XIII.
XIII/1
'NOVA AKROPOLA' is a wide open house of reconstruction proportionately embracing everything worthwhile from war-metal to neo-folk. No spectrum could be wider by my presumption, but even like that it'll close out three quarters of the world 's ongoing music. I'd never play LINKIN PARK or WU-TANG CLAN, let alone MARIAH CAREY, without a serious didactic reason. I only cue my favorite musics and ignore the enemy like every normal DJ would. As a pathologically amateur host without resident status, I'm not expected any compromise - since I have no audience whatsoever, I'm free like a bird on a wire. But I wouldn't put on anything without due respect to pop, and I know what I mean. I'm a sworn enemy of the 24's experimental realm. Experimental is what's not the devil's music. It's a third category if classical and jazz are still at odds. I consider IN SLAUGHTER NATIVES pure rock'n'roll, to make myself clear at this crucial point. My universe is small but nuclear. And atavistically subversive at the core whatever I emit, or so I hope. I don't intend to impose my exceptional taste, but demonstrate one's basic human right to choose his own parallels of navigation. Anyone can be anything – that's the first law of the constitution of OSP's totalitarian democracy. Do not trust anybody. I'm meticulously composing each emission as a miniature journey across the Bardo's contemporary helter-skelter in a fluctuating sequence. Inviting the audience to follow me on a cruise, changing the tone of segments in a fair ratio between the seven genres accepted. I try to keep it enticing and full of surprises – as much as I can second-hand provide. And wouldn't play anything once presented again. I'm a terrible DJ but a great informer. The song's always more important for me than the sound quality. Fake to the marrow - I play what I am. Yet no one would appreciate the fusion of my components into a pocket-bomb. If not for its theme and structure, the variety of styles, any well separated by the rule of three, would freak out all potential public. There's something to hate for everybody in it – I'm against genre chauvinism, much like industrial metal. It's something I would like but cannot help – even as a cowardly deserter, I'm trained by a lost forgotten sad military spirit. I'm a sucker of order, just cannot make one. Someone flatteringly told me once he never heard anything more chaotic. It is not accomplished, is it? Keep on hanging by the same cross. My little toyship is sailing between two edges of the magnetic power: electronic and metallurgic by definition. It helps me to forget my realities and imagine talking to someone through my delicate music box. About myself, of course; what else do I know. DJ Helmut's got an identity crisis. Alone in the empty studio on the live air after midnight should be an exciting funtime for a real ghost but not for counterfeit me - I don't get the tiniest kick out of it. I'm preparing my showtime all week long but hardly have the patience to go through them. Every moment I try to live feels wasted. The last ten minutes I would spend with my coat on in attendance, anxious of missing my night bus home. And making more mistakes than not, despite the maximum attention I'm capable to pay. I'm thanking to Osh sans cessation for being so lucky to have this option but can't profit from it a dime of time. A volunteer shouldn't complain, but I couldn't do this job at a normal station. I wouldn't perform better if paid for it, I'm afraid. I'm not a fighter for anything and my ambitions are killing me. So I'm just sitting here in limbo, transmitting messages from nowhere to nobody. I save it all on cassettes but what should I do with them? I don't have no friends or anything like that. I am the world's least known entity, to sum it all up. The spy of spies as it were. Ain't it what I wanted? Absolutely not.
XIII/2
Let me break herewith my own goddamn rules and insert a personal anecdote into this blackened mail without consequences. There's anyway no order left in my Bardo I audaciously set out to map. Chaos is the foul character of the Prince of Gravity – that's what keeps us addicted to gambling. I'm following my own compass and it leads me anywhere. The curse of the final man, I guess. I can't see too far, but I don't see the closest objective, Sir; I'm mentally blind. Once I played the overnational conqueror of frontiers in a Blitz – now I'm doing the lengthiest part of the world's last citizen. A megalithic failure, am I not? I really should have been spared from this sentimental journey. The event I'm up to mention was the single most relevant episode of my secret story never told; if I won that battle, my life wouldn't have become such a cheap imitatio Antichristi. And the globe would be a very different place by now, I obstinately swear. Intolerant and multiracist in stead of the murderous swamp no one tends to drain. All busy providing first aid to the third world. The Earth keeps on rolling carrying the load increased by acceleration, but counterrevolution is more of a pipe dream than in 1986. Idly watching the infernal putsch from my windows, I'm waiting for the return of the virus and the power to spread it with superhuman patience. I lost it all by the end of the first and last Five-year Plan enormously underachieved. The import of this bad memory is very one-sided therefore – the other party of the sorry affair wouldn't have much to recall. Just the vague memory of a pathetic idiot. It's my private vision altogether with no public concern. And that's how it goes in a dire digest. I left my native cauldron for the Occident as a DIY agent of the KGB in 1978 with the artless aim to meet up with MALCOLM McLAREN and sell him my project I believed a priceless merchandize. It was about Russian spies using rock'n'roll as a propaganda machine of communist values then. In spite of the unspeakable confusions of my illegal alienation, I miraculously achieved this one goal in less than a year – exactly on my 29th birthday, man! Time was on my side. Since I couldn't get visa to England for want of a passport, he moved to Paris to hide away at my Godsent producer's place I also used as a shelter when he allowed me. It was from the trial following Sid's overdose – to avoid getting lynched in the streets of London. Everything seemed to be Zodiacally arranged in the perfect coincidentia of Oshist dramaturgy. The occasion provided was better than I could fancy – it was a miracle of supreme proportions. Though of different sorts, we both were in exile in critical conditions: he falling from grace, me craving to rise from the grave. I needed a hand to pull me up, and he needed a new victim to exploit quite urgently. All I wanted was to be his destiny. He was looking for revenge and I had it all prepared, I misbelieved. I was penniless but my mind a velvet goldmine. All I missed was a band. I thought I was coming as handy to him as he was sent to me for the great reproduction. I wanted him to take on SPIONS as the next invasion, an overnational one, and had a rich image bank full of winning cards. How could I fuck it up so badly is beyond my self-knowledge. I'm paying my price with unceasing regret ever since – I regret everything – but just can't get it right. All I know it won't be forgiven. It wasn't my fault, I'm telling to myself, it was Gregor Davidow who did it, that arrogant and imbecile bastard. But the truth is, I couldn't do it any better today – where have all those years gone? Neither my status nor my attitude has altered a bit – all I have grown is twenty-one years older without any improvement. I was holding the ace of spades way back then by comparison. I surely believed I was the Next One but couldn't make favourable impression on the Bride of my dreams. I wouldn't ever blame him before the Judges – the problem was exclusively me and I couldn't be more sorry. I'll be singing the blues till the end of days.
XIII/3
First of all I had the worst hairdo of my life, having absolutely no money to have a cut. So I made it with my own unskilled hands in somebody's bathroom. Dressed to it with no detectable taste in the leftover rags I brought with me from my Hungärijan wardrobe. I brought very few items indeed, convinced I'll be a rich star before the summer's gone. An insipid casualty of capitalist propaganda. Now it was winter but I had no coat therefore, just shivering in layers of pulls. My otherwise stylish prescription glasses made me even more ridiculous in the ensemble. The Soviet medals pinned on my militant jacket only added the final touch to the portrait of a lunatic asshole on the run. That I was the first punk of the Warsaw Pact did not impress him so much. I was neither strange nor funny enough for a communist agent, let alone the seduction factor. Just an overall loser who can't even play the music he writes. Who cares what he's losing. Looks don't lie and that's the only certainty we got in the nightmare. The casting agents of the bargain are doing a splendid job. I was forced to act against character in my virtual reality as helpless as can be. I was no new wave boy, oh my, but an aging dissident grinning and frowning. A bit aggressive but much too serene to be seriously taken: without a hint of humour that differs good cynics from bad ones. "So you wanna be a rock'n'roll star?" he asked. I did not say yes or no as told by the Bible but began to explain how I would use the medium for political propaganda. He said I sounded like Nazi skinheads and he really hated those. I took it as a compliment, though pointed out that I'm against Nazism. I knew I was awful but had my excuses. My whole life depended on this cosmic rendez-vous and I was blinded by the faith in the mission. I never thought I could be affected. But to behave well with holes on your only shoes in the slush was plainly impossible for a pseudo-punk like me was. Every busterkeatonic effort to cover up my misery with some clumsy elegance backfired, only emphasizing my oddball vulnerability – not exactly a guarantee of value. What's more, I conducted myself immodestly servile like a sly lobbyist, with all the arrogance of an aspiring vampire in panic. Trying all I had to awaken the curiosity of the greatest swindler – with all respect, I badly needed his blood to give me life. Here I come, save your saviour. The very type to duck and cover from. And that's what he nonchalantly did. Nuclear reincarnation encountered its ricochet. Faster than suicide I became an annoying addendum to his ongoing ordeal – another silly mistake of Robin Scott he was to bear with. Under no other circumstances could I have gotten any attention at all – I was extremely fortunate with the circumstances. But extremely self-centred indeed. What was such a great timing for me, was definitely the worst for him, and that was my luck about. To listen to a mad Hungärijan's blurbs surely was the last thing he needed at that baleful moment and I ignored it with all my might. I am an agitator by birth, completely disprogrammed for conversation. And I was in such a rush, with no time to manipulate. My chances were to start the campaign immediately or stay the clochard that I am for ever. In that dreadful emergency I was telling my master everything at once, and had a lot to those ungodly days, in order to convince about my meriting of assistance. I offered him a pact of secret agents: an out-and-out self-betrayal on the screen of time that could effectively rival PUBLIC IMAGE LTD. Even proposed him to marry my wife and bring her out from behind the iron curtain with due publicity implied. But nothing worked. Neither my heartbroken English, nor my sweet ideology of total treason. Whenever I tried to talk to him, he started yawning in two minutes demonstratively impolite. Besides, I couldn't buy a coffee and he wouldn't invite me. I finally had to beg him one and that was my downfall. I told to consider it as an investment, but the joke remained on me. It was so bad I had to repeat it thrice but he never smiled. I haven't been his man of any interest. Just another fool of Paris. His status soon restored thereafter and he's been living happily ever since watching his rat race growing an empire from creative safety. THE SEX PISTOLS' reunion tour was an edifying triumph of anarchy established. Fuck the system! My life really sucks. No cabaret whatsoever, but the pure drama of a poor con man. The bore of bores really.
XIII/4
Wrong way back then I was gravely convinced to be reconstructing history, my sole duty being to decipher and execute a prewritten program. Everything seemed a coincidence proving the omni-presence of my alleged superiors. The overwhelmingly negative ones only highlighted the cosmic importance I attributed to me me me. I was watching my struggle quite objectively. To catch the train of time was my idée fixe. Despite ominous signs of warning, I couldn't imagine to fall under the wheels. I was a lazy fatalist, deserving no trust of the knowledgeable. Thy will be done – I don't have to do nothing for it, how could I? I was a humble slave making amends for his innate lethargy. I gladly believed I was a concept and accepted its negative aspects very docilely. I could regard my entire distress as a school of egocide. It was nothing short of a diabolical possession, I can see it clearly now that the bull is gone. I did not understand the instructions but put unlimited faith in my director. I neglected every rule of the social contract like a virgin whore and ignored my own detrimental air. I was a real machine man, speaking sedition and disloyalty to anyone I could snatch. Even my total lack of gift and education I considered a warranty of power. A lot like the Nazarene I thought my antithesis. Something wasn't okay. The pathetic fancy of overnational espionage had no appeal to the father figure of punk famous for his relentless immorality. SPIONS' McLaren Connection did not last longer than a month and ended with the instant and complete refusal of the song I was graciously offered to write for him just in case. I made it the next acid night entitled 'Never Trust A Punk'. But he did not like it. He didn't like others' ideas ab ovo, but I thought I'll be the exception. "Listen Mr. Davidow," he said, "I am responsible for the kids I brought up." It came as some surprise, but in the role of the annoying disciple I had to try my worst to convince the master about the logic of my immature argument. Whereas treason should be declared and the future planned with iron will after the short summer of anarchy. Reproduction all over the world. But every passionate word I said was only fodder for repulsion. His ideas of a comeback were much more glamorous for Paris: solo show á L'Olympia, producing Catherine Deneuve and so forth. Also looking for bands but SPIONS never got taken into consideration. I was inventing magick trix to telepathically induce his mind, but of no fucking avail. I've never been accepted by the supernatural. Then one day back in London he went to the laundromat and the rest is real history. BOW WOW WOW routed SPIONS. Definitely, she was a lot sexier. I proved myself profoundly unfit for a career in business. If you don't wanna make money, what do you want? Heavy suspicion arose. His best advise was not to let all the cats out of the bag like I was used to. Rather keep my ideas to myself not to be ripped off too soon. Yet he never did that to me, though it would have made Gregory very proud. I was a complete waste and so I remained: an idealistische Naturschutz Arbeiter. Having lost the chance of my life, I just didn't feel like trying anything of lighter weight thereafter. I began to seriously contemplate my first suicide instead. Only inertia saved my life as usual. To my few collabos I still had then I wouldn't admit the letdown; I recorded the song with the promise of a continuum that never happened. And that's where the story ends and my deaths begin. I've heard he's running for the office of Mayor of London lately. It's actually the best news I've heard for ages. SPIONS could have written his campaign song if we were. Every mayor of the occupied globe should be a member of The Party by now. The time has gone.
