888
LETTER TO=FROM BARDO
From
2000 A.D.
DEDICATED TO CHRONOS

~ in memoriam Rozz Williams ~

The Shadow of 888
Montreal, 2011
Photo: Helmut Spiel!
From G.I.N.A. Archives
©  DJ Helmut, Nova Akropola



RECOMMENDATION
(BLURB)

“The finest letter ever written on rock’n’roll,
because it’s not about rock’n’roll,
but what rock’n’roll should be about.”

(DAVID BOWIE)




FOREWORD

Rise!

Could you give me the names of industrial bands you think I should listen to?
More they are the better.
How are you?
Thanks for your Time.

Forward,
Sir David O’Clock



Chronos, sleeping on the grave of Georg Wolff, a merchant of unknown notability
Friedhof IV der Gemeinde Jerusalems- und Neue Kirche, Berlin-Kreuzberg, Germany

Sculptor: Hans Latt, around 1904
Photo: Mutter Erde

Dear Sir:
Opinions are like acnes on the mind’s face: a hereditary problem of the second skin. The most we can do is to virulently express them, letting the pus out. It’ll leave its scars but the excretion will make you feel relieved. Opinion is one’s mostest gift and you’ll always have it any below the poverty line. Held back too long in fear of compromises, the syndrome might turn into yet incurable cancer changing one’s outlook forever. The positivist dignity of a neutral spectator won’t spare his heart from breaking at the sight of beauty. It’ll only convert the neurotic patient into a paranoid alien. I hate to be pretentious, but a list of preferences, any accurate and thought-over, would only underline chaos’ intrinsic occasionality under the present circumstances of the involving overproduction. The industry music of the music industry is a speedily enhancing collapse of rock’n’roll’s self-controlled evolution, and the people of its nation are less and less definable as time is running out fragmented by the silent explosion of the final countdown. New genres are born on a daily basis as the mass production grows and multiplies and to correctly judge them would be a waste of precious time. I’m a very alert listener but there’s always something missed out on when reduced to FM Radio and no money to buy records first hand. No wonder I’ve got an acquired penchant for everything that’s cheap and become a toy of the emotional hazard. Beside that throwback, I’m an unlearned lecturer lacking every education even in music – couldn’t do the critic even if wanted to. Lacking the means for a systematic research, I only catch what comes my way in the tsunami of the erupting soundwaves. I am an illegal emigrant in the music world with no valid passport to any of its terrains. I am very obliged by your request, and glad to attempt to respond, but don’t expect no correct scrutiny from a universal refugee like me. All I’ve got is my worse luck and better taste. A lethal combination in large doses.

Living outside of society at large, I know nothing about the inner circles of the creative multitude. I can chat like a salesgirl about what I like but couldn’t bring an accountable judgement beyond good and bad. I’m a self-made outcast on the borrowed air. Neither artist, nor merchant, draped in the anonymity of a passive receiver. I am navigating on the stormy ocean of the endless sea with my traitor’s compass alone, ignoring polarity as far as I can try. Therefore I’ve decided to, in place of a simple list full of forgotten names, send you some torn pages of a private map about the dominion from my inauthentic focus. This letter will be just another portrait of myself indeed – the only thing I know relatively well. My own impressions in a personal context – secret diary of an unknown madman from the other side of the common grave. The journal of a reluctant misanthrope in desperate quest of the best. The names will be dropped or blended in the texture as references solely and not as ultimate suggestions. There’ll also be many negative examples inserted equally capitalized – you’ll have to pay good heed to the context not to accidentally pick what’s counterindicated. It won’t be a stern study for future use at all. There are a few things only time will tell and I’m not touching down to that. I’m only telling past. 2001 won’t be included any more, so it’s a bit of a testament by genre. A strictly reconstructive summary of the elusive moment from a false DJ’s distorted top view. Of course, opinions can be contagious if inconsiderably spread but that one, thank Satan, is none of my actual concerns. My addressed stratum is less innocent than elected senators of the congress – they have their unshakeable convictions from grade six on grown sedately immune to the virus of my wicked ideology’s evil propaganda. I’ll only have a stab at taking a foggy snapshot of Armageddon’s provisional line-up at the sonic gate of the 21st century, oh boy. The subjective report of an arch agent from the magnetic fields of the last decay. Thanks a lot for the bait, Sir, I’m always happy to bite into my death.

∞
 

I.

I/1
NOVA AKROPOLA, Gathering of the Self-conscious Elite, is no glamour shack for feasting divinities, nor an open house of music for the ravers, nor a sonic gallery of the decadent avant-garde. It is a dark and empty hall of the abandoned factory where beauty hails from loss and the source of power is fear and despair. The shivering presence of a heroic past’s defunct genius in rusted steel and crumbling walls. The sound of the cosmic obliteration instructing about the vanity of sacrifice. Its space  echoes the memory of the future – the industrial ambience of work and love and the collective will of deliverance from the slavery of the capital. It is the sound of war, the din of the battle. The assembly line of machine  guns. The general atmosphere I, DJ Helmut at your service, am trying to create by my meticulously composed nuclear emissions of various but select genres is best defined as martial nostalgia. It is unafraid of pathos  and violence in search of the ultimate harmony of sorrow. DIARY OF DREAMS might be an appropriate first to call your kind attention to. Another first, let’s say, is MACHINENZIMMER 412. I have a strong attachment to all sorts of metal musics too, including arena acts because they’re still underground even if unnoticing it. MEGADETH sells but its true buyers are still the outcast. Only multiplied in number, but as far of the light as evermore in the gladiatoric sense. If you wanted a triangle to the width, I would pick BATHORY for the third point. By my independent judgement everyone working hard in the black is making industrial music, and the really greatest aren’t even paid for it deservingly. Technologic revolution aside, the Zeitgeist acts from the 18th century. But it’s not romantic any more despite the make-up. Since art re-separated from entertainment in the video age officially launched in 1984, real history’s turned largely invisible. The music of the tragedy into the tragedy of music. It’s the Ouroborus syndrome of infinity’s blocked evolution. Rock’n’roll of new is demolition’s metal hammer beyond destruction and reproduction. The sound of awakening from the teenage dream. The sound of the great commandment. The sound of menace and glory. I’m not playing music that’s listening to you. I am playing music for the sane.

