment: our circus maximus. To stand still in dim neonlight or convolute in hysterical agony amidst the fire and the smoke is only a stylistic difference. You can piss on the public if they like it – everything depends on the choreography. The charisma of the frontman. The ratio of sex and violence. Whatever drug you be on, as long as you perform, you're protected by the law of the universe at least from mistakes. In the specific praxis of the overall theory, music is not an executive means but confined to testify the age when recorded. Albeit only the blind can tell fiction from reality on corporate television, guitar heroes are seldom killers in the first degree beyond the valley of the dolls. Manson on the other hand wouldn't promote carnage in his country songs like those sweet and harmless Finnkids, sorry if offended. Satan has an entire nation on his own now, not just a handful of LaVeyan churchgoers, and with a crime rate far lower than any other. JON NÖDTVEIDT is no match for the rap race. And there aren't that many gothmetallists feeding on cannibal corpses as editors imagine. It's only video to scare and catch the kids with uncaring parents. Even the most inhumanist units are craving for good reviews. Bloodbath propaganda is an integral portion of every remarkable trend on the black market but if the young marines bomb to PANTERA it's not the band's fault or merit. The only control an artist has over his work is his copyright. Our serpentine civilization's tangled into a gigantic knot that can't be solved but by the allegoric way. Waiting for the cloud is the most intelligent response therefore and the pity couldn't be greater. Whilst the warriors of Inanna or whomsoever they may pick are fighting with dragons from ancient fables like mad Kinder of the Garten! Provocation is reserved for red carpet decoltage – cash from chaos is a long forgotten whim of the naivist past. Though you're still celebrated if your sleeve gets banned, what does it matter when every single musician is a record label? The bourgeoisie's grown callous to insults – to shock them is virtually impossible, except for the holy swastika only racist morons would apply yet. The other side's idiots think it was the devil's own signature. Justice won't be done for nobody. The boys are busy with gratuitous slaughter. Mutilation and genitorture are tedious schemes no goregrinder can do without. Everyone must be viler than anybody else – that's the way to claim attention in the alternative circle of tyrants. Isn't it the devil's music, Ave Satan? Odin's rebels don't care about the problems of their neighborhood. Their fear and loathing comes from the heart where evil dwells. Darkness is the new enlightenment: the dawn of Judgement Day's catastrophe morning. Gnostic or agnostic doesn't matter, it is the accurate rebirth of vengeance. The most dignified resistance movement ever. Deicidal and homocentric. Down with the future if it can't be ours. The fall will never end if we don't speed it up. Since the exit's at the bottom, we ought to hit it hard and fast. The aftertime generation is allied with Gravity. Such is the secret wisdom of the oversensitive rats of Zos–Kia Cultus, let me betray it. The first thing to do when we wake up will be to leave the ship of fools prone to sink. Gloom is the new high. At least we have the best music for the worst news. Don't let me hear you saying life's going nowhere.
XII/12
To get rich is the main strife on the poor side of town, but those that are know how little it eventually matters. Nothing the world can offer is enough for a universal refugee. We'll never succumb to the greed of the mortal. Greed is the main enemy of music no independence will eliminate soon. The pathogen of every crime by humanity. Development's most consistent upholder. The original sin wherefrom we count things getting worse. Vainly has the industry of recording grown into a major player of the political arena with profits competing arms manufacturers, its effect on the peace process only YOKO ONO might register somehow. Where greed sets the rules of mores, nothing will remain outlawed sooner or later. To destroy taboos and idols is the elemental vocation of free spirits. What sells is sacrosanct in the church of the Kapital, from psycho killers to voodoo gurus. The temptation of profit is the death method of open societies – you don't have to study Marcuse to grasp it. We need a most radical idealism to surmount the moral breakdown of liberal capitalism: the infernal reign of violence murdering safety values. Popular art's inconsiderate worship of the buyer overstepped the limits of public service: it degenerated the medium of transformation to a sheer messenger of decline. The pool is whirling well. We'll get all sucked in. What we need is protection. A guardian angel for everybody who deserves one. Evolution is a dance. One back, two steps forward. Promoting violence to brutal subhumans is an angelic mistake of artificial revenge. The fact of facts is that the time has gone. The living dead may go marchin' in any day now – provided they want to. No one shall be forced by divine terror. Why the Building is superior to star-gates is that New Jerusalem is beyond Time as we know it. An unknown destination. Let's go.
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