XIII/5
I am terribly sorry for this extended detour but I had to touch down to the global cause of the overall decay I selfishly attribute to the prenatal fall of SPIONS. Maybe I'm just plain wrong but don't care no more. This is my last letter and I have the ancient right to do what I will. Lack of sense sets me free. You know, I love to talk but do not have anyone to tell anything to. You may say it's my choice, but I can swear it isn't. It is a curse of the tongue – part of my megakarma. Unable to access the masses' media, I've entirely ceased to converse with the people. I never could get it equal in the praxis. They all know who they are but I haven't got a clue. I'm just a confused liar desirous to please. And though I esteem lying highly, I don't like to do it. To be nobody is an ordeal for the phoney hermit. Muted for decades I can hardly recall how to communicate. I simply can't work and love without a function. God be my witness, I'm not missing it at all – I'm snug as a bug in isolation. Here in my empty room there are only demons to face but they're at least not visible. Yet to be the Word without voice dying to be spoken is a weird existentialist experience I wouldn't share with anyone. I have no interest in the others and lethally tired to simulate some. I know too well what they think, just don't need to hear it too. I'm hiding from my nicest neighbours to avoid saying hello. I'd prefer to be exploited a lot. What I can say in broken English is nobody's concern – I'm nothing but a universal refugee with outlandish objectives. The future of the planet is no business of mine. I have a more important mission than the mortal turbulence or that's what I'm told. I've given up on an encounter unconditionally; I should be robotomized by the operator like a fucking Golem to move. To be less than human won't make 888 an alien. From this depth of a dream you can only awaken for an alarm: I need an exterior force to pull me up from drowning more than ever. As long as unwanted I'm not ready to live – Dracula's second coming is a dreadful challenge. No ego – no charm; I am an impotent groom. Dissatisfaction guaranteed. The thought to convince someone makes me nauseating. I understand I'm nothing at all, but the least I am is a teacher. My expectations couldn't be lower and they're still far too high. Confrontations with the outside world are plain maddening – it's quite sufficient to watch TV. Nor could I chat on any webline – I have no words to waste. No electronics can salvage my exotic loneliness. I'm walking like a white wolf scared stupid against the black sheep. So I rather stay home to box with the shadows. But the news and the music are killing me slowly. Informations a normal costumer wouldn't give a damn about crack me down for days. Grizzly murders and freak accidents are postering the walls of my morbid nightmare. I'm as obsessed with evil as any deranged artist, just found a better excuse for sublimating. Although uncrowned, I am the undisputable king of paranoia. Apprehensive and intimidated. Not the smallest party could I handle if someone invited. Discotheques I never could afford, now I wouldn't even dare to go out. I do look like the Graaf but can't handle it gladly. Maybe if I had some money, but that's out of the bargain. Is this a life or what? No Sir, this is uncertified death – a lot worse than the real deal. When you're dead you don't have to think. In a constant fear of losing my welfare that provides it, I haven't left my god-given shelter for many years now, except for the frequent cases of emergency. Buying my daily bread and cigarette is my sole interaction. It must be real fun watching over me.
XIII/6
Let me indeed fast rewind to the track lost by this self-derailment, before the zero year too runs out tracelessly. Twentieth century's collective dance culture is a lot more than an extension of tribal rites and rural Volkstanzen: it is the mass movement of the chosen few's transglobal exodus. From ballroom blitz to rave party it's been preparing the gathering of the self-conscious elite through a demonstrative celebration of overnational Time. Long before dictating it, music meant to be the sound of history from worship to workshop. Let alone the military aspect. Its becoming from background enforcement the effective war-cry of evolution is a titanic triumph of the Majesty of Rock Nietzsche was invoking. What's more, completely unpredicted by Nostradamus or Marx. One nation under the beat beyond race and class. Mass hysteria all over the world. It's an exaggerated reverie, of course, but it is happening. Nobody knows what's going on but taste never fails us – we're always enlightened about what we should like in the most democratic way. Under the aegis of pop, the music of folks has become common property of the youth at perennial revolt. Rendering Afro and Latin into a global rhythm of the soul, the swing of the new world wiped out the waltzing decay of Monarchist etiquette. Neither fascists, nor communists could successfully withstand the airborne invasion of liberated slaves. The sudden impact of the rock'n'roll fusion, rooted overall from Ireland to Senegal, has started a chain reaction no nation could resist to contribute to. From honky-tonk to turntablism it's been driven by the dream of the emporium. That subversion became such a lucrative business is the best joke of the adversary so far, but only proves we're at a total war. Waged by artist-warriors, which is a brand new specie in most regards. Set up by the ancestral schemes of princes and commoners and the fandom as Hinterland behind. Only the goal and the means have inverted rather speedily. Against the system is the road to success in the opposite reality of its offensive mirror. The native pack of the time-guerillas did not have the futurist concept of music like Pratella but in them parallel world they established a dictatorship of style Marinetti couldn't dream about. Fun, fun, fun turned around the clock into the profane gospel of nihilism. Its straight ancestry with death methods is as obvious as of Sumerian gods'. Right at the cradle we locate to Memphis moved to Tennessee there was more to the picture than money for nothing: the cosmic protest of a homocentric reconstruction. Rock'n'roll is a fundamentally capitalist enterprise in the people's manipulative service – very good indeed. Provocation was no longer a Dadaist shtick but an integral portion of commercial value. JERRY LEE LEWIS is a patron saint of this Atheist trait but so were all the others. And without our contempo intelligence that degenerated us into giants! A new form of martial art was born, supplanting mass and rally. In the alternative Gesamtkunst revolution became a playground: deliverance of the ring to the children of New Israel with gentle cruelty. Had ANTONIN ARTAUD been born a little later, he sure would have been a big star like ALEX CHILTON. Rock transformed the accompaniment into the event itself like an emotive saving machine, fundamentally changing our perception of immortality. In the shamanic situation of the rock stage the performance becomes the theatre, and music its own interactive propaganda circus. It blends show and drama into a ritual celebration of time, combining total control with the cheap thrill of choreographed unpredictability at its best. The crash course of the ravers is very different than a public of concerthall-goers – a lot more modern in the primal sense. Don't ask me which is better though, because it's really not my business. Osh doesn't inform that manner. Harmony is the best, that's all I know. And it can be violent. Reassembling dissected parts of arts and religions into a nuclear weapon devised to blow the mind, the Noontide surf demonstrated a third way of existence in quest of the ultimate ecstasy: the beatnik way, lest we forget the roots. It transformed music into action, creating a new model army of socialist reform-fighters through intercontinental class-mutation. Since BARRY McGUIRE we know where we're at. Rock'n'roll introduced time-consciousness to the dance-floor and that must be the greatest input since the invention of the wheel. A big bang in our lifetime. And except for the saturday nights, no significant casualties.
XIII/7
Why the United States of America proved to be the best fertilized soil for the seeds of rebirth is too obvious to analyze in a letter any fluctuid. It's all about Jesus in the end, that fatherfucker son of a bitch conquering the plantations by his unbelievable supermodel. Gospel became the bona fide vehicle of the second coming through the airwaves. As slaves adopted their masters' faith and turned it into revolt, an impossible mission got accomplished: rock'n'roll implanted treason in man's heart by the soilwork of mutual espionage. When the people's culture overtly began confronting the moral majority's orthodox hegemony. Its merger with blue country created an H-bomb of the mind prepared to explode. Betrayal, justice and revenge remained the core of the blast addressing the outlaw within up to these blackened days of the multiplying multitude's final judgement. Rock also meant a new lifestyle after the hanky-panky: it opened the gates of integrity ad infinitum all over the place. Announcing the elitarian era of gene-democracy: the birth of the mutant class. The dawn of individual revolution. A mysterious kick forging the rebirth of the multi-dimensional man. The intervention resulted in a personal cult vastly paramount to the political theatre. Richard Nixon would never match JOHNNY CASH's popularity. So many things have happened since BOB WILLS & HIS TEXAS PLAYBOYS - big bands got swallowed by quartets and blue yodel evolved into death growl – but the roots of Yggdrasil are only extending as the foliature grows. It's no longer the tree of life - maybe never been. Music's ab ovo post mortem, so to speak; even if evergreen. Whilst the Euromantic pathos of the Verdi-Wagner axis all but disappeared in the Second Viennese School's radical atonality, the Gershwinist synthesis gave brand new wings to the unchained melody in the transatlantic Babylon. Looked down upon by the academic eye to this very moment, the mass appeal of jazz was the undeniable end of musique sacrée – new sound to the old celebration. The conventional discrimination, never the less, survived even LEONARD BERNSTEIN, and despite ORNETTE COLEMAN and LA MONTE YOUNG, wasn't formally nullified before PHILIP GLASS and the serialists. The final Ausradierung of classic boundaries is not the result of royal philharmonics covering the fab four or CHARLIE WATTS orchestras solely but of the overall rage of instant reconstruction beyond church and state. Parliament-funkadelic. Cornucopia or Pandemonium – it's not easy to define the human condition. Only mental midgets can take a stand. My lazy research is strictly reduced to the supernal qualities of the new norms rock'n'roll established for the irreligious masses. The cradle of the filth. The only line between classical and popular music is drawn by the musician: the attitude of the mediator both under- and overground. In the holy land of rocks perfection is seldom enough – you ought to be GLENN GOULD to become a rock star. In the circle of SEPHIROTH you don't look for further categorization. Ole time avantgarde has been completely absorbed and the electronically enhanced genius bears no compromises gladly. The market of AH CAMA-SOTZ or COPH NIA is not of this world. The tragedy is born and we're here to enjoy it. Gathering the fruits of hundred swinging decades. That's the very state of music at the Millennium. The time of conclusion is the origin of a new genesis. And the beat goes on, with or without you.
XIII/8
Separation and reintegration are the functional mechanism of progression's pulsar desperate to emit a signal from the black hole. It is our eventual manner of advancement through the crisscross of the endless vortex, with the unknown destination in our haunted head. And on the top of it all, the demonic forces of chaos are doing their mostest to bring us to an immediate halt. There's always something higher to overcome - the rise has no limits. We'd better drop out of the system altogether before it's too late. People crave to be more and fewer at the same time - it is our nature's inherent schizophrenia. It starts with gangs and ends with nations. The breeding ground of the valley must be saturated with the enemy's blood for some strange reason of the spiritual agriculture. We are hi-fi Barbarians possessed by our countries. Despite the global technology, we live in a tribal state under the cover of folklore. Only music has overcome; the republic didn't. Art works by the same device as political movements: striving to dominate through opposition. The sole difference is the lack of careerism in it. The cause is always good, the effects seldom are. The zealous human spirit emanating from the organism wherein molecularly confined is willing to reconstruct a time beyond weather from the vague memory of a friendlier environment. Considering the vastness of the pit, the job can't be done without an alliance: hieros gamos is nothing of a grace but an absolute necessity. Chances are scanty but we can always try - what do we got to lose? Do your best and never mind the outcome – godless faith is very dialectical. Creative nihilism is the UR's frame of mind. One thing we must comprehend about New Jerusalem in order to get there: it is not built of glass and steel on a firm settlement. Eden is a city in the air – its maquette we reproduce is only the key of the gate. It is the dimension of soul no body shall enter alive. For the homeless of the Earth there's no cause noble enough to die for. The chosen few will march in on their own devices. All our wasted energy we should reinvest into a glorious departure or all shall perish without a trace. We are expected to wage a global civil war for the right – nothing comes gratis in the Bargain. Exterminate the evil to get to heaven - not so dissimilar from the rot of Islam at the first sight. There's only one way around here, just prone to misinterpretations. Antithetic in Atheism is that O.S.P. would unconditionally forbid and persecute voluntary martyrium. Saints are released through death designed, and selfish like a shell-fish that's all we must be striving for. Helping the others is a matter of conscience but the only question will be what you did for beauty's sake. It's the search for the light that speeded up trash to meet doomsday descending. The Zeitgeist cannot cheat – what you feel is usually true. The less you can grasp it, the surer you may be. The electromagnetic force of salvation is irresistible for the receptive and rock'n'roll is its medium of deliverance. Though more depressing than doo-wop, Satanist black is positively optimistic about the triumph of destruction. Hate helps the blind a lot to see in the dark. Yet the costs of living wouldn't cease to inflate. Crime rules the hemisphere under demonic protection. There is no hope to effectively line up - Hellraising is all we can properly do. Revenge is the angel of survival: the uncut tax even the fittest have to pay. There ain't no justice for anyone until the wolves stop keeping mum in their underground lairs.
XIII/9
Unlike rockabilly, the sound of recreation from digital techno to processed noise is an artificial sphere without boundaries only scholastic marketeers may dare to categorize. The beat can always be broken in ways without end - even Gabber inserts largely poetic parts to maintain the balance of obliteration. The road is straight and narrow from LES PAUL to FUNKI PORCINI. Dance music is cosmic theft sampling the most distant drums to move our electric body to the rhythm of time passing through. Culture is a nuclear process where everything recycles in a perennial whirl: the future is absorbed but nothing's getting lost. The black hole of Time is a finite notion prone to forever implode without the cleansing fire of purification. My homage to Bismarck. Yet I have a better way than war and that's what I'm talking about. If you can no longer tell chaff from wheat, the garden is finished. We shall drown in our own vomit. We need extreme strength not to fall to the temptation of freedom wherever it comes from. We need limits more than assurance. That's why there is a law at all. Our job is to restore love under will, if I'm not mistaken. Or torch the temple of the golden dawn! The new avantgarde of elitarian pop is very smart at exploiting integrities but should not waste its leisure time on black masses. Satan does not need his ass kissed – it's only Christian propaganda. Satan needs the workship of a superior race. Once taken the lead, you may never turn back and never follow again. It's an enormous risk every instinct resists. You must be de facto possessed like JAMES PLOTKIN to assume such challenge. The infernal putsch of 1984 demolished the walls of Abaddon. Violence and tolerance are twin children of the Whore protecting Babylon's foul constitution.
Art was intended to domesticate the beast, not feeding it with mirror images. The old new waves of Satanist metal, and industrial as well, completely misapprehend the ethic of the goat. The invisible line between greed and ambition is drawn by the Ten Commandos: the words that never have two meanings. Taste cannot compromise. Humanity's single goal is to improve its services. To evolve is our default duty. Fame and fortune only increase one's responsibility – every honest celebrity suffers that burden. Immortal wannabes must get wholly aware of their power and use it too. The actor should not sleep away in the middle of playing: forgetting that he acts and become the role. In the dim light of today it is trying to tell irony from idiocy. Everything and else depends on the Nomen's self-consciousness. Talent is not a gift but an investment in you. The body will stand naked before the Judges. It won't matter what you wore.