I/2
It is a pleasurable honor for me to be talking with you, Sir, whose spectrum of tonality would encompass the Southern Cross’s entire dominion from the Caribbeans to East Asia, yet leaving your Valkyrian roots so magnificently intact. My territory is a lot more restricted to the doomland where calypso is only the reminder of a possible past. I am a Vikingist Norseman in this parabolic context, hand frozen to the sword. I’m craving to dance too, but cannot even slaughter if that make a difference. I’m a most dysfunctional dropout of the school of life grinded between hate and envy. My star is Polaris in this metaphor: the onset of the ice age up to dated. Where the industry of return has withdrawn to culminate. The core of pop has frozen. Slowly but totally. What blooms in the mass media’s charted garden is aimless deception today; the show ain’t the same business as in the progressive Fourties. Evolution is processed under the cover of the dark: in the realm of unlight where evil dwells. From beaches to forests it’s gone. From lore to gore. It might be a catastrophe, but no reason to tremble – it as well might be the start of a new selection. Whoever could resist the call of the wild – Lupus Dei’s just wanna go home. For fear of the nature I prefer the city – I am a counterfeit saloon-pagan – but got nothing to do with the mean streets of the urban milieu either. My experiment is confined to the solitary. I much prefer to be howling with a sheep of wolves than getting torn apart by packs of lambs. They are a’changing, the times. New ghettos are getting built.

I/3
If you asked my loving bride, G.I.N.A. about her pansexual orientation towards the industrial movement of the electronic body, she’d surely tell you about seraphic armies, cosmic conspiracies, divine retaliation and so forth, due to the inherent idealism of her great work of saving man’s nature from the grip of the beast. She’d outright refuse to manipulate her objects of desire. She is running like a speeding clock, convinced since two decades now that there’s no time left to convince anybody. I, the OSP couldn’t disagree less, but cannot be so subrealistic. Beside, I’m rocking extremely slow under the heavy burden of botched fatalism. I still believe that intelligence works to a certain degree. Therefore I’m trying to be extremely careful not to precipitately affront someone. I’m hiding hard my teeth and tongue but she firmly believes the Word should be spoken under any circumstances. Anything, anyhow. Nothing’s worse than silence. It is a very fragile coexistence indeed on the embodiment level where ideological antagonisms directly turn into marital arguments. In order to save our non-profit companionship from a carnal violation of the law of taste, I’m often forced to deny my most heartfelt convictions and become an advocate of the Jewish devil I truly loathe. All I really crave for is the affection of the people, yet my baby’s inane attitude and infantile ignorance is invoking a lot of suspicion and disrepute for which I blame her alright. It’s a domestic nightmare of the lowest farce. Two fools in hate debating the right method of executing the craziest work Osh ever authored. A brave mouse and a coward rat are making strange bedfellows, don’t they? Ours is not a Martian chronicle. It is happening on Earth. The worst of all places.

I/4
I am terribly sorry, Sir, for becoming so personal so soon but wanna be very clear about this: The Party prohibits all rights for privacy. I’m only setting my example like an open window. The symbolical opposition of my institutionalized personae is, exactly because of its absurdity, a quite edifying model of the polar world at large. I am extremely skeptical about the UR when it comes to offstage. The world is a market-place finally, and only a dozen of Pierrots can balance the thin rope between recognition and integrity. It requires divine consciousness average rock dudes seldom have. Saints are everywhere but disrespect for money is a mental illness that’ll only lead to crime. Hypocrisy is inevitable in the catacombs of today’s underground. Ask PETER TÄGTGREN. Since punk – the attitude – called it a bad day, images do not mean a single real thing. I’ve stopped reading interviews with my idols long ago to spare off new disillusions. The last one was JONI MITCHELL with MORRISSEY and that’s where I should like end it. As the core hardened, so the mind turned callous. What they sing is not what they say and what they say is not what they think. Nihil is no longer a philosophy. And it’s not polar disorder but the instinctive conformism of the antifascist mind. Since professionalism restored to the throne of rocks, the garage scene has demutated. MOTÖRHEAD is amazing but a collective departure is only my mad dream, I’m afraid. There’s no space for another movement in the overcrowded house. Let alone an about-turn. Revolution is a permanence of everyday life and is happening under the supportive surveillance of freedom. Cyberia Über Alles. Changes come without hello and part without bye-bye leaving every stone unturned. Things manifest without demonstration in the imploding vacuum of unlimited liberties. No one cares to step on the brake of the Juggernaut. Do you still believe in HENRY ROLLINS? Don’t.

I/5
I’ve grown pale and weak standing in my own shadow for heroic decades of new technologies. I’m not even interested in them, to confess my greatest fault. Under my problem skin I’m an analogue brute who sees nothing but the enemy. I wish I were a Viking too in stead of this unwired intellectual with his thin white fist.  Since the Reckoning has come to its sudden halt, history is streaming in a passive mood. Reality is split into optional and it’s down to us which way we wanna go. Now that the cold war is over. Global or tribal, that’s the simple question. The chosen ones are starring via satellite but the natives keep on fighting like bloodthirsty cannibals with their high-tech weaponry. It’s a clash of times – the ultimate battle of the cosmic bargain. We need the last judgement worse than ever. The rate of crime is rocketing into the unspeakable on reality TV, yet the alternative few are lurking in them studios remixing the mix remix of remix mixes. Then make the video in a controversial attempt. Ending up live on stage to give due vent to their just anger punishing the public that adores to suffer. Creating digital chaos under the highest electric control ever established on the planet of talking apes. The picture rules but rock’n’roll, the elite corps of offensive resistance, is still the best hideway at the center of the world – the safest haven full of sex and drugs. It’s general mercy from above, if I may demystify it. Graceful survival for the asocialist  youth in the legendary role of the most favorite aggressor. But the original revolt in style painfully forgotten, the hopeful lie of Memphis sadly degenerated into the pathologic mirror of a depraved society on the interactive decline. It shouldn’t be a surprise for children of the Dada, but albeit mass produced, it is no longer the vehicle of fun; god bless the Disco. It is the devil of fashion getting naked, and its hairy corpusse does not look so good. Satan’s doing a remarkable job in disclosing his opponent and music surely is his wonder weapon, but the war ain’t between generations – generations do not exist any more – but between the taste dividers of parallel worlds. The transglobal underground is buried like an exhausted coal mine. Quality’s separated from the quantity by an extending chasm. Music television took over the culture but the truth receded in the Norwegian woods.

I/6
The chronologic end of the old world – the official death of time’s endless continuum – began under the serious moonlight of 1984 physically on the dot. Everybody was waiting for that year but no one seems having noticed what happened. No spaceship landed with the Messiah on board. Only MICHAEL JACKSON was launched to stardom among others. The computer age dawned and music from merchandize got turned into public property. It made the Zos-Kiaists return to the original roots of music through synthesized noise of power. Whilst Morodor’s children gothified pop music into the greatest kitsch ever created. As the mainstream detached from the margins, evolution’s taken on a grim mask and continued to conquer through conspiracy. Not in the theory but in the productive praxis. Never the less, by extending the labyrinth of the velvet underground, the industrial people have turned the factory real:  into the ruined temple of a new socialism. Almost everything we got today, twenty years after, originates in the enlightened Satanism of PSYCHIC TV. The realms P. ORRIDGE and PRINCE rule are really two planets in one, full of similar elements therefore. So are those of MADONNA’s or DIAMANDA GALAS’, not to forget the fairer sex. The frontlines of peace have been shifted into an outrageous disproportion in all aspects. Though the capacity incomparably increased, work and luck remained as dissected as in the 18th century. The culture of the planet is in destiny’s hand. We should be extremely grateful for BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN.

I/7
I’ve always refused to accept the artificial dichotomy of fame and cult, but you can’t ignore facts for ever. Such gap wasn’t there when the BEATLES ruled the charts. Only the greatest of the great could uncompromisingly transgress the closely guarded frontiers of new dictatorships, adapting their supremacy to the people’s taste. The majority of pop just ate itself up. The triumph of DEPECHE MODE has been exceptional but with no impact on the setting rule. The top is alone and there it stands. Exceptions never matter; there is one for everything. The terminal process of the mutant putschfest is taking the last thirty Gregorian years to finalize at the Ground Zero Hour of 2014. We are right at the middle of it, not entirely late yet. That’s why GINA is so restless, I guess. A decade is like a day around the broken clockwork we rock, and things disappear like mirages in the accelerating evanescence. We are in the tidal midst of a period when all values reintegrate, ostracizing worthless alloys from the solid gold of the Kingdom to come. Everybody knows but no one believes in it, which is a complete inversion of the mind from its previous setting. Let me tell you why. Because the vain trust we put in God so long should be suddenly transfigured upon ourselves – socialism is the arch enemy of religion. Exoterism, however, is the greatest risk of the rational mind to take – fear is a lot more convenient. Jean Genie lives on his back; they talk about genocide but are fighting air pollution. They’re preaching death but protect the unborn. The disorder is so huge, it’s better to overlook it. What I most resent in the intelligent techno is its resigned tolerance towards the collective karma. Oblivion is not to forget. Empathy with the victim shouldn’t diminish the hate of the crime. I prefer the sound of vengeance a lot, from ARCANA to DISSECTION if that’s a divisionary. But they wouldn’t call it like that, I’m afraid. And if they did, it wouldn’t mean the same. We can chat with an amazing ease, but communication is broken down profoundly. There’s no spectrum without a center. A point of gathering for the self-conscious elite.

I/8
The exuberant hordes’ incessant instigation to kill ‘em all in the most peculiar ways makes Gina naively think that there is an insurgence out there and it’s only a matter of proper channeling that it should take its right course. But the industry of sonic violence is the greatest lie ever told. Even IRON MAIDEN are robotomized warriors of a Tolkienique fiction. Since the black flag lowered, violence has become gratuitous fun, forgotten about shock rock’s pristine charm of protest. The competing conquerors would sooner join the scum than turn their guitars against the predators. Crime and revolt are walking hand in hand on the march of dimes. The 24 loves its murderers like an imbecile masochist. Whilst the epidemic of madness is ravaging the land of plenty where the law is banned by the compassionate! The devil knows what he’s doing with the bloody cross. Don’t mix him up with the Antichrist. Satanist black metallers are the last who at least are faithful to their masks, but in spite of the enormous knowledge of the ancient darkness they haven’t got a clue what they should be doing with it. The gates of Hell are wide open – forging keys is a waste of youth. We were supposed to shut them up rather – confront the chaos with a new face of order. That’s what power pop was meant bring about. That particular side-battle of the sweet new wave of both hot and cold was happily lost by 1984, though it’s still being waged by the ghost generation in the sky. Since time has stopped a’changing, everything lives for ever more. Death is dead. The venom of no future has killed the past.