XIII/10
That gruesome predators became folk heroes of the new resistance is nothing to wonder about. The universal refugee are in hopeless hate with illusions in a world of crime and no punishment. Descent is the only way to overcome Hell – gorecore is a most adroit camouflage for the Z-generation of the living dead. To become what you fear from is a basic instinct in the parapsychology of transcendent espionage no less dangerous than its political praxis but more. Ignorance saves the mind from hesitation and that's the sole chance to survive the deceptions of the Bardo with shadeless dignity. If you go insane and believe what you see, the vision will swallow you and that'll be the day when you really die any pompously buried. When the light goes out at the end of the tunnel. We ought to accommodate to subreality if don't wanna get upset. Introducing the notion of pain into the dream theatre, the concept of entertainment has radically changed its original function. It was a quantum leap towards self-government at this brutal hour of the countdown. Mutilation songs replaced the new romantics' murder ballads. We're rushing on with godspeed towards the bottom line and nothing can stop us now. What would we got without those grisly torture killings? It is the single most interesting thrill even for rocket scientists for breakfast. Criminals are the zest of our lives. Celebrities of the underworld – the living idols of deviation. It dates back to 1888 at least but has epidemically proliferated since in the land of rape and honey, especially after WWII. The human race is cursed with a split personality accordingly the Cosmic Bargain. Schizophrenia is our very nature and can't be cured by Gestalt-therapy. We'd better eradicate ourselves by a nuclear holocaust to fulfill the forecast. Lustmurderers create more excitement than disasters in the news room. Millions would lose their job in the television industry alone if they were banned. Monopoly capitalism's unscrupulous surrender to the people's want eliminated all ethical frontiers in the corrupted democracies where money is king. The intelligentsia are bloodthirsty vampires – there's little to argue about that. It's my vulgarism to even mention it. Horror can be sublime like in Australian B-movies but becomes plain disgusting when abused in pursuit of sales. Depiction becomes endorsement through the new realism of crime dramas, even if the good cop prevails in the happy end. Everybody knows it only happens in the movies for the box office's sake. What the mass diversion churns out is sheer fodder for the criminally insane like fingerprint-proof guns for the Mafia, no matter the context. Like neo-Nazis would watch hostile propaganda just to see the flags. The victim's family sleeps better if justice is done - an eye for an eye will be just fine. At the same time they forgot that vengeance is sevenfold.
Albeit prisons are overcrowded and they still execute some in the great state of Texas, crime is the vastest employment in both Americas. Its idealistic elimination would solve all deficits - and nothing else could. Hygiene is one helluva commando. But in stead of a final solution everybody' shouting about, psychos are the Lieblings of the news and most favoured subjects of both art and entertainment. It is an avaricious plot of Jewish anthropologists, of course. That Samuel Goldwyn's legacy is desecrated by the liberal cinema freed of the chains of bourgeois censorship should be a good reason to rejoice. But all the progress is driven by unscrupulous profiteers. No victory comes without consequences under the equalizer's sway. We can fly but can't really advance. The Adversary circumvents every forward motion – that's how it goes since the beginning. In an endless zig-zag back and forth. Intense stagnation in the dark starving for excitement. The mortal realm is wall to wall – a colonial state of incarceration. Awfully boring even by our dull galaxy's standards. Contradiction breeds contradiction under the infernal aegis of independence. Human civilization is a transformator house turning spirit energy into material goods. Carving the symbol into stone. The recording of history since Herodotus has been chronologic education - it made the battling man time-conscious. Now at the digital Zenith everything has changed: it is the recording that makes history happen. This is the moment to take over the reins on our wonderful horses. What's more, it's now or never – tomorrow will be late. The wedding night is tonight. But the Bride don't seem getting adorned. Something's wrong with the City planning. We are living in a nuclear age of primitive democracy right now where everybody's at war with everybody else. Don't let me hear you telling about intelligence on Earth. What we're witnessing is distortion of the reflex: a never-ending fission of transmissions. We are dreaming of a movie about us. Deliverance presumes a dictatorship of the Word whose first anointed citizen you legendarily are, Sir, whatever you may think about my sweet dreams of divine terror. We must surmount destiny and persecute all psychics. Raw power will surely come. Haven't we waited long enough?
XIII/11
The actual problem is with the Muses of new technologies. They wouldn't give a shit about the outcome of the input. The superproduced soundscape is a superficial mesh-up of phantasm and nostalgia scratched by the hand of DJ God. Since punk liberated Garageland, destruction is the legitimized propensity of the rocks. Perversion and revulsion are promotional key words in all moribund records targeting the growing strata of evil mutants proud to be deranged. We have really changed beyond recognition in Subharmonia, not only the ideals of vocal delivery. Extreme has become a corporate value – the fear has gone. The once respected underground is a competing alternative sponsored and embraced by its arch enemy. The indies did not blow but opened the conglomerate gates before unpopular music. It is a lethal trap for the average subgenius, where treason has no reason any longer. Since anger is in the hands of the management, its autheticity is only measurable in gravest cases like STEVE EARLE's. More often than not, it is conscientiously faked. Which is sad like frigid women, anger being the best of our emotions. It can trigger miracles if well channelled. It is the lack of it that drives victims to suicide in stead of killing crime. Anger is the shield of the soul protecting it from the germs of lousy compassion. It's always been the main characteristic of rebel rock. But got always consumed by anarchy given to compromises. If you hate everything, nothing's left sacred. Anger is an optic - it has to be as precisely focused as a handgun. Nothing's more important on Earth than to know your enemy. Loving them won't prevent the necessary bloodshed. The spy's way is the high way: the self without ego. It was tremendously easier with a racist agenda slaughtering the innocent. Moral dictatorship is anyone's worst nightmare beyond science and fiction, and I understand it very well indeed. But Auschwitz proves, it can be done. All I'm suggesting is a holocaust of the guilty. Only the point of view needs to be shifted by introducing individual judgement into the collective conscious. It could be a bagatelle for symphonic black metal if it cared a bit. Apocalypse is a very primordial warfare where traitors take the ultimate precedence. But this time the boys wouldn't work it out. Christ and Lucifer go on tour hand in hand – they look, act, and sound the same. The propaganda is measured by decibels. Crusade or invasion, there's only one audience to convert to Atheism. The most a true warrior can do is preaching violence to the violent, which is a suicidal tendency without perspective. That's where pacifist liberalism ends. In the big bloody nihil. In the afterwave scenery nobody can tell reproduction from simulacrum. There are no beginners – new acts emerge with a professional package deal and a concept far more sophisticated than THE ROLLING STONES ever was. Knowledge abounds from GARDEN OF DELIGHT to DILLINGER ESCAPE PLAN. Since the right-winged Seventies crushed the flower power of the us-generation, rock music is spiralling against the fifth dimension of the esoteric left, letting less and less Sun shine in. It is not positive or negative - it is what it is. Not a trend. The process knows which way to go – we've always been guided by deviation. No expert can predict the next fashion trend better than tornados yet – any long time coming, impacts arrive with remarkable suddenness. Planning devastates every economy. We must be decisive but flexible and never doubt what we feel. It's not so hard to do. Rock'n'roll will never die but keep carrying the torch of truth across the Bardo from station to station in the face of the last testament's impeding apathy. The doomwave of the Noontide is no counterference but a culmination of the thelemic currents. The spinefarm's virgin brood is not a new generation but frozen ghosts of a once wild adolescence. They come ageless with wicked virtuosity and majestic pathos painted old and keen to repulse. They're not just modern kids but literally belong to the fables they revive with the high technology of the electric wonderland. It's future meets past and no present at all, like I always said. Youth culture is dead and that is a fact of the matter. It became a prerogative of the hiphop nation. The immortal don't rise and fall; they're only coming back again and again. These endarkened days of the Covenant are critical for the self-conscious elite. All you've got to be is irresponsible in order to compete on the depraved market. Scarier all the time. And it still won't work until you gun down a McDonald's at lunch hour. Crass instigation of the intoxicated public certainly won't relieve the overcharge. The frustration of figurative combat is creating an atmosphere of enervated dissolution susceptible to all sorts of dementia. The fascistic flirtation of the apostate intelligentsia is the smallest minority's secret love affair. The spiritual underworld hollow at the center is a lost colony of stranded explorers courageous but disarmed. You can say anything unless you mean it – to repeat offstage what you were just singing would make the best artist inauthentic before the critics. Only skinheads can afford to be sincere but they're more ludicrous than ragamuffin at this point. Whoever should listen to a mentally imbalanced Aryan punk-rocker of the twelfth generation? The established strategy of marketing is a bunch of black lies – you are the phrase but the phrase is not you. DEATH IN JUNE have never reached the frontline they set out heading – it needed new charts to put them on. Paradox is the order of the last day, no matter what you're trying to play. Funboys by the numbers won't become urban guerillas. L.A. GUNS stand for the riot of the lynch mob. Wave good-bye to the slowly revolution.
XIII/12
Though a stout opponent of human sacrifice, I'm a devoted fan of doomsday cults like the guy next door. I know it's only Satanism, but I really like it. Styles of today's complexity are hard to distinguish – the last thing sterile I can remember were THE STRAY CATS. The difference between two gore-grinds is much huger than between two boogie-voogies was. Everything depends on the individual delivery like always. You cannot say 'I like goth music' - you have to carefully define which one. The metal branch alone has five subgenres and only half of them is listenable. And mostly female fronted. NIGHTWISH, THE GATHERING, LACUNA COIL. Rapland is much more homogenous coast to coast. It all comes down to taste again: the socio-psychological imprint of the individual as unique as his fingerprints. Everybody is a singular microcosm - that's what makes us so monstrous. To belong is our greatest desire – there are movements and they need our energy to rotate. Even Disco chic was very agitative though much less tolerant than dark waves. Industrial noise and pagan warmetal are no teenage fanclubs. The elitarian hordes don't come to tempt – they come to conquer with blood and iron, let's say. The quantitative increase only fortifies the quality. The elect are self-appointed – only idiots are chosen. I appreciate it dearly, but cannot sincerely believe in the power of manipulation at the moment of collapse. What we need is a great surprise right now. A revelation of the unpredicted. Advertisement is for the conservative masses. The people of New Jerusalem know what they want. Osh is in the air but not many can breathe it in. Let alone out. The Geist of our Zeit is very impatient. The hour is striking but no end in sight. We're all too busy with enriching plutonium. Death wish is our central drive but all we do is collecting memories. The power of the world is a nuclear emission of the internal energy we are charged to generate under the Sun. A contribution to something galactic, we presume on scratch acid. Down to the last microchip, it is henceforth monument building. War with Gravity. There's nothing we would do for ourselves – even the greatest champion must thank to his god first. Money means little when you are rich. All the boys wanna know whom they are working for. Family is only an escapist pretext and a hotbed of catastrophe if you look at it the wrong way. Once you killed your ego there is no turning back. Evolution is gruesomely slow, but might seem a flash of explosion from beyond time – Einstein might knows by now. We are only screaming on the top of our voices amplified in inarticulate despair. The vibes of Armageddon are not positive at all. You can drop your 96 tears for the Moog but cannot do it again without skepticism. Distortion ain't only demented expressionism but an earwash detergent of purified hearing. It doesn't damage lounge pop but vindicates it. The empire of the 24 is mighty wide, reaching from MY BLOODY VALENTINE to BAD LIVERS on the sound-map. It covers our entire universe like a shadow of the original doubt. The plague of black death doesn't come at least with the intellectual smile of benign irony: the evil nod to premeditated destruction. Though having insinuated the most distant areas, it's still a forsaken catacomb of the living dead yearning to rise and shine. Their Teutonic humour allows no relief. No room for fun in the charnel house. Eternity is a dark matter that repels the illuminated. The UR don't joke about life – it is death we are up to ridicule. The pathetic symphonies of Ragnarök are more natural than girly pop. The generation of new black, despite their vampiric fragility, are the bravest souls ever wandered the unholy land beyond past and future. No godlikeness may deny their right for a glorious return any longer. We most be more prudent than ever when we choose – since time won't tell no more. Time was killed in 1984 by HELIOS CREED.
χ
XIV.
XIV/1
The weekly gathering of the self-conscious elite I'm organizing all for myself at 'NOVA AKROPOLA' may be a psychotic camouflage, but it helps me a lot to reinforce my initial belief in the UR the Party was imagined to rearm. Spiel! I'm not a lonely sadman thriving on delusions. The boys are out there, and some girls too, waiting impatiently for departure. I got so many feedbacks from the tracks; just can't respond to them. It's terrible to be a ghost dying to come alive. Listening to my own slogans from someone else's record. Maybe I am not that original after all. Just do not know what I'm saying. So I do not comment on anything – the collection I put on is mticulously selected. Like every DJ should, I consider what I play as my very own. I'm not gonna listen without partiality – prejudice is all I got. All I tell are the data and they tell it all. Every playlist is like a manifesto I'd be proud to draft. I'm really not needed. My shows could be prerecorded – only the abounding technical difficulties signal that they're live. Moreover, I'm a misanthropic host that wouldn't communicate with his guests at all. Just like at home, I never lift the phone and wouldn't accept any comment or take requests. You get what I want you to or tune out. Almost like a missionary. Since acquaintances I have none, my virtual audience is reduced below zero. At least I could say anything if so wanted in both official languages. I never would, but it's nice to be free. I am a rebel on my own. Completely ignoring the requirement of Canadian content – I only play the best of it which have nothing particularly Canadian to them. DEVIN TOWNSEND, ANNIHILATOR, KATAKLYSM. It'd be the same if I was doing this in Warsaw. I'm nothing of a world citizen but a neighborhood bum, yet I always hated the territories I was deemed to habitate the most. Not as much as my motherland, but quite. Patriotism is no virtue of mine – wherever I lay my hat is my enemy's home. I hate to be, but I'm the hunted one looking for nothing but shelter. That said, I objectively like the local scene of my workplace – it's as good as it gets, surprisingly maybe. OBLIVEON, VOIVOD, CRYPTOPSY. There's a whole second generation of Quebec French Canadian Death Metal, mostly from Montreal City, that even have a distinctive sound in a true overnational sense. Why they have to be separatists I can hardly get, but it's really not my business. One of them called GHOULUNATICS is a fave of DJ Helmut. If I could get higher on something, not only freezing at the bus stop, I would perhaps experience my radio activity as some sort of secret worship – but to whom would still remain a critical question. It must be the devil, I'm guessing – most of what I play, if not all, is dedicated to it. Christian ones call it Christ but it makes no difference to me. The trouble is that we do not believe in the same Satan. They want to enthrone, I want to kill the crime. Significant difference, isn't it? I really don't see what should I overcome.
XIV/2
What OSP proclaims since 1979 is the cleansing fire of counterrevolution: putting the freaks on a leash in the great everywhere. A global civil war of the overnational elite – the holocaust of crime. We are absulutely disconcerned about tribal slaughters decimating the worst of the overpopulace – I wouldn't waste a single bomb on those bloody subregions if I were a C-in-C. War crimes are the enemy's issues – there's no right side in a conflict. Right is the one that wins, accordingly Darwin's law. Every damn child should be made aware that there is no sanity clause. Granting show business the status of an industry was an epochal change of the culture possibilitated by the almighty Kapital neither Marx nor Engels could foresee without electricity. In the brand new milieu technology created for the fish, the media sets the rules of evolution following the demand of the masses through a most manipulative interaction. The spirit is tempered through trials of treason – in the game of the Two only the spy is credited to survive. Its dissidents truly are the saviors of their nation's galactic repute. Today when you can carry the universe in your lap, exile lost all its exotic flavor. Nemesis annexed that domain. Emigration's just a state of the mind – I always knew it. Since 1984 when the global village officially began to transcend in the virtual reality of an electric network, the mystic notion of the genius has turned into an equal opportunity in the ultimate egality of acquired freedom. A talented hacker can challenge the whole world from his own bedroom with a little artificial intelligence. The territorial map is only a political symbol – the geographic exodus for a better life has little to do with the moving of the computerized people. At the same time, rock'n'roll music has produced, at least on the surface, a new state of brotherhood out of all peoples amicably stealing each other's traditions. Best is to perceive it as the generator of a higher nationhood. The spirit frontiers are defined by the dictators of sound over all languages. Traditional warfare has grown into a battle of genres – one big step up on Jacob's ladder. The music world is a supremely flexible one: the interface is permanently shifting as we shake and tremble. Internet socialism is the greatest gift of the Eternal to mankind: the most crucial phase of the unsolved process so far. The stakes are raised to maximum height. For the value it became thrice as hard to stand out again when even teenage girls lost their taste. I wouldn't dare to compete if I had some talent – in my total madness I'm almost glad with the lack. At least I don't have to try. All I want is to be left alone – no confrontation, please. Like a never–been, I'm completely unmotivated to learn new things. Even the old ones I keep forgetting. In the machinery of overreproduction every cyberbody automatically belongs to a higher state of time–consciousnes our old–school Traveling College couldn't have imagined. The turbulence is immense at this crash of dimensions under the supervision of the seven wealthy nations. Chaos does not have a geometric agenda, but looks like the weather from a satellite if you wanna visualize it. The UR, however, are no part of the transforming surroundings. They are motherless children sold at ransom. The overnational wedding is confidentially restricted to the traitorous few resolute to disengage from their genetic determinators. Any deceiving on the statistical plane, the call to everybody is henceforth a quality affair even in England. Once entered the kingdom of creation, you won't see your buyers elsehow than subjects – every fanclub is a little individual sovereignty. The lands are only out there to be conquered and everybody's taking his personal chance. Unlike religious crusades, this invasion is plainly existential where victory is measured by the sales. It is dictatorship through prostitution – the great paradox of Antichrist. The relationship between artist and public is a spooky symbolic formula: one lives on the support of those that consume him. Reconstruction of The Roman Vampire. Every band on tour is a chariot of the judgement. Nothing's missing but the sword of moral.
XIV/3
Sonic brutality, as children of the counterrevolution label it, is not an allure like shock-rock but a demonstration of the truth intrinsically evil. It's not only reverberation but a brand new scream in the valley. Extreme times – extreme measures. It seems we're fed up with the reign of chaos but too enfeebled to restore any order. The tree of hate planted by the anarchy in UK has brought its poison fruits in no time: death rock on one and death metal on the other branch. The differences are measured by the ratio of retaliation and suicide. Whilst metallic glam deserted to apolitically party, the hordes of New Barbarians rose to recant the center of civic resistance from BLACK FLAG. The throne of pathos Blitzkrieg boppers set out to eradicate has been triumphantly restored through the new romantics' afterpop and seized with cold–blooded cruelty by the spiked-up stormtroopers of symphonic black from the undressed nomicon of matchcore deconstructivists. The borders of 'NOVA AKROPOLA' are wide but well defined. Symphony being structural by nature, as opposed to abstract noisescapes, is a pathetic conveyance by design – tonality's only underscoring its dramatic ride. The black version has produced a superpowerful fusion of psychedelic and progressive in the court of the Crimson King, building a most magnificent cathedral to the Church on dead Time. In order to escape from it, you ought to plunge into Hell – good advices don't reverse. The trouble with mankind is psychosomatic before/after all – only the greatest stars can maintain their status till the end of their capacities without giving in to the phantom of the opera. Suicide is still the most adorable good-bye you can wave, but certainly does not deserve the victory sign. You ought to die on the set like Bruce Lee's lucky son. Always on the top of your best. The craving for disappearance is a honourable attitude of cosmic careerists but should never prevail over the will to power. In the Atheist Church redemption is everybody's own business. Performing units are made, armed, and employed as special forces of an undeclared war and it's better to be aware of it than just Foo fighting like everybody. One aim at least is common in all martial musics: the strife for domination. The larger the fanbase, the bigger is one's people: a unification has been accomplished. Democracy did not abolish but only equalized humanity's royalist imprint Darwin derisorily overlooked. The endless cycles of break–ups and reunions afflicting the best contrived groups is very interesting for the interested, but it is a manifest signal of the ongoing catastrophe from the other point of the view. In most of the sorry cases it is sheer jealousy between the most kindred souls and has nothing to do with the virtue of treason. Though every single case is different, rock'n'roll works by general rules imitating society. Slaying the ego's seven–headed dragon did not alter man's original character a tiniest bit: life is a championship between the undead. The supply must satisfy the demand and then create more of it expanding the capital's evol market. The merchant must reach out to the lowest of the low to sell away in the lethalized competition. Crime is the word: art is no longer a healer but the propagator of the decease. Manson's legacy lives on – mankind is invoking the punishment like blazes. Freedom breeds boredom – the system thrives on tension as regulated by the Torah. You only can rise above the collapse on the stallion of fame waiting harnessed for the UR. A didactic example for the selective methodology was the grunge sideshow's failed mutation: a premeditated assault on the trails of punk but missing the fashion riot. It was an economic blessing for the independent market searching for honest cash in commercialized anarchy's cynical hollow. That's what KURT COBAIN couldn't bear. It did not last longer than other dance crazes, but its negative impact has left a seminal scar on the astral body of music like the memory of a stab. Without the leap of treason, you'll be buried where you fall. Immortality is reserved to morbid angels.
XIV/4
Hail, hail, rock'n'roll. Leaving the main streets to the neighbourhood thugs, she's withdrawn in remote castles for the long winter of eternal hate. From beach to abyss, from road to the crypt. We are delivered from the days of old. Where do we go from here is no longer a question. We'll ride the lightning and that'll be all. The Atheist faith requires scientific fatalism. Unlike the Sixties' hippy hippy shake on the Sun, the Z-generation are creatures of the blizzard doing their macabre dance under a starless canopy. If music could literally exterminate as pretended, no mixcore could prevent a sonic massacre. The spirit of Armageddon is invited to the wedding as its most honoured guest since the Delta blues. The revelation of pop culture only comparable to the age of enlightenment was the inversion of theory and praxis, where the spontaneous happening precedes the philosophic idea like a runaway train. It brought the answer before the question, inverting the clock. The unplanned takeover irreversibly altered our time-consciousness and with it the assembly's existential reality on the spiritual frontline. Putting action before prediction, Warholism – why not to name it – manifested the Antimarx of wingless capitalism in secular art raised on dialectic relativity. It meant the birth of elitarian socialism based on total gene-democracy. The Putsch of the Mutants, in Hollywoodian. That's where the counterrevolution really began like a dadaist dream come true, defying the prevalence of outmoded prophecy. Pop art was derived from rock'n'roll as much as from avantgarde, producing a nuclear fusion of revolts in style: the great symbiosis of opposing hegemonies. It firmly laid the productive foundation of a post-materialist dance-society for the new-born overnation. And all that to the people. Since the first generation of the beat, the downfall is no longer an intellectual privilege – ecstasy became a politics of deliverance for everybody that came on. An aboriginally pagan experience: the cult of life. By the generation warfare of the teenage dream declared half a century ago, the organic movement turned into an alternative issue beyond church and state. The youth was no longer its ancestor's copy – the civilized world obtained the right for choosing one's destiny on the liberal market. The long-term outcome is not unambiguous of course: the cosmic bargain goes on, just intensified. By now, with the speed of an express, we've reached a stage where the selection is no longer natural. When every lousy body can create its own world wide universe, to correctly measure the numinous value of an individual is virtually impossible. We are equal but we aren't one – class mutation has changed into mass mutation by the software. It seems to me an awkward miscalculation of the Elohim's heavenly democracy, giving green light to chaos' unregulated traffic. The digital countdown is coming to the heavy end. The temple of music is preoccupied with its own service, worshipping the great Moloch as the legitimate father of all Muses. Independence leads to monopoly by its intrinsic ambition – The Normal and The Virgin are supreme examples of true love's ways. There's only one law in the monetary system you'd better fuck in the traditional way. The race for consumers has gotten exceedingly wild in the godless panic. Anything goes what sells at the dawn of manipulation: morality's reduced to the freedom of the Fiend. Hats off to Lucifer wherever you cross him. The electric soundworkers of the multi–national labour camp are producing the most eloquent alarm bells but it's only an echo of the breakdown: interference multiplies but the bandwidth cannot reasonably widen. Only the tension's increasing precariously within. The studio's an insulated bunker reproducing the din of battle by legal deserters. Albeit the quality's prone to increase ad infinitum, no aesthetic miracle can compensate for the ethical damage: the energy wasted on reflecting what should be eliminated. A small step forward but a big step back. Baby did a bad, bad thing. The marriage supper is postponed sine die.
XIV/5
By today's categoric overview everything is "post-", even the avantgarde. Most probably because Time is over and out. "Pre-" we'd only apply retrospectively, never knowing what's coming. We understand what should be but only guess what will. Doing our best is the best we can do. That's the steelworkers' mental state at this crucial moment of the human situation. Cognisant fatalism. We speak Latin, but do not believe in a new derivation. It'll stay post-pre-post forever. The holy ghost has frozen. We are leaving the past for a destination unknown. Ready to start another nothing. The human being is at the turning point of its precious evolution: the perennial alienation from animal into robot. At the middle of the crossroad on its long march to Paradise. Superior but imperfect. In the sombre realm of melodic death where the universal refugee have been exiled from the ambient house there is little room for breakbeat. The strife for fame and fortune is largely subordinated to the service of Belial in the Norwegian woods. It can always happen on the perilous market but ain't no object of higher aspiration. What's more, you'll be unforgiven if accepted by the media: no cult hero any more. You've sold your soul to the capital and betrayed your peers. Rivalry may have gone but the jealousy remains. They won't shoot you in the back like the niggaz with attitude but your repute will never be the same. The notion of anonymity has grown quite epidemic amidst the elitarian hordes of the doomsday jubilee. It's become a silent order to Satanist hypocrites: an immortal virtue to die for. Any noble it seems, however, the genius midgets' outclassing mediocre giants is a bottom model we need less than unknown soldiers of the common grave. To kill rock stars has been a war-cry of independence for a decade now, and it surely works. Superstardom went to PUFF DADDY. Despite one-man bands proliferating, a credited nomicon is anachronistic like DAVID E. WILLIAMS – next to exiled monarchs on the liability scale. Beside the fifteen side-projects a superman can take he'd still better choose a pseudonym if going solo too. Any imposing the production may be, it is the sales alone that make you headline. Industrial love is a very one-sided emotion – nu chix do not dig it and the cold muses despise orgy. Even porn stars prefer criminals to sinners. Gay couples have all the fun. Since glam faded to grey in the Brit-hop's blur and crooners grew whiners, there is no place to hide for the angels of death but in the sonorized sepulchre of the temple of doom. Alternative is a stream of sewage SUEDE already should not contribute. The unspoiled source is far below the ground – the surface cannot produce but deceiving placebos. Decadence is artificial nostalgia – it is passionately haunting but will only seduce the already dead. The future is faceless like an army of shadows and it's anything but alright. It invokes an invasion of false idols produced to desecrate the ruins of Avalon. Nothing compares to biographic data in the downside-up chaos of the Noontide – the wild nobility wanna all shine on like crazy diamond. Every actor's leading role is himself, any badly performed. Without celebrities mankind would be a black mass with no sign of life. They are the socialist substitute of royalty doing a greater job than faith healers when it comes to redemption. It's martyrium through joy heralding the Antichrist in the most sinful fashion. Now you're not even sent to Reading Gaol for it – God knows how lucky we are. Yet, the author's testament is henceforth more revealing than the sum of his ideas. Even if it has little to do with the actual output, an oeuvre is measured by the struggle invested into the act of creation. Scandals and gossips are the main features of the portrait of an icon. Though ruthlessly exploiting their subjects, tabloids are the Manna for thought. Even the finest art needs an embodiment – even the Good Book was written by famous prophets. Without the individual context there is no objective sense. I wouldn't understand any movie without knowing who's directed it: Blake Edwards or Terry Gilliam. Since rock'n'roll erased the frontier between body and soul, we can burn in public like a living book with no secrets left unveiled. True Narcissism incorporates the hate of privacy. We can become images in subreality sleeping before camera. The UR, they are samurais of New Jerusalem. Fighting for vanity before the audio-visual grace is over.