I/9
At this crucial point of the thought process I’m trying to convey, I must stop for a moment and declare my war on the international leftfield too. Governments and authorities are easy targets in democracy’s liberal constitution. But the enemy isn’t uniformed or suited. The enemy are the unrestrained criminals thrown up from the belly of the Earth to terrorize the few surviving innocents of the municipal scuffle. Promoted by the media`and protected by the law. Acquitted and paroled by all means of the Babylonian jurisdiction. Serial killers, for example, are the faves of the news, famous like superstars, and glorified by the antisocial avant-garde as role-models for the Jügend. Since the Purgatory’s taken over by the Witch, common sense is removed from the political agenda. Worse luck for the civilized man. The main defect of the human specie is its unlimited capacity of accommodation. Enough isn’t enough to stop the compromise – we are standing the test of evil flawlessly. Ready for the Apocalypse indeed. Satan’s playing its last cards to frighten us numb but all we really fear is the phantom of ennui. Gravity is not a metaphor of Newton. Whilst to rise is hard and relative, to fall is natural and endless. Tools of self-defense from alarms to arms are tax-hoarding merchandize of the surveillance business prevention would lethally jeopardize.  Capitalism without fascism is worse than communism without progress. We need to instantly unite all our remaining forces against the four horsemen riding from the corners of the bewildered globe. Armageddon is not a valley in Palestine. It is a world-wide web brought to you by the Talmudists.

I/10
Any fast we stand, we’re falling on our head as the world turns upside down. It’s a miracle of the Sun we could hold on to the hollow so long. But the end is drawing near, everybody tells me so. No dignity shall withstand the subhumans’ massacre. No slaughter house muzick. The filth gets pretty spoiled by the creative spits of the institutionalized Arthead presiding over human culture like a terrible god. Yet underground is anything but a hideaway. First of all, its best only want to get over it. It’s a hotbed of treason and that’s what makes it so relevant. Without ambition you are nothing, and the bigger the aspiration, the greater is your spirit. Even if you succeed, you will never lose the original touch. If selling out ain’t the goal, you’d better make no rock’n’roll and stick with field recording. In the unacceptable face of freedom delineated by jealousy and greed, we encounter a diabolic formula of inherent recession with two abstract profiles viciously superimposed. The transcultural multimedia merger of the global mass production versus the atavistic segregation of the marginal alliance into smaller and smaller alienated units ending in the proliferation of one-man acts with their own unique universes like in the classical era. This neo-medieval tendency of countercultural paganism is completely opponent to pop art’s principles of Crowleyan stardom only disciples of LaVey seem to understand clearly. Rock’n’roll is about the ego subjected into service. It’s a redemption machine.  The beauty and the beast ought to be one couple – commonplaces are usually true. Anarchy’s still the best method of destroying the temple but only Romantic decadence can darken the wave. There’s an ORDO ROSARIUS EQUILIBRIO. Check that one absolutely out.

I/11
Reconstructing NOVA AKROPOLA, Citadel of the Socialist Kingdom, from blocks of genre-specific triplets, I’m keen on separating goth from doom, black from death, trash from power, folk from grind,  synthpop from industrial, drone from noise, prog from reg and what have you, but it all ends up in an informal bulk. Crossover is the way we go – only a fool on the hill would like to stay sterile.  Which is a most positive trend when isn’t for the gratuitous display of versatility. True symphonic black metal is immaculate, but the experimentalists are often lost in the infinity of options. Taste alone does not define the style; the selection must have its critical focus. Samples may give ideas but won’t create a concept – you must search in order to find. And beware of the traps of coincidences. It’s perfectly normal to found new schools, but when there are more teachers than students it’s an educational crisis. Swimming in a whirlpool, however, is home stretch for a fish like me – I like to be a radio amateur and wouldn’t change it for an Internet site. I’m really the oldest student of this semester. I like to inform – I’m a born informer by vocation. That’s what differs the spy from a pirate. The last thing I want is to provoke anyone, yet my aural show would be received by everybody as hostile propaganda if it were listened to at all. I’m kinda fortunate that it isn’t, that’s the only way I can do it unflustered. On an abandoned community station for ethnic minorities that doesn’t even understand English well. I don’t have to say much though – the choice of the playlist defines the host better than any comment. The bandnames and the titles become a manifesto quite automatically when spoken up by the orientation’s inherent magic. Hazard gets quite controlled if you marked your territory. I’m not alone at all, just cannot communicate with the world for obscure-obvious reasons. Only wasting my time on the air. Sometimes I feel like a metaphor. Something I don’t wanna be.

I/12
Though encompassing the width of a circle, the spectrum of my predilection is radically limited within the contemporary regions of the expanding music world. My definition of industrial music is not purely aggro-tech but embraces all the actual styles of transcendent workmanship: labour on a higher command, no matter how conscious. The line is drawn by the intent of the artist’s relation to his public. Whether he wants to please or punish them. In the best cases it remains ambiguous. In the very best case of the current 93 it is plain unnecessary to make a distinction. It’s the torture with roses where the new elite belong. Such dilemmas were unknown in the swinging Sixties where one yet had loving parents to embarrass and rules to break. When it was no question what to eventually do with your talent. Especially after the Acid had been dropped, it was no dilemma which way to trip. Though extensively branching, the river flew more united than we’ll ever be again. In the wrong direction though, but that’s another question. I wouldn’t admit if I had hardcore fans, but my nostalgia for the Sixties just keeps growing with every tremendous novelty subgenre. The music might be greater in some ways but waves only grew from cold to frozen since the year of the change. The tropics aren’t chic in the electric catacombs – the Southern Cross is defied by the Northern Polaris. No surf for vampires in the USA. I know alright everything about the psychedelic deception – the hippies proved to be utterly untrustworthy – but they were a much luckier generation than the blankened ones ten years after. And a lot happier than junkies of gore. The tsunami punk’s unexpected eruption effected is still flooding the backwaters of Finnland but the ocean’s rising will swallow all unsaved streams. Whilst the Discothequa’s gotten thwarted by mysogenous gangsters of hip-hop with their bitches, burning down the suburbs of Chicago. To invade the mainstream with quality is a miraculous achievement in the shadow of U2. I’m not surprised of R.E.M. but how MARILYN MANSON could do it is a shivering riddle. They must have concluded a pact with the devil.
χ


II.
II/1
The main backlash of the post-rock music-industry’s amoral code in all of its subdomains is the indiscriminate adoration of all things evil, as though Satan was an unconscious monster. Though there are Christian metals – the must ridiculous oxymoron of all – one couldn’t tell the difference. Which would be no problem per se if they wouldn’t mix up revolt and decay so imprudently. That the entire youth of the blackened underground is giving the horns to their idols in all genres may seem like the devil’s triumph over the peaceniks, but it’s anything but that. There is Elitarian Black Metal and Diehard Records but they’re all Nazis or racists still. They’d be the first to resist an overnational front. I’m pretty trapped, am I not? And utterly bewildered by the misinterpretations of fascism in my destitute confinement. A whole movement of militant black death, including IMMORTAL I love the most, display national socialist affiliations that truly contradict the principles of Liber Al. But they don’t come to kill the crime, they come to eulogize it. I don’t wanna miss a good joke, but why my favorite hatecore bands call themselves Sadist in unison is beyond my grasp. People that couldn’t harm a fly backstage must be advertised as bloodthirsty tormentors for marketability’s sake. Though dialectically correct and oftimes very funny, it’s the surest sign of bad times a’changing for the worse we got. The right solution isn’t, of course, to break the perfect mirror, but to amend the picture reflected. Yet social activism is incompatible with Diabolus’ tenets, so it’ll only raise more hell in the chaosphere. How Mephisto could possess an entire generation without any promise is a riddle of the sphinx. Are we more intelligent than Doctor Faustus? The beauty of Lucifer shines from the light of responsible vengeance: his self-destructive protest against the negligent miscreation. His mythic mission is to prove us ultimately wrong with the enforced help of disposable martyrs. Good people are hunting decrepit old Nazis fifty years after the victory of humanism whilst burning candles at vigil when a lustmurderer happens to be executed by the republicans. I wouldn’t believe if not seen it on TV. Now, that’s a catholic state of mind that often includes the worst goremongers. Apocalypse is here and seems to stay. By the turn of the Millennium, the dance turned macabre. Thank God they’ve spared WANDA JACKSON yet.



II/2
The concept of the public too has undergone some radical transformation in the inverted ratio of the equalizing process. On the underground plane at least, the performing units largely outnumber the potential audience. Especially in the experimental stratum. The music has changed and extended a lot, but the situation remained avant-garde. Kings of the bottom are producing noise for themselves in a knife-throwing competition for esoteric privileges. All the workers on rock’n’roll stage, there’s no one left to entertain. Whilst GUNS’N’ROSES sell out their stadiums for the scum of the town, the rebel soul is striving to survive in the empty quarter of the forbidden land. Playing it quite insane to become invisible in the asylum. This is not the Story of Johnny Rotten any more. NEIL YOUNG’s nothing but our sacred monument. Rock’n’roll can never die, that’s true, but it really wants to. The last boogie is arrhythmic and dissonant, and if not, it’s meant with irony. LITTLE RICHARD will never understand SONIC YOUTH vainly they understand him. For Elvis already The Beatles was too much. Time flies in mysterious ways. But it’s always back to the future. Life is a state of stagnation and all you have to do is to exploit it as much as you can. Yet, missing the hemoglobin of treason in their veins, the solitary knighthood don’t reveal no secret but would produce new ones. To identify oneself with his message would be a largely unprofessional mistake. Even MUSLIMGAUZE ain’t no CAT STEVENS, parabolically speaking. Nor is LUSTMORD a ladykiller. Popularity, amongst today’s populus, would be an anomaly for a serious artists like LINA DER BABY DOLL GENERAL. If you happen to hit the bloody target in the race against to road, you’ll be removed from the hall if infamy like an ungrateful student of the high school. No longer a legend of unknown proportions. Treasures tend to be concealed these days when even wolves are hiding their teeth. Immortality is the only concern of the self-conscious few. Since Lennon was shot, the importance of life has been diminishing.


II/3
In 1979 when alternative turned into psychic no one thought THROBBING GRISTLE laying a foundation. Cold only meant the opposite to power pop’s upwarming. Even there, the distance between CRASS and CABARET VOLTAIRE was enormous and not only in the electronic sense. It was a huge relief when HUMAN LEAGE got coronated. Alternative has always been the sloppiest definition for anything from the left hand path, but has lost every meaning with the indie establishment. Today it is synonymous with middle class values. Its indulgence in irony is outright disgusting since 1994. It’s a saddening stream crossing over no depression nationalism. And a typically American ideal of domination at that. Belgian independents produced excellent music au contraire. Independence is a malignant state of the mind open for metastases. It’ll make the dreamer asleep without the fascist drive of domination. Capitalism is victorious monster. Virgin is the best example indeed, but so is Century Media, let alone METAL BLADE and the blastists. Beware of me, the experimental world is another fragment; what I’m mentioning here and now is the subpop-culture solely. Formerly a home of the brave, it fast degenerated into the bathing house of the present people’s  lukewarm multitude. Swallowing the value like mudhoney. You’ve sold your soul to your ego if accepted that label. That’s the main reason to call industrial industrial and because of the sampled effects: the galactic difference of the Ruhr-Gebiet is planted in the attitude of its sound. Club-oriented synthpop is the ambitious work of Ayrean slaves gravely addicted to productivity but dissatisfied with performing the opposition. To be one’s own master is the masochist’s pride. Self-love, any tainted, is a joy beyond compare. It can equalize the mainstream and satisfy the conqueror with the domain of quality. It’s nothing of an assault or resistance, but the triumph of a parallel realm. That’s what KMFDM stands for.