XIV/6
We can't clearly see as yet whether Time's collapse buries or liberates us. Since future there is none to fly into like an eagle, the fall has come to an ultimate stagnation. The curse of Gravity defies nuclear reincarnation – acceleration is the deadliest trick of the Prince of the Air. Progress is a crash course for the undead. Never mind the past – it never existed at all. Trends are reviving in shorter and shorter cycles as we are reaching the bottom of the pit. Last year's setter is this year's retrofit. The whirlpool of the multiculture is fervently recycling but no new value in sight since 1979. Only slavery and pirates. Technology had no impact on the moral of the beast so far. It rather made it more lenient. The electronic miracle didn't blow our intelligence, only updated the light. There is no superior race, only lingual quantums construed by the same probability of proportions. You've got a Genghis Khan or you don't – that makes all the difference. Nationalism is an expansive input – that's why it served so long as the sole unifier of the dominion. Today we got the means but wouldn't stop abuse them. Cyberspace created cybercrime and that's all about it. We cannot overcome. Every country has its murder stars tonight – Vienna's no better than L.A. in that regard. Some kill for bounty, some kill for pleasure – only war can channel the original instinct. The honest majority's slaughters are politically motivated at least. But again, the army is as depraved and corrupted as anything. Due to the persistent balance of evil, our global culture is more polarized than the Middle Ages. The body might go to the Moon but the mind won't leave its familiar gravity. We love the planet of life like embryos the womb. Only the conditions of the farm have altered a bit – work's made less hard by our smart machines – but the price of providence is the same high as ever. The strife for comfort is not a symptom of innate laziness but voices our heroic claim for solace in the treadmill. In the high-standard communism of overnational Utopia luxury is an equal right of every citizen. It only sounds a joke because it is impossible; and that's a crying shame, isn't it? Our petitions were left unanswered since Gilgames, and now that God is None expectancy has no room left outside the Bible belt. Forlorn or inhibited – a question of the point of view – the soul of man is no temporary matter: the period you witness is all you'll ever see. Pay good attention therefore to the seasons' greetings. Eternal is what is actual – fashion alone can guide you through the tunnel. The dual attraction of the Bardo is a dangerous zone to cross for the living dead – the deceptions will seize you any fast you be. Closing the eyes is not a solution. Soon you won't be telling temptation from directives. Nobody needs another chimera. No sacrament can save you from perdition – everything depends on how you receive the host. You must focus on yourself when in a dream or will never wake up. True sinners can't go wrong and that's a guarantee of Antichrist. O.S.P.'s genocidal tendencies, though impertinently ignorant of the facts, are not irrational at all. That is Uncle's evergreen legacy. Our idealism is not different from any race or class warfare. Only the enemy is better defined. The enemy are the bad guys. If this is too abstract, I don't know what can be plain. All we are proposing is a civilized holocaust of the guilty: a triumph of the innocent. It took an awesome time to reach that sagacity, but ecce homo novum. Ready for a global civil war based on genetic evidence. After spending Millennia of killing the wrong foe, and rape and loot them too, we have finally found the sword of a socialist crusade. Nothing new – everything new. Divine terror will finally extinct the pathogens of Cain that trashes evolution's ungodly process. The Party's `Progrom` is no ideological platform but brutally scientific. Moral dictatorship denotes indiscriminate propagation control and uncompromising revenge from prophylaxis to euthanasia. A criminal will bring his whole family down according to the Oshist constitution. Let the reaper come to gather what was sown. The swarming vulgar mass of infected virulency.
XIV/7
The stumbling block of my argument is that it ain't ironic like Huxley's psychedelic futurism. I'm not a funny charmer but an uncouth brute – nothing I hate more than science fiction. Metaphors are the cancer of the Word – they should be cut out like malignant tumours. I am an idle idol bereft of artistic inspiration. I could never write a novel or rap with my broken tongue. All I've got are a bunch of stolen slogans turning both machine and metal heads outright away. The scent of the rat. My fascist simplicity automatically repulses the sophisticated Bride – that's not how she pictured the marriage supper. She wanted a white wedding. The dead boys are my latter-day Pharisees. Only genitorture can be promoted freely – judgement on the wretched sounds like blasphemy for the sanguine intellect screaming for Apocalypse. Gigantic contradictions I'm supposed to sort out. Sometimes it makes me wonder when hearing a new song of putrefaction coming on: ain't this bewitched chivalry real malefactors the gorefest's only thrown to save society from? That maybe they're no longer mirrors but a seminal part of the projection? Let's hope I'm wrong but what does it matter? As long as no one listens, I repeat what I want like a self-conscious parrot. But don't worry, Sir, I'm not talking about me to anyone like I was before. I won't go mad again. This private letter from space to time is strictly confidential in the continuum. Just between ourselves, I am the king of pain – no fetish, only suffer. All I'm thinking of is extermination. I'm completely disinterested in funky electro. I'm charged to be the garbage man, I hope you understand. And I'm no longer ashamed of it – I've grown a real skeptic in the confinement. But too languid to jump. I have accepted the dismal office but they can't expect me to be running for it. It's not my idea, that much is obvious. 888 is nothing but a necessity in need to be needed. You cannot do a thing without raw power – after all ingredients collected, you need a pot to cook your soup. I am a retarded nephew deprived of guts and charm – nobody's friend or relative. A dilettante martyr saturated by fear and drained of ambition. All my unholy life long have I tried to hold on to anyone. Yet I'm too destitute to bleat with the bewildered sheep or go against the stream like a pig-headed pioneer. The unpredicted cannot come true. My mind is changing like the weather, but the cellar is getting colder night by night. November's doom enfolded the Prague spring. Your Building – My Grave. Don't tell it to anyone, I am Isaac.
XIV/8
Albeit an untalented loser whilst awake, in my wishful dream I'm still a misplaced agent of the secret: deployed in a foreign dimension in utter emergency. Completely unprepared for the mortal realm and very sorry about that. I'm watching the documents for many generations now from the shadow, but get shocked all the time like a stupid alien just arrived. I must have reached masterhood because there's not a single thing I could understand left. I might seem intransitive, but passivity is the hardest work of intelligence, believe me. I can negate it all but can't create or destroy anything. Just a poor old devil crying for the Seraphim's unconditional love. A Ledermaus amongst Batmen. The perfect nobody with the tormented mind of a handicapped superstar, harassed by the vilest demons of the underworld's counter-espionage. Who could have figured a more monstrous existence? I admire the collective but all I'm praying for is to be left alone in the lair with my carnal self. I should have known it better than to kill my ego. Baphomet deceived me. Angel or devil, it's all hallucination. God hates me worse than dogs, I see it in the people's eyes. Hail the great vampire of redemption! What you get is an elderly clown with a balding mohawk lying he was German to my fellow bums. Trying to behave like someone incognito on a holiday. Of course, it does not work – in spite of my bogus nomen I cannot play whatsoever. Nor can crack a confident smile for missing white teeth in my mouth. And would need an iron head cage to hold my chin up. All I can do is the busy writer in the café, correcting the sheets of my letter from nowhere to nowhere. Rubbish to rubbish, shit to shit. No art, no business. G.I.N.A. is the aborted brainchild of a hanged man. The traitor's compass has proven to be useless. What's more, it's too late to give up now. We've got nobody to say good-bye to. They'll have to cut me down if wanting to get rid of – I'm atavistically unfit for an elegant suicide. Nor could I afford it. Somnambulism is my sole escapade. It's a nightmare to wake up on the same floor every dawn for a new trend passing. Although an expert of delusions, I'd jump every wagon but cannot find my band. Everyone lets me down station after station. Without reflection I prefer to stay as invisible as can be, waiting in suspended animation for the Sun to set. Buying my peanut butter like an unborn wolf. Walking like an enigma of Chinatown in Satan's dream capital. A bat. A rat. A mouse. A dwindling enormity. Can't stop to look at a shop–window without being aggressed in the world's friendliest city. Just hide and run like a never-been. I cannot open my eyes, so I cannot see what's happening to me: how I got here and where exactly. All I'm looking for is a reason that could make it somewhat worthwhile. And since I can't find any, I must fabricate one. That's The Overnational Socialist Party, Sir; I shouldn't lie to you. A survival machine. I try to do my best, but being altogether wrong, it only destroys me more. Is it any wonder I'm a lazy pig? You cannot blame me – I am the blame. Jehovah's true witness.
XIV/9
Like an egocentric lunatic from the soul asylum, I hear my most cherished messages reverberate on the ether all the time like a ghost writer bereft of copyright. I always thought, they were exclusively mine waiting to be revealed. But I'm losing everything. In my confined madness I even believe I am sending out telepathic messages for free download to the UR, and feel almost happy they're received. That's how gravely I'm sunk in the pond of the Bardo. They are pushing me very gently to come alive, but there's none to tell me what I have to do. Or stupidities like FATBOY SLIM. They're more positivist than the newscast – everything's alright as long as it's happening. Thank you very much; I know what's going down better than you, guys. I don't need medicine men to tell me where it hurts. I need remedy and I need it now. Elitarian industrialism is a minority affair and I don't want top belong to a minority. I want the quantitative center. I remember the days when I loved THE PRETTY THINGS – when there were no alternatives to choose from. The golden years of renascence when you didn't need to be told what's right. I'm still looking for reminiscences and that's why I play MAGUS VAMPYR DAOLOTH with such a penchant. I'm proud to have arrived but wouldn't like to end up in the studio of DEVOURMENT for the rest of my days. With all respect, listening to the necrophiliac mantras of dark fun makes me tremble like a virgin. The devil's smart children know the trick by blood: the farther you go, the closer you get. It is the dynamics of return: unwritten law of Anti-Newtonian metaphysics. The relevant is always the unnicest in beaux-arts. Yet since the end of censorship to shock has become a quixotic notion. Anarchy is no longer an enemy but the heartcore of entertainment through various pains. The stones of hard rock are rolling heavily down into the abyss and I'm glad to hear it. EBM, however, offers a smoother way out of the chaos with no compromise necessitated. Retro futurism is the wall of resistance amidst the overall collapse of the empire. The unwanted prophecy is coming untrue. The line between industrial danceteria and musique actuelle is remarkably defined and easy to draw with either hand. It is the most definite border on the tonal map protected by barbed electric wires against traitorous transgressors. Whatever it imitates, music is an inherently artificial reproduction – there'll never be peace between the motor and the flowers, I can guarantee that one. The last thing we need is more message about the medium – not even in art cinema, ciao Federico. The junky infants of the doomtide are playing on a mine-field. Nothing's left but the indifferent structure of infinite readings. We are sailing on the BILL FRISELL Starship over the world with no intent to eventually touch down again. It's not too bad of course, but by the evanescent standard of transience it is the erosion rather than the stream of time. The wondrous land off the beaten track can be a fatal excursion: the experiment will swallow you up if letting go of the wheel of your car. There's only one destination under the unholy spirit's protecting grip. You may take a holiday, but get back home as soon as possible. ARTO LINDSAY is one great model for that wisdom. Non-functional art is criminal luxury without destructive motives, producing worthless items for greedy collectors. The politics of harmony is a delicate balance between affiliation and deviation. The aggressive independence of the sonic youth is the 24's triumphant occupation of the timeship on the passage without horizon. Since avantgarde became the new classic sans competition, to be modern has lost the little sense it had had. That's why we call it "post" very accurately. The alternation of the soundscape at the aurora of the 21st Century is really caleidoscopic: the biker that can follow a gun metal guitar solo without missing a note surely wouldn't enjoy a serialist composition. Or a bruitist assault. 'NOVA AKROPOLA' will sooner be incinerated than capable to accommodate such different tribes. Traditional art is devoted to the hazard, which is the clear-cut counterpoint to midnight gambling. Its philosophy is shamelessly introverted: watching the struggle of the guide can be fascinating, but certainly won't lead one anywhere. You may recognize yourself in someone else's image but in the end you're the same alone in the universe as have always been. Ambience is adorable, but the shoe-shine boy will forever rule the socialist kingdom.
XIV/10
Nothing but the rhythm can effectively heal us. That's why Osh invented the dance society. It is no vainglory why house DJ's feel so Messianic: salvation is their accredited job. MC's are straight equivalent to Druidic priests in the mass production. By any length of cadence, melody without the signature of tempo will stay inarticulate like black noise. Difference between slow doom and speed metal is enormously relative. That's why WAKEFORD & STAPLETON is a sheer rock'n'roll band. Construction workers of the sound factory are the founding fathers of transglobal reproduction. Since the Anglo-Saxon colonialism unified the civilized world, the hegemony has become over–national: a post-genetic supremacy of class mutation. New nations appear all over the ball of confusion at the same momentum without warning. The Viking invasion, any thunderous and spectacular, is a marginal campaign never the less, happening far below the official charts. No mass hysteria implied. Death from Florida instantly conquered an unknown generation from Greece to Poland even before Internet. The theatre of the civil war is all-embracing – there is no Hinterland at Armageddon. Warriors of the Pentagram have insinuated everywhere. Forays are overall and mutual. The vast domain of black exchange is an obscure conspiracy in the dark from Portugal to Brazil: cold alliance against the enemy with no name. In the Edison Galaxy music has become the traitor's compass. The industrial revolution I'm talking about was never meant to be minority entertainment for elitarian fugitives but to share the pain of innocence in the collective abattoir. It meant the endorsement of sin that alone can deliver one's soul from the eternal perdition. Redemption through suffer is a perverted myth of the Jews' transcendent economy invented to save up on the injustice befalling the chosen. There is no business behind the slaughter of the Lamb – we won't buy the Christian deal. But the velvet acid boy scout are like electric eels – you cannot get a grip on them without a catch. Which I would never use even if knew how. I'm not a fisher of men, for Heaven's sake, but the fish of fishes eagerly waiting for my own bait to bite on. Can't even join the Bowienet, being no holder of any card. My unlucky star is shining bright. Engagement is quite improbable. Even Kevorkians believe mercy killing a privilege of the ill. New Jerusalem is a pretty long way to go – we won't make it on time, I'm afraid. Only my atavistic inertia keeps moving me. Right to die is a jolly good slogan for pro-death hypocrites, but whoever would fight for it? Life is man's most treasured sacrament from fetus to agony. There's a dismal shortage of perspectives in our godhead's dream. I'm talking to a future that'll perhaps never be. Individual judgement is on nobody's agenda but mine. And I'm a stubborn asshole when it gets to discourse – unable to argue what's obvious. I would need good missionary men, but I'm lying alone. Could preach to the converted solely. The musicians are playing with their pals – if there's no public, the show just gets better. Whatever happened to Johnny B. Goode?