II/4
When desire can’t be told from duty, ecstasy becomes the ultimate sacrifice. In this age of inclusive reconciliation, when the system sucks as ever but no one wants to fuck her, we’d be blind dogs of the light without the amazing grace of the rippling darkwave. True art originates where hate and sorrow blend. Spying upon Hell requires extreme docility. Resistance to society’s temptations is a genetic imprint of the electronic militia. No forced labour can corrupt the supreme intelligence much longer. The practical frustration, however, should not be underestimated. You may be a winged horse, but whoever wanted to bear more burden than deserved. I am not expecting bass players to from a Waffen SS – they’ve got the more important part to play. One shouldn’t give guns to these guys anyway, lest they turn them against themselves. But filling in a vacuum is an excruciating struggle. Positivist neutrality soon becomes a cover-up of inaction despite any frightening stage presence. And since the limits have been erased, it’ll end up outright promoting the crime they’re charged to at least condemn. Death rock’s general refusal of retroaction is unforgivable like a denied debt: entertaining the enemy is a waste of the gift. Good conscience should not handle it. Art is an accumulator of the human energy and trends are the steps of a ladder we climb. That’s where fashion and rock’n’roll collide and goes pop in mutual acceleration. You are an investment and you have to return it not to end up as another oxygen thief. Yet no challenge seems suffice to confront the flesh with the power it holds. The reign of the compassionate is terrorizing the fields of Nephilim. The fate of the victim is largely overshadowed by the diagnostics of the killer. And if you’re rich like BONO, you’ll be seduced by charity. It’s hypocritical enough, but a legitimate fact. Servants of the brutal truth, on the right hand,  never the less believe the best way to advance is to speed up the decay, which is creditable as ignorance but unacceptable as methodism. Not one normal soul I know of would honestly bet on winning this game. Since we know what’s going down, the most secure is to join the pack and howl. His supreme instinct turns the knight into werewolf. It can be very sweet of course, like CARCASS or NAPALM DEATH have been, let alone CANNIBAL CORPSE & The Floridians, but too easily imitable by the young ones. And just like CLIFF RICHARD, there’s no distinction between Christian and Satanist death in metal, like I always repeat. The thought is processed by the Zeitgeist and that’s our only hope. There are no more kids but we’re alright. The future is our granddaddy.


II/5
Gina is extremely sorry for those passionate bright young things craving for war, as they proclaim. She’d like to see them all lined up in her personified uniform under the flying flag of the global counter-revolution ready to kill the peace-crime. She doesn’t understand the difference between image and personality. Rock’n’roll shouldn’t be so dialectical, she would say. If there is a din, there is a war. There is MANOWAR, there is BATTLELUST. Her idealism is breaking my best nerves, and is an inexhaustible source of our continual arguments. During all these years of self-deception, I have grown callously skeptical about the devil’s market. No, we are evil and wild, Vikings on IPod, painted and virtuoso, but we are not made to serve as an army or its fraction. We are ready for brawls but not brave enough to fight. That’s the brutal truth. Better pray than grey. They couldn’t figure to become something else than themselves in such a vulgar manner. The problem with me is that I’m gathering for a party and not a sect. That’s the only reason I added "The Atheist Church” to the Pedigree. I’m trying to think of everything for the sake of form, but that’s the farthest I’ve ever gotten. I’m a theory without praxis disabled to communicate himself. I’m not motivated to write more songs about zombies and vampires named after the Map of Tolkien. But after all that’s exactly what we, The OSP, are: an embodyment of the collective mythology. Jung, the foreman, should be proud of us. There’s no such thing as ‘Antichrist’ – it’s the archetype that wants to live. It is one of our functional capacity to give divine births. In our gene democracy any whore can – you don’t have to be a virgin. I hope you can see, Sir, why is my problem so awfully complex. I am a walking anathema. I’m sleeping from impatience and can only read whilst defecating. I could never contribute a thing to the process I process. The Party  is my only chance to make myself useful because I’m simply no good for anything else. That’s the Ace of Spade of my bargain. The key to my personal redemption. I mind nothing but my own business. The impossible must be tried, I’m with her there absolutely. But I don’t care so much about the result. I’m not moved by helping anyone. 


II/6
One does not need to become its mirror to face chaos clearly; you can as well resist if disliking it. The problem with the last generation is the love of anarchy. That’s nothing new in the history of rock and roll, but since punk turned into trash, the spirit of devastation’s reigning over the wasteland. It includes everything worthwhile from gothmetal to dark ambient but the true founding daddies were TESTAMENT and SLAYER, to name two. The contest for public is an all-you-can-do wrestling of giants using alienation, revulsion, and torture to gain their buyership. When the pageant goes for who can be more vile and sordid I can’t lightheartedly talk about just progress. Maybe I’m too old to follow, but it ain’t my teenage dream. If murder can be fun, you’d better count me out. My revolution is counterclockwise. You murder the murderers, boys, I shouldn’t be the one to tell them so. But iron justice is certainly the last thing they ever thought needing and it’s a mind so hardened no reason will break again. If I had a hammer, maybe. Blame it on Immanuel Kant or Abbie Hoffman, the confused minority would tremble with abhorrence from the notion of Law and rage against the machine gun club the overnational front invites to join. They won’t get fooled again and nothing’s more explicable. We are experienced. So why am I to want what cannot be, that’s my only question. If I show ‘The Poster’ they ask me, “What is crime?” And if so asked I cannot answer it. I shut up and start gazing in the ashtray like caught bending. I’d like to instantly leave or scream at least with dignity, but I get paralyzed to react. My ass gets glued to the chair, my hands start shaking, and I turn noticeably aggravated with tears of hate and nose flowing. Behold the leader of the solitary. The Star of New Jerusalem. I can’t genuinely argue with my bigger brothers who know everything much better than I ever will. Gina says, I’m craven and indolent, but it’s much worse than that. It is my very will that’s run dry in my mouth. I’m a converter by mission but would spit in my own eyes if changed somebody’s mind. To convince the enemy is next to date rape. It’s too late to repent, let’s face it. We had enough time. The people I’m dreaming of is an existing brotherhood. Even if you take no prisoners, one cannot kill another man’s ego. It’s everyone for himself, really. Conversion should go step by step but it’s never been my way. I’m no creative traitor – do only what I have to. What I can. What a genetically disadvantaged and biologically misprogrammed exiled subrobot without qualities can. Unlike my straightforward spouse, I truly would like to, but have no nerve to manipulate even the most stupid. I’m looking for the Bride ready and adorned. But the closer it gets, the greater is the distance. My universe works dangerously inverted. I am an antimagnet that can only repulse. I am dropping my vision of reorder into the bottomless whirlpool of freedom.

II/7
Me me me me me – that’s where the party ends. An incorrigible antithesis, am I not? Any high I’d intend to soar, it all comes down to my personal folly no ideology can conceal. What could I talk about with native urbanites who can’t tell crime from sin? When the Word gets baffled, silence will descend. I’m not a homeless samurai but a neurotic intellectual bum of the world. Looking for a new race to unite. Maybe I’ll never make it big, but I will surely die as the first universal refugee in the planet. Harrowing of Hell is an enticing mission but fairly impossible if you ain’t Tom Cruse. I’m acting in a Woody Allen movie, but neither funny, nor charming. Just a destitute asshole with no head. The more objectively I’m treating the necessity of my alleged position, the more eccentric my overview appears in the green eye of the witchery. To be taken for a fool is my only safety. Who am I to teach moral to Satan, now, tell me Sir? But G.I.N.A. wouldn’t leave me alone. There is a cosmic catastrophe going on, she’s screaming at me when losing her mind, like I was uninformed. She completely forgets that I’m the primary target here, any impotent and disengaged. I’d be a Rasputin or a Milarepa if I could make miracles. She calls me a helpless monster, and how could I forgive her when she’s absolutely right. Albeit equally futile, it’s still better to avoid analyses in an endtime like this when all theses collide than try to give a sense to the struggle. Static like a rock, I’ve happened to reach the splitting point where cannot bear my own taste any longer. I do not doubt in my infallibility, I’d never change my preferences, but would much prefer to have different ones. I truly wish I’d like another kind of music than depressing doom. If I could like rap, just a little bit, everything would be fine. But there’s no diversion in the poor man’s world. I keep my fingers crossed and my fists  clenched, but can’t raise my arms even for self-defense. To be giving salutes is quite a fancy daydream. In the grip of the focus I cannot look away. Can’t even blink twice. Mesmerized with horror, I’m addicted to the daily news like kids to video games. That’s my unreality. Beauty is pure pain – I can’t take a speck of it. Looking into the hot darkness of the raving void, all I can see are the smiling faces of the Fiend. The horndevil wagging its tail. Where is the judgement according to Baphomet? Justice has become categorically criminal. 

II/8
I can see myself very well from without. On bended knees before the Altar of None. Gutless warrior arrested by the demon police. I wish I were a junky at least who doesn’t have to make amends all the time. I know self-loathing’s fashionable for radioheads,  but I’d like to love me more than anything. I’d rather be a Rastafari jumpin’ for Jah than this snowwhite Mohawk breathing his name in vain. Everywhere it’s bad but nowhere is the worst. All I ever wanted was to belong. But ended up without a single friend to help a little. Solitude is the ultimate home of the universal refugee. That’s why I designed The Party: to connect with the overnational misfits. But the boys, let alone the girls, didn’t want, need, or love me for that matter – after all the courtship, I’m henceforth the single resident of the House in the Air. The only member of the Institution since 1984. The most secret agent the world has ever unseen. Singing couplets about love and hate for the moment extended longer than the whole history of the Third Reich. Championing a conspiracy of the self-conscious elite. Whilst in fact all I’m doing is cleaning the cell I call home like a compulsive Hausfrau, praying my bitch brings home some money from sex working. C’est pas la vie, I’m pretty sure in that. This is a letter from a crypt, dear Bardo. Dracula’s Testament. I have brought a decision therefore. I’ll write this recommended eMail at least informally open, as a sociologically correct diary of my relative life in NOVA ACROPOLA, Ministry of Industrial Espionage. The story of the world’s least listened DJ. Edited to upload it on my radio emission’s blank website readable for erroneous visitors. Like another bottle to the same message thrown into the electric ocean. And now, something completely different. Papa has a brand new bag. The Author is a goddamn humorist. And nothing I hate more than humorism. This critical monologue will have neither gossip nor lesson to it. Won’t be the Nomicon as planned, just the wandering of a lost host in the jungle rot. Don’t bother to save it, Sir, if you don’t mind. Its getting sent is all that really matters to me. I’m not afraid of violating the secrecy of correspondence – virtuality is my Lebensraum. I haven’t gotten a proof about my existence so far, so I’ve grown immensely suspicious of my galaxy. If at least I were formally rejected! But no such luck – I’ve been left unanswered all my lonely life long. All my messages I receive through the radio. I hear them voices in my tank, no telegraph could be more personally addressed, but they can’t hear my reply. It’s terrible to be a ghost, believe me. I should have never died.