XIV/11
As you might understand, Sir, what I'm anxious about is the spectre of boredom. Boredom is a demonic quality of the human condition, lurking in every creative bodymind. It is a virus of the soul that can devastate the fittest achiever. Light years from the gothic militancy of NEW MODEL ARMY the scene has moulded into a cacophonous requiem. Any fancy names we may give to our ever-changing styles, it all comes down to outgoing cries for relief ingeniously modulated. Begging in choirs for the exterior Leitmotiv of the muted trumpets. Since Time died, no one has it. We're shoving headlong in a pointless rush, trying to ignore our ignorance. Bliss or curse, productivity is an addiction desperately fuelled by the drugs we take. True artists won't be satisfied by going platinum – the more you get, the more you need. It is the most normal of all drives. Ambition made us what we are – the wish to please the Maker. Once on the track, there's no slowing down: when ego takes over you'd better serve it well. At the crossroad of colliding highways, where we're apparently at, informations wildly coalesce but the traffic's brought to a dangerous halt. It's a big bang in an atom. The artificial high of the supercharged nothingness is in fact the lure of infinity's bottomless pit. No choice will be good, I'm sorry to say; the best yet is to directly fly in the face of providence. Bravery is surely an asset of the strange advance. And so it goes on and on – the beat without a heart. In spite of all the emergency turmoil, the end is getting farther every day – never mind what mad evangelists try selling to the poor. The appeal of Apocalypse is our foremost commerce – its delay is a principal interest of the art industria. There's no business like show business – the sale over all. It is this sudden blockade at full speed that necessitated reality's panicky extension into virtual space in the Silicon Age. The illusion of doomsday, however, is a cunning one: the glory of technology is fatally confronted with the powerlessness of science for want of divine terror. It's a lot like the Exodus reaching the Red Sea: without the rod of moral the escape is over. Releasing a single song in ten extended versions and numberless remixes by the friendship may be fruitful exercises in probing a song's elasticity: if it can verily stand up to its original promise. But rock-and-rollwise it is a time–wasting surplus of the overproduction eliminating the original potential of social impact at 2'55". This incredible embranchment of the humble roots not really older than our grandsons has lickety-split became a required productional standard in the electro-industrial colonies paying tributes like levies to their regents. What's wrong with that, you may ask with every reason. Nothing with the acoustics, Sir, but everything with the function: dance without revolution is profoundly unintelligent. It's good to be the new ruling class, but you may not forget about the people's republic of Oi if want to turn the wheels of history. Folk music is to sing along and march to. The will to destroy is the seed of all creation and it shouldn't get lost in the new order of the house. Music is the abstract materialization of the Bargain 's actual mechanism. One wouldn't anticipate political comments from a MANTOVANI, but these retrospective prophets of all sorts of female fronted medievalist arcana overtly claim to be carriers of divine messages. They're not just fancy images like T. REX but fully identical with them dark alteregos: overskilled robots of the cosmic allegro with less awareness of their program than THE SPOTNICKS had. From martial rock to folk metal they act like real soldiers waiting for the command: ready to kill regardless of whom. That's where O.S.P. comes in. The UR is here but immensely jaded. Only a Dies Irae could cheer them up.
XIV/12
In times like these when it's harder to ruin than to build, obsession is adrenalyne for the pagan blood of the misanthropic genius. No better than the cathedrals' construction workers, we are masoning with the same mad faith for our tiny salary. Only the One turned into None by Marx irreversible. And Nietzsche, of course. The two poles of deicide. What made rock'n'roll playing it so safe after 1984 I can lesser grasp than the Gorbachev Effect. In the midst of an unparalleled Atheist insurgence all we ponder about are the excavated remains of our dismal ancestors. The warrior cats of heavy metal, let alone bastard pop, are the homeboys of Hell faking battle lust in the hall of mirrors. Tormented from pointless desire, one becomes his own bloody target of the ultimate revenge. Good guys join the army, but the best of the rest are suicidal maniacs losing the unholy war we're at with the mortal. Which is a great pity for it could as well be won now right now – I can't stress it enough. We are bright like the Noontide Sun – restore and destroy are no antonyms for an intelligent agent. We know what's good, and the good is always right. We are quite purified from the original mistake. Right and left are no longer optional of the passage – we have turned onto the vertical path where the way is up and down. No more running around like bewildered antelopes in the vacuum of Time's untimely death. The polar attraction we've been trained by throughout all those dreadful Millennia is no longer our mental concern – we must drop out of the cosmic bargain before one of them triumphs. Alliance with the dark side is no supreme treason but the silliest surrender: God was a great blamage, but to trust in the Devil connotes its consequences. Nobody likes us and that's a fact. We need the magic of the gnosis to firmly stand on an autonomous ground. The sword of humour will always defend us. New beginnings don't eliminate but incorporate their preceding ends like an escalating avalanche. Existence consumes itself and that's how it grows. The spirit reproduces but never leaves the hemisphere's captivity. It's a blackhole holiday for stranded jumpers – the terrain of multiplying reincarnations. Reconciliation with forbidden pasts is a prerequisite of radical futurism – the betrayal of the present must be complete. Machine rock's functionalist energy cult opened the gates of subrealism, letting a lot of white light irradiating the deadmakers' shadowland. As compared to pathetic doom's paralyzing skepticism – to remain within 'NOVA AKROPOLA's narrow frames of separate infinity – the industrial dance culture is a funeral of the living: march into oblivion looking forward in anger. It purifies the subjected soul from the emotional alluvia of evil love. Ego cannot enter the City of Eden. Kein Mitleid für die Mehrheit.
χ
XV.
XV/1
Though grown from the seeds of English beat, the industrial rock is deeply rooted in the bloody soil of Rheinland and that's where it proliferated the most promiscuously. The Temple ov Psychick Youth had as much CAN as GENESIS on their alternative TV. What Saxon chauvinists most arrogantly labelled as 'Krautrock' introduced a new sound-consciousness in the Euro-zone of progressive psychedelia only comparable with the impact of free jazz on the modal scale. That's exactly where the twist turned experimental, for better or worse, dissected from 200 Motels. It introduced to popmusic's glamorous warfare a Wunderwaffe of global elimination, signalling the end of British hegemony over the continent amongst others. That's where overnational socialism really began alongside the glampires' roxy music. It all happened in the earliest Seventies and won't be forgotten till anyone remembers. Though burning high in ASH-RA TEMPLE, the incontestable firestarter of the counterinvasion were KRAFTWERK of course in the stylistic sense. Meticulously dismissing HOLGER CZUKAY's ongoing esoteric curiosity they've opened a brand new direction to go against the human grain, restoring eternity's tangerine dream on the maxi-minimalist plane of digital subreality. Launching the wave that still dominates the great Noontide after a quarter of a century of intensive surfing the galactic surge. So did NEU! but on an underground level. The bomb of mass destruction dropped by FLORIAN SCHNEIDER started the most massive chain reaction ever caused by man. Trans-Europa express set the Deutschmachine in motion, and if the Universal Zulu Nation like it, it is their problem. Synthpop is a very fascist descendent indeed if sound any matters, despite the ideological camouflages it is parading in. It sets totalitarian against totalitarian with a Horst Mahlerish dialectic revisited. Genetic intelligence usually overcomes the affiliated programming. The electric body was excited to fall under the cathartic spell of synergic renaissance. Whatever you think about it, if well tuned, you'll act properly – that's a little bit of guarantee in the randomness. The Machinenwelt is a war machine and its robotniks a new regime willingly or not. We don't always do what we want. The Fatherisland's INDUSTRIAL RECORDS weren't only afterwave reproduction for an imaginary people but the aggressive union of a new trade intermixing constructivism and decadence in the atomic harmony of paramilitant revenge. A planified mutation initiated by the early sociopunks beyond left and right. The gothic factory's provided the UR a creative environment of Atheist workship: a sheltering castle in the polluted air. The Neue Deutsche Welle on the other shore was no echo this time but an initial scream of the Occident we primarily attribute to D.A.F. when looking for the main culprit. The entire wide spectrum of German industrialism from Härte to Todeskunst has extended from the technoid Kindergarten of the Weltaufstandsplan. And they're still as fresh as daisy after twenty years under the metalhammer everywhere. The kip-kop nation of industrial reconstructivists have only raised the bar, though amazingly higher. By conquering the nether lands in a comradely Blitz, they've turned all the Teutonic treachery into standards of overnational virtues. Providing thus a most dramatic finale to two thousand years of labour movement.
XV/2
On the other side of the electric fenceworks evolving from da-da-da to digital hardcore, are the Neo-Nazi punks (LANDSER; STAHLGEWITTER; SLEIPNIR): the admittedly fascist opposition with the wrong ideology but the best of music the genre ever produced anywhere. They are the German branch of Oi if we can consider nationalisms a global conspiracy yet. DIE TOTEN HOSEN are of course not it, but, you know, pro and contra makes no difference in New Jerusalem. That exactly is the point where my heart starts bleeding. These violent brood of the Z-generation are some favourite bands of mine, and it's the guiltiest of all my hidden pleasures. For they are the mainest enemy of the UR – the SA of the globalitarian Blitz, metaphorically speaking. It's always the closest one. Though genocide is our stronghold, the Idealistische Naturschutz Arbeit severely condemns racial prejudices. Our xenophobia is not anti-communist: we stand for the fall of nationhood altogether. For a much higher way of sterilization than lingual hegemony. We have total respect for guest-workers as long as they don't riot, but despise the mafias of the immigrant bourgeoisie. Cosmopolitan refugees typically remain arch nationalist in exile any well they do: homesick foreigners proud of assimilation. Nothing feels better than blood on blood. It takes at least three generations to dispose of the native genes, just to replace them with alike others. Where there was your cradle, there shall be your grave – thousands of planes in the air but it's still the major law of Gravity over its folks. Rock'n'roll at present is like sporting events where groups are coming in their national colours. Which ain't bad at all per se if you see when we live. It's good if you sing German if you are, but not as a declaration of Anti–American sentiments. The Freundschaft wasn't just a neo-socialist joke. It was pure pop only the industrial descendency could follow up on. Many Scandinavian acts use their Muttersprache as well but it's less perplexing. Anyway, anything goes as far as they can. You find hundreds of other genres on hundreds of other labels, but the great divide is between DARKWOOD and DI/VISION under the altar. The perspectives of martyrdom. And if you can tell whether SOPOR AETERNUS is right wing or left, you must be out of your mind. True angels are wingless, aren't they? It is total chaos in the people's culture – looks like a failed experiment, but don't worry. In the simple view of the much awaited Judgement, it all comes down to the individual whatever he plays. And don't get me wrong, I don't think white power cockneys are more dangerous than aliens on acid. They don't want a world war – they don't care about anyone but themselves. Their violence is reduced to cornershop atrocities on the whole. Only antisemitism holds the gangs together: the strongest bond between Aryan people no better than the Nation of Islam. Oi oi oi is immensely passé indeed, it never was futurist, but it's always a relief to see swastikas in use whatever the context. Their love of Uncle is sanitizing but they'll never join the UR's multiracist crusade I am dreaming of. They've got the attitude alright but traitors is the last thing they are. To alter anarchy into new boots and order was enough for a change. And to play rock'n'roll that's basically nigger music any rebelliously abused; to forget that nuance is more stupid than denying Auschwitz. The situation isn't worth the struggle when ABSURD must kill to be a cult band. The opposite ideology won't turn them skinheads. My ideals of Macht und Ehre are perverted with no return. O.S.P. was born as an activist of gay rights, I remember. The first thing I ever tried to organize was a demonstration against the virus. It was for the underlying fascism that the lesbians rejected us. Something's always wrong with me. So I'm carrying on as a polygamous bachelor machine. I don't wanna be pathetique too but it really hurts to be in love this way. Should I cheat and lie to seduce the Bride like a democratic candidate? Osh must be crazy. I'm nobody's man. I couldn't convince a porn star to save sex. What's more I'm Platonic like an impotent carcass, lacking every lustre. No money – no time. Let the queerskins do it.