II/9
The Unitarian idea of one world, enough for all of us, promoted since the concept of The Map, is only a post-hippy slogan of world-beat fanatics today, with no will to power behind it. I can’t imagine what Lennon meant. All I know is that without a global counterrevolution nothing can be done. It’s easy. The state of the union is an abominable mess including LOU REED. He’s at least normal. I’m not a race enemy, Sir, but a subrealist. Since the birth of the media not so long ago, humanity’s got a new mother and it resides in Hollywood. She’s like the second nature of Planet Earth and alike uncontrollable on the large scale. Rock’n’roll’s been giving us the deceiving impression for a half century now, whereas the kids of the world were united alright. That the sonic imperialism of the best folk’s music subjugated all nationalist antagonisms. I for one believed with an absolute certainty that punk rock annihilated genetic borders and heavy metal conquered the class society. And the noise we feel is the sound of the universe. Latino rebels and governors equally worship MADONNA. Both Koreas revere the King of Pop. You can get by if you’re a perfect sailor even on the top. But it very much seems I was only dreaming in an intoxicated sleep. The awakening is rude but I deserve it. The fact that facts are not true any more is a devastating illumination. When it comes to Kosovo, the whole mirage of insurgence disappears in the vault of the margins. And the Bronx ain’t no West Side Story either. Let’s get real, boys, we’ve been miscalculated. We can sample and loop, rave and trance, speed and trash, distort and console, experiment and reminisce, solace and scare, twist and shout, but the entire digital warfare wasn’t enough to beat the beast with drum and bass – redemption remained a privilege of the prodigy with no acute influence on mankind’s atavistic instincts. Operation Techno spectacularly launched by TUBEWAY ARMY among others could not purify the bad vibes of the blood. Nosferatu’s enthroned and reigns over the civilized world. Every little pagan wants to be a vampire.

II/10
Cosmic status granted, the Global Village is more divided than the Roman Empire was. Since the gap of generations is filled up, the chasm’s moved within and multiplies by metastases. It’s a new phase of evolution’s original crisis adapted to the modern world: organic life is a cancer titans fight to stop before we spread it. That’s the core of the human problem. There’s no life outside the Earth in the form we exist. I know it sounds like saying the Earth is flat but hasn’t been unproven yet. I am proudly reduced to sensory perception. Haven’t seen anything unidentifiable so far. I’ve been very bad at school in everything, but I’m not amazed of the situation at all. We are plastic people with a tribal heart. Transcendence is just another word for bloodbath. The ability of annihilating ourselves makes our race divine. Which would be a welcome stage of the rise if not even NUCLEAR BLAST RECORDS were professed anti-nukes. Everybody knows that control we can’t. The music is great but even ZOTH OMMOG is full of contradictions. Nobody comprehends where we should be heading. Not even STAALPLAAT to suggest a third big one to inspect from the Ruhr-Gebiet. The Elohim treat us like their decaying meat puppets despite the death cult we successfully restored. You won’t stop the Juggernaut if jumping before it – it’ll anyway get you even if you ambush. You’d better climb inside and learn to drive. Only a collective epiphany could clear up the fog of the garden. That’s what The Party was established to anticipate. We can’t obtain independence as long as mingled with the chaff. It’s the chief condition of the Covenant. Life is a wipe-out. During those dark ages of Warlords we could not do it well – evolution happened through racial domination. Today it is defined by the technologic prowess but the arms race still goes for occupied territories like in the Neolithics. So where is that supremacy they are talking about? If we are chosen why don’t we profit from it? Gravity is the arch enemy of the organic infection but can be chained by science. All the madness of the ages could be cured in the spam of a single generation if we dared to remove the 24 from the Board of the Purgatory. Worst thing first. We are running to cut the evil at its roots. At the moment of a zombie takeover, the main enemy is not the bourgeoisie per se. Only its principle of forgiveness. The grey offensive of divine terror will hang the devil and burn its witches like we’ve always done. But this last time we’ll make a difference, I suppose. We’ll choose our adversary very carefully. Our target is the killer in the home. Not a foreign country but the closest neighbour. The UR is a street-cleaners’ union. The secret police of the urban warfare. A solidarity of born-again traitors against the everlasting distress of geo-political hostilities. We are to recruit the deserters of the world. 

II/11
The famous crack wherefrom our favorite horrors are crawling out is an ever expanding aperture lethally increasing the tension of the void. Our culture is no longer balanced by the polar stretch of  tradition and avant-garde but entered a brand new dimension of the cosmic procedure where infinity rules sans restriction. Since Edison pilfered the secret of electricity from the gods, our relative evolution’s accelerating with a speed Newton couldn’t have dreamed about. In spite of speaking different tongues, the tower is rebuilt stronger and bigger. They can always destroy it again but the ambition we acquired will survive the Apocalypse like Mad Max. In Nomine Homini, the cyberpunks will fight back. The black collar worker class of Babel shan’t be overcome. The Atheist Church of latter-day immortals will protect the afterlife of the elect. And so back and forth. Sorry for twaddling out these platitudes all the time, but I’ve got nothing better to say. False prophecy is all I can offer to the guilt-ridden. I kinda believe in the human capacity to crush the forces of darkness with an iron fist. Irreversibly free, it all depends on which-a-way we wanna go. We’ve obtained the right to choose and it’s terribly premature. Without a guiding star of providence, we must maneuver on our own devices across the killing fields of the hazard. We are treacherous and faithless. Ready to face the most depressing revelations. Albeit sentenced and forsaken, our vital remains will never subordinate