XV/3
You don't need to wear a coat to know that it's cold. Crime is the criminal, like I always said, either he commits it or not. We'd better work on prevention than expanding death rows. The justice system is degenerated to an eyesore in the fouled service of the infernal law based on forgiveness. All those greedy lawyers will fly to Hell with their clients, I promise. Without crime there ain't no life on Earth – mankind would be extinct like dynosaurs if it were overcome. They wouldn't need a supernova to send. We are thriving on thrill – nothing but fear keeps us running scared. And no fear is bigger than the fear of each other, from the existential point of the distorted view. Psychopaths are the most favoured specie since Sophocles – prone to be studied rather than eliminated. Half of the television programming of every asocialist nation, from reality to fiction, is about homicide – only star wars match up with it in sales if violent enough. Half of the states' dwindling budgets go on protecting offenders. Felons have all the legal rights and public empathy average citizens couldn't even dream of. Not guilty until proven, released if deranged, mourned if shot in self-defence by police. Where the moral's gone, nobody knows. Horrendous the deeds may be, no crime is bigger than the crime of omission in the eyes of the Godhead. The omission of revenge, that is. Not poverty creates crime, but crime creates poverty. Killing it is all you've got to do in order to release Eros from the grip of evil. Everyone knows a crime when he sees one, but nobody sees the criminal because we're illiterate of aura. That's why the yellow star was such a brilliant idea. Something similar we should find for jailbirds to thwart the elimination of police records. Originally I proposed to oblige them little horns to wear for easy detection, but then it became a favourite toy of the new teenagers – everybody wears them now in electric red. The devil ripped me off. So I wonder where should I look for another insignia; tails would be too complicated. You see, I am working still – the darkness won't stop me. I am no demagogue but focus strictly on the bottom of brutality. Intelligent crimes concern me not. I'm dealing with the Boston strangler – the great train robber is not my court's case. The Code defines crime by the intent of the act: wilful infliction of undeserved harm. Bank robbery on the other hand is considered the greatest art work espionage can produce. Nor are family feuds and passions counted in. In my regard even Dillinger was innocent. You can't be more liberal, I presume. The big question is pretty simple if you dare: is our mission to promote rape and murder or put an end to it? The enlightened many are not sure. Unlike Veit Harlan's Jud Süss, the depictions are quite ambiguous. Martial law wouldn't appeal no potential victim. The Party's primal aim has been to separate horror and death into complete opposites. Heralding 'No More Hell' – since twenty-one ambient years. Exploitation of no one by no one. This thing I'm pushing is sheer vendetta on patriarchy sanctified by Mother Churches raised on the hatred of pleasure. The resurgence of sexual slavery we had not heard much about during the cold war is a strong signal of utter emergency. Just don't let the feminists take the care. The boys will work it out, won't they?
XV/4
You are what you belong to – the rest is an obscure mess of avarice and jealousy. Nothing's fair in love and war – the rules have been upset. Tasteful report on a catastrophe, however, shouldn't be woebegone. Wake up in the morning for the atom bomb falling won't give you the blues. The days are undermined, and no Time left to spare us. The response ought to be as robotic as humanly possible. Ours is a sinister era. We'd better get over it very soon. Let me adopt hence another point of view. Apocalypse, in the first place, is the vengeance of Eve. The bitch and the witch are no longer two babes in one like Lilith, but at a mortal combat of the real poles finally divided. The real poles got nothing to do with testosterone and gender. The neo–gothic deviation of erotica into the mainstream adulation of pain is only the Sacher–Masochist reinterpretation of the Christian ideal: the blasphemous shadow of the Lamb. It is always the easiest to blame it all on Jesus – there ain't no larger medium on the redemption market. The Sacred Word means what you attach to it; offering an infinity of readings to its followership atavistically renegade. Christ Jesus is an amorphous subject wide open for individual interpretations: the ultimate metaphor of collective identity beyond race and class. The king of kings is a personal deity for every spotless body from cowboys to drag queens. A universal model born to be consumed – drunk and eaten – whose imitation is practically inevitable. We can be truly proud of our socialist Messiah: the greatest swindle of all recorded times so far. Exploiting the ancient prophecy like a pop star, he introduced a more seductive vehicle to Heaven than the bloody vessels of the Jewish prophets had before/after him. No Bar Kochba could turn back the wheels of time again. Let alone the Orphan of Mecca whatever triumphant. The Nazarene's myth is a matchless fable of peace through betrayal that gloriously survived crusades and inquisitions, leading the confident herd to the new Jerusalem of Atheist self-trust. Why should we look for a grander master of treason when we have such a perfect nuclear reincarnate at hand for revision? We won't find a better one – it's maybe sad but absolutely true. Everyone with a heart and soul can make a private deal with his invincible spirit. That's where he broke up with the Abrahamic religions: with the enthronement of the mutant individual over the dynastic genealogy. The question if he ever lived is foremost redundant: in Bethlehem a theory was born that included its antithesis. An androgynous operation of higher intelligence. Fuck the Mother Church for she has nothing in common with the son of God. The first city we'll ever bomb will be the Vatican, so help me Osh. The reason we are here, Sir, is to put a better makeup on Time's decaying face. No one did it better than THE CULT, let's admit.
XV/5
There are so many aspects, let alone their multiple reflections, in contemporary rock'n'roll's asteroid crystal that no expert could draw a reliable map of the scene for android vagabonds. I've given up every hope of a useful arrangement – another unfulfilled promise to Bardo. The paths I'm tracing perennially delete, or suddenly dead end, or will be crossed over in no time – every route leads to the crux of chaos on the underground highway. Since at least TOMMY DORSEY, music ain't the background of history, but independently replaces the maneouvres of politics as a higher form of government under the autocracy of Time speedily a'changing. Digital engineering of sound is a huge leap from the campfire, but only a majestic enhancement of the spirit of the prairies for the urban ghettos of the industrial revolution. Irreverent music, and gospel is the root of them, reunited us with our pagan heritage, as Dr. ROBERT MOOG turned pipe organ into popcore. But it was the guitar that primarily defined rock music's evolution, disconnecting it from the moody swing's orchestrated discipline; biggest thanks go out to CHAT ATKINS for that: godfather of guitarism. It all began with the honky-tonk banjo of blue grass growing into the fatalist orgy of APOCALYPTICA. The seated virtuosity of the piano era gradually transformed into the wild boogie of L. A. cock-rockers. Little Richard stood up and The Killer could play with his toes, but without B. B. KING there'd be no JOE SATRIANI. JIMI HENDRIX wouldn't have been born without WOODY GUTHRIE's immaculate conception. The metallization of the acoustic timbre meant sheer defiance of the Newtonian universe, simultaneously growing faster and heavier. The heavier, the higher. The gift of music is our magic weapon to the war against Gravity. The catharsis is inexorable – we're strongly advised to accelerate it. The beat cannot reasonably go on without an immediate Judgement. Spies that don't surf will perish under the current. Any popular, music is a lot more than entertainment tonight – from city blues to country yodel the best of it has always been born from shared necessity. Not just hanky-panky, right? Industrial music for industrial people was a socio-mechanical response to the quick corporate exploitation of punk rock's premeditated anarchy, offering the mutant class on strike an uncontrolled environment to workship in the Eternal's factory. At its throbbing gristle it was a symbiotic style of tremendous tolerance: capable to put communism and capitalism under one total hat. Only those brute herberts remained one-dimensional. Technology abolished the last fence of the labour camp, making art available for anyone with no talent mandatory – gene-democracy is here to stay. Every blogger with a Photoshop can design his own universe, neither better, nor worse than anybody else's. It is exactly what Marx, Crowley and Warhol likewise dreamt about. You must be a moron if can't express how you feel. We are living an imperative moment of human opportunity, undergoing a complex psychotropic transformation of our specie by simply keeping track with the newest gadgets of the electronic market. It is training through play and that's amazingly graceful. Let me forget about the cybercrime of evil intelligence herewith – the free fall always brings down what comes from Heaven. Gravity sucks and swallows the divine energy; the civilization we build is vastly premature for the geopolitical atmosphere. But if you focus on the positive like Bill Gates, you can sell the world and save it too. The anti-entertainment community of the elitarian genius are saturated transmitters of the remedy from outer space. From the forgemasters of WARP RECORDS to the KNITTING FACTORY of Judaic reconstruction evolution is the king of the market. Since sequencers became the lead instrument of the new synthesis, the sonorous adepts of digital terrorism have been forcefully turning the key towards the grand opening of the Gate to white noise. Mix culture isn't simply a mutual cash machine but a bewildered renovation of the sacred structure: an idealist quest for perfection whomsoever is dictating the incidental order of the house. SQUAREPUSHER is unbearable but its magnitude cannot be denied.
XV/6
Electrock, never the less, is a limited enterprise that in spite of all its fine antics and classical musicianship can only reproduce the sensation ALEX HARVEY could cause without cybertech. Industrialism is a very protestant heresy to catholic rock'n'roll; questioning the very core of Occidental entertainment from Disco inferno to Southern rock. Its compulsive productivity increasingly needful of outlet is giving rise to new labels on a daily basis – some become generic giants of the emerging underground, others remain proud masturbatories of self-release. In a final analysis of the isolationist collective every man is a prolific factory producing his own pain. Burning away in obsessive autotrophy, never reaching the end of love. The Satanic verses only exuberate the alienation of the sonic invasion's golden hordes. Whatever spectacular the show of lights, the want of external stimuli will shine through the best designed soundscapes. The body's doing alright but what about the soul? Despite all wasted intensity, the scene looks tired like an old dictator: screaming his crazed commands no one would seriously consider obeying. Even the most totalitarian intents remain delusional gags under the artistic camouflage of an imaginary movement. Any diabolical their aspirations may be, techno industrialists don't want to seduce you like teenagers of old but torture, punish and enslave, and that stands from power electronics to the gothic synthpop of the grey power. They don't want your money and don't need your help – it is your submission that makes them flourish in the theory of de–evolution. A different currency. That's probably why they prefer to call themselves psychotic and wicked which is the last they are. How can one shout at the devil and fight censorship with the same mind is quite incomprehensible for a free thinker I'm supposed to be. HOLOCAUST THEORY is just a catchy nomen in vain hope to shock a bourgeois or two into buying the good thing. People like PETE SHELLEY are very intelligent and nothing will corrupt them – in subrealism's android domain of artificial ignorance every clone is a star of equal potential. However, the multiple transmissions diminuate the essence of the message like talking to oneself over the phone. Most remixes are amusing and fun to compare, but behind all compressions they'll reduce the distorted news to an additional effect if at all overheard behind the memorable drum and bass. The dramatic visuals of promoting the sound for sale, from fantastic realism to machinist abstraction, is only a guarantee of commercial quality – every scare and gore goes as long as there's no swastika. Every other emblem of the map is fine. Mutilated children – no problem. Uncle's carrying all the hate mankind has left. Good for him but what can I do? A rolling stone on the endless hill in Bardo's revolving labyrinth... The word without a meaning. Literally excluded from the vocabulary. I'm trying to proceed very carefully on the undulating terrain, but my compass becomes inoperative amidst the alternative magnetisms. I can hardly remember what on Earth I'm looking for. The music I want is the music that wants me – I don't wish to be given, I wish to be taken. I love the vampire. I don't need seclusion – I'm starved to follow the pack wherever they'd lead. I'm immensely tired of pulling the empty cart in the vacuum of madness like my own acid horse. Come on, ride me! I'll take you back to the garden of departure.
XV/7
Don't get me too wrong, Sir, for riding the same pale horse all the way – that's the only one I got to get me anywhere. I'd prefer to be a jockey quite a lot. I am not pushing the Departure by every association coming on just because of this overblown death wish of mine, but from the most selfish reason a defector can have. I'd like to get out of here like everyone but believe to have understood that there is no other way. The force is in the collective. The will of cataclysm. The Building is the only gate and we have to build it – the City won't descend, only the conditions. Which is grace enough. Science is our saving bait. If you don't believe in it, you're not a UR. We ought to make enormous haste – if we lose this chance now, we'll lose it for good. The faith in Osh must be blinder than ever. Nuclear reincarnation has to happen on Earth. Don't hang yourself if you can't stand it but join the few, as the slogan repeats. Though the noblest wave of adieu, luxury suicide is as strongly forbidden by the Atheist Church as the Catholic one – just from the opposite aspect. The Party are traitors of the Bargain in an overnational alliance against the mortal. Decay is perennial but impossible – Schoppenhauer didn't get right that one. Things are getting better in the dark. Present is a timeship of most limited spectrum. We'd better take the best seat by the window. Celebrities that live for their biography's sake are chosen to represent us before the Judges: tenfold more doomed than an average citizen. To conquer destiny ain't viable in a world thriving on great tragedies since documented. Every gifted spirit imitates Gilgamesh from Charles Bukowski to Jack Kerouac. Anyhow engaged, idols don't belong to nobody but themselves – it is the merciful curse of the divine: the mark of the Beast. Risen above judgement, you shall become the law. To exploit the system or reject it is only a matter of temper. There's only one soul to save and it's always your own whoever you serve. In this nocturnal era of overproduction's global phalanstery, personal cult is one's last resort to kill his ego: the last pawnhouse of redemption. And the fewer it is focused on, the greater the effect. Superstars are our living Messiahs – only the 24 would cast doubt on that. Mass production has its drawbacks: under the schizophrenic reign of mediocrity we're encountering, the qualities are levelled and one can barely distinguish who really does the shine. The Great Syzygy is like a big white light over the black hole. It's helpful to jump but gives no energy. New Jerusalem is our own design. Unpredicted to the utmost. This obscene love of the individual is the only Jesuit trait in me in the Antichristian sense. Quantity is never enough – many is none without the one. That was the story of JOHN LENNON.
XV/8
Thrown off all chains of the climatic exile, from abrasive field recordings to the melodic kitsch of retro futurism, the superproductivity of the music business sucked us like a hurricane into the eye of creation. The Blitz of World Music for two long and fast decades now introduced the principle triad of diversity-integrity-unity to the Occident, annexing alien cultures from Hindustan to Yemen to its declining civilization. Nothing defines better the identity of nations than their sonic heritage: the continuously blending harmonies of their folks' musics from Tahiti to Iceland. A confederation of sound is no longer SUN RA's Atlantidean Utopia solely but an existing evidence in a number of auditionary minds from ALPHA BLONDIE to HECTOR ZAZOU. From RAVI SHANKAR to ASHWIN BATISH. From the Quaali King to the Voix Bulgares. Extreme loyalty ranks up to high treason in the great rock'n'roll empire. We all want total peace and that's all we want, dedicated to MATOUB LOUNES. SENIOR COCONUT on another hand successfully reconciled Halloween and the Mardi Gras – the fertility rite with immortality – for the living dead of Babylon. Transylvania is teeming with tropical drag queens since TIM CURRY cross-dressed. The androgenetic input we got in '65 changed our species to a different likeness. We are point–blank witnessing the wedding of Carmen and Siegfried in a post-operatic setting. Instruments are played to make the body move – that's how it all began. It is life versus death that creates the ultimate tension of the dance. Music is charged to absorb all the transient beauties encountered by the spirit in migration across the valley – be it for adventure or deportation. High fidelity is an equal human right and space has no limit for the reverberators. But the song remains the same: Are You Hap to the Jive? Rhythm is everything in life: the quintessence of existence. Every beat is suggestive of the next step – that's what makes dirty dancing superior to gibbons' mating games. Without rhythm there's only convulsion and noise without relief. Tango certainly is, was and will be the top of human behaviour: the greatest gift of Terpsichore ever. A lot more ritual than bossa nova music also made for love. The Latin influence on Afro-American rock'n'roll is another chapter I'm not gonna write. There are hundreds of books about that and all absolutely true. The history of music is a hazardous evolution of factors lawlessly unique. BILL MONROE knew the trick. PETER, PAUL & MARY hated rock'n'roll but became inevitably part of it. Blues from Louisiana to Illinois was the original world music just not imported: the world came together to create it along Highway 61. It happened the same long time ago as swing partitioned into an Eastern and a Western faction of the jazz craze. Parallel to the rise and fall of the Weimar Republic on the old continent. Time can be preposterous. We should really get over it.
XV/9
Racial radicals and trees of families are the ancestral traps of the mortal no alien visitor can escape unscathed – we ought to be glad to belong anywhere at all. The first human beings must had been very lonely. Treason is pure madness if you can't profit from it – take me for the worst example. Normal spies remain deeply chauvinist at their heart; even smugglers work for their country. Civil wars are waged to save the land on both sides. Peace keeping by the UN from Serbia to Rwanda is proved to be a most ridiculous nonsense wasting the monetary fund. Ronald Reagan should feel very guilty for ending the cold war if he could remember. At least he is saved. America had better cleanse its own churches than crusading for Islamist oil. First we take Yahweh, than we take Allah. Politics is the cradle of filth, O Arjuna. Sorry for mentioning it at all. What I really wanted to talk about herewith was the hiphop shakedown: the Bronx' take over Harlem. It started at the same time as the anarchy in UK but became a lot more everlasting – punk revivals are ludicrous simulacrum but new rap acts earn all the respect of the elders. Maybe just a matter of blood pressure, but we are strolling in the cemetery of rock'n'roll and B-boys are its grave diggaz. In this – socio-psychological – regard the Beasties were as prominent as the Beatles, plus the destructive force. Sacking Brooklyn by the gun, rap artistry created an international community of the united minorities: a global movement of the subhumanist majority. I must be very careful about this one – I don't wanna be shot much sooner than necessary. Those streetwise toughies are sensitive like wild mimoza. And me, I'm the planet's foremost coward without a rifle. Even if you disagree with everything I say, please keep this memo strictly between ourselves. I wouldn't dare to insult anyone. Rap music after RAKIM seized all the privileges punk rock never meant to fight for – the Oi-boyz wouldn't care so much for money. Money cannot buy hate. They are fine in the pubs and loathe the fur industry. The cash from chaos proved to be very limited – unlike the new urban order. We are living in a present where everything's colliding in a universal time–clash from the oldest past to the youngest future. It may look intense like an anthill from outer space but it is in fact the ultimate stagnation: onset of the new ice age. Now we got the cold fire. Religious terrorism, pirate power, foetus cult – everything we thought we're through with revived zombified. It is so scary, Sir, I'm afraid to look at the videos. Even HOUSE OF PAIN scares me, though I really liked that one. The segregation of popular music on a racial basis was the biggest blow of the new age out of the blue. More surprising than an alien invasion. A half century after the r'n'r time-bomb fused the culture over strata, the black and white youth are reconstructing a polar separation of opposite integrities vaster than in the country era. On friendly terms yet, but that can change any time if we make a mistake whilst sampling KANYE WEST to a techno beat. Industrial rock is an Aryan affair against its own intents – it is a taboo crazy to ignore. Gothic romance and gang violence shouldn't go on one bill without risking a downbeat riot – and it's no doubt who the winner is. Electronic synesthesia, unlike the metal warriordom, also remains the last anti-supremacist power due to its traitorous heart. White boys from the Tribe of Lou always wanted to be black, but no young black teenager would feel uncomfortable in his inherited skin. Except that sicko king of pop. Of course black's more beautiful, but that's no reason to restore old school hegemonies. It is the same wall from the other side we thought demolished for good. That white man has a soul too can no longer be denied; forget about HARRY CONNICK Jr. Remember BENNY GOODMAN. DEL SHANNON and SAM COOKE were once blood brothers, neither wanting to dominate but the common market. LONG JOHN BALDRY was not dissed by JOHN LEE HOOKER. JAY HAWKINS would not scream at DUSTY SPRINGFIELD I guess. There was a Zeit when the Geist was one without discrimination. Only MOTOWN was prejudiced but they had the right. I'm not willing to compare NAS with MARVIN GAYE but something has profoundly changed the shape of things this dangerous time to have come. Sometimes words have but one meaning. Rhyming about their bitches makes gang members poets. Run, DMC, run. Golden chains are not to lose.
XV/10
I really hate them worse than dogs, but can easier listen to Scottish pop groups than geto boys – they aren't so full of love with themselves at least. And don't act like thugs when ripped off. My principal problem with the hoods from coast to coast is not the music, you see, albeit the dumb impudence of their sampling habits often drives me nuts. Music always reclaims its territory from any corner of the rotating square. USHER is as fine as JACKIE WILSON now, though not even hip-hop. Frontiers are only built to come down tumbling – the beat must go on. Nor am I particularly bothered about the lyrics whatever misogynous – deathgrind ain't any better in that hearing. It's just the sign o' the times. Pretty bad, I admit. But in my glance of a deaf-mute, the only concern is reduced to the style of the enactment. The eventual articulation of the gang starrs' body language used to express their attitude as awkward as the damage done to English orthography. The brilliant input of the MC HAMMER effect has faded to nought. Though the choreographic standards of breakdance are rising ever higher, the hip-hop revue is still the real world versus dream theatre. Though a lot more sexist than glam metal could ever be, there is nothing gay in the dropping baggy pants of jailbird wannabes. It's rather homophobic like skinheads are. Exceptions only make it more perplexing. M as a civilized Man is foremostly a motion pattern regulated in the contemporary dance moves. Its aesthetic ideals won't basically change in this aeon any more – it'll always be the backbone till we die out. Fighting for power profoundly differs from boasting with it – you'd better be modest if you are the victor. With all respect to ICE CUBE, I much prefer the war JAMES BROWN had to wage, you know what I'm saying? That fine ironical distance early heroes of hiphopracy disposably had was irretrievably buried with the notorious B.I.G. To intermingle the criminal with the outlaw is as crying of a shame as confusing fascism with murder. The blackalicious takeover is a customary succession symptom – blackmail with scars – gladly supported by the yuppie regimes' liberal ideology. What thug rap is missing to me so badly is the transmission of an image: the players are their own characters and act as they speak. You are a fake motherfucker if not living up to your credits. From that point on we can't talk about art but the mêlée of egos out for domination. The very antithesis of the counter-revolutionary mindset. Though the grandmasters incorporate everything found and stolen, to dissect R'n'B from heavy metal is a breech of the Covenant. And those that try to recombine them are the worst shit black or white. A vicious segregation has resurfaced out there, encompassing Latinos and Asians alike. It is not a racial but a moral phenomenon indeed, originating from the seminal lack of time-consciousness amongst coloured refugees of the new adolescence. In spite of beatboxing and G-funk, the ideology of the new dissidentia is light years behind THE BEATNIGS – a degeneration of unprecedented velocity into an armed conflict of ghostface killahs. Today's raputation is a scene of public duels with an entourage of millions. Everything can be negative and revenge is no exception. It'll be hellraiser if becoming a personal matter. Though rather funny watching it from without, face to face it's more Apocalyptic than the most depraved gore. The odd coalition of gangstas and rastas is no less baffling than the industrial awakening in the crypt. You really must be a bachelor of nihilism to underestimate such a unity of materialist greed: let the bad times roll. Getting rich is respectable but has never been the holy goal of creation. Capitalism is not an ideology but a method. Whilst under the ground where the values are salvaged, marginality is a rank and commercial success the highest of treason. This is an ongrowing schism that should have been overcome long ago. If the parallels don't add up but polarize, the process will come to a halt and the whole plant blow up – is that what we want? Yes, but not this way. In our rather schematic cosmic situation there's only one target and the race ain't about who will hit it first. Dreaming of extreme realities will make us disable to wake up for the trumpets ultrasonic sound. We'd better stay on vigil for the rest of the night.
XV/11
The shifting of the social gap from class warfare to the battle of generations was the probably most daring experiment the Lord of Evolution ever ventured to access on the human scale. Whether it failed or not doesn't really matter – what's important is the naissance of time-consciousness: the initial step towards immortality. With the teenage riot rock'n'roll first and foremost represented, a new nation was born anchored in age over races. It mellowed fast by the Bobbies' antecedent power-pop, but never lost its faculty of rejuvenation. And its hammer is striking stronger than ever if you can consider Satanist black metal the authentic progeny. Living up to excess became the focal point of existence for kids of all backgrounds in those Southern days. That's where JOHNNY HALLYDAY dethroned JEAN-PAUL SARTRE. The struggle goes for Eternity and manifests in the refusal of aging, as predicted. The UR will never capitulate before the evil forces of Gravity. Growing old is largely unacceptable for a member of The Party and there's no better remedy than rock'n'roll for that, even the Dalai Lama knows. Once young – always young; and that's all the trick. Just beware of future nostalgia. The beat of the Americas shook the world graver then the guns of Aurora: no Internationalé could fend it off. It meant the conquest of capitalist moral, preparing the path of a global civil war to come. Its revelationary impact, antithetic to Newton, is extending ever since in inverse rotation like a good swastika. Maybe because it was no art movement per se but the rise of the innocent: birth of a new republic. Industrial music for one is only part of the increasing reverberation of that primal scream. SPIONS always considered those Fifties the Red October of the elitarian dictatorship: the horologic cradle of consumer bolshevism. The Cosmic Bargain is a game of equilibrium and it's always between East and West in some regard. It is immensely surprising though how little influence the long march could exert on the system from within. After the cold war froze, the flow inosculated into the alternative chaos of the doomtown rats that doesn't seem letting up after two decade of feverish stagnation. 1980 was like Paradise by contrast. When new wave and disco were the poles in mutual attraction. The natural coalition of the neo-romantics' revivalist chivalry and the workforce of the industrial revolution possibilitated an unprecedented union of the trade around 1984, like a plan fulfilled. The combined input of synth and goth converted rock music into a paramilitary mission with a definitive overtone of Antichristian Messianism. Rock'n'roll is a third world over Heaven and Hell. Made in Terra by the Word of Osh. Old testaments die hard.
XV/12
To distillate the muddy waters of the celestial delta remains the critics' preoccupation and it's done remarkably well in all profiles. Retro's never a backward leap: revisiting it both saves and changes the past. Time traveling is a complex exercise of espionage, but when it comes to the new, you do not have to choose. Don't have the right to. The new is always better and that's the first law of asocial Darwinism. Rebellion is our Luciferian heritage – we must unconditionally trust our instincts. Our labour is to give birth to the alien whose seeds we're proudly impregnated by. New values often needed bloody revolutions to establish themselves, habitually at the peril of old ones, which made rejuvenescence indistinguishable from other catastrophes. Not any more. Since rock'n'roll, introducing absolute egality into the dynastic convention, has eliminated the myth of blue genes, the transition is less dramatic but the more spectacular. The astounding success of modernizing the process of selection has been a miracle of Osh – in the shortest run it defeated family values' conservative phantom, moving destruction in the foreground of progress. It happened after WWII out of the capitalist decadence so darn despised by the communist autocracy. Marxist socialism, where labour isn't just a means but the very goal itself, meant to be a higher form of voluntary slavery: a triumph of the better man. Only difference to the nationalist format was its internationalist ideology putting class warfare before racist claims. They made quite the same anthropologic mistake, but Lenin's dream was a lot more idealistic than Hitler's naive irrationalism. Work for the work's sake was a great detergent but purified no one. Only money can wash the human brains. In the counterfeit union of Soviets the youth were brutally forbidden to revolt against the institutionalized revolution. No sex, drug, or rock and roll were on hand – it was all Stalin, vodka and balalaika way back then. It all changed big time with The Fab Four, to nail it. No iron curtain could hold up the teen spirit from crossing the wild frontiers with the speed of sound any longer. With no assault needed, the West conquered it all, spreading the virus of overnationalism to all language territories of the evolutionary masses. The most victorious days since Churchill those were. A lot of circulation has passed on since on the information highway, turning the wheel of time upside down and round and round. The future has collapsed long before SKID ROW – music television only consolidated the last generation. At the present stage of the accelerating fall when good kids are homeless, justice is in the hand of lonesome school shooters no band would identify itself with. The remaining parents are younger than their offsprings and new trends die every day without resistance. The war is between tribal versus global and it really looks like a final stand-up on this high-tech planet. It's got two sides and involves everyone. Isn't it remarkable that all those famous prophets, and prophetesses, hadn't got a clue about the future we live in the global village of telecommunication. Nostradamus couldn't channel Edison or Bell – it can be but an arbitrary interpretation. Shouldn't we perhaps just forget about Armageddon and come up with something new? A surprise to the wedding guests? What I most adore in the technologic approach to the artistic soilwork is its infallible predilection for the all-systematic; even in the best fitting libertarian camouflage and not only in digital hardcore. Its best creators are those aware of building a killing machine of cool death. That's what entertainment through pain has been about: departure praxis. I don't wanna drop any name herewith, because one can never be sure in the Bardo. Appearances are deceiving in the dark. They look like shadows but in fact they're ghosts in disguise.
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
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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
_______________________________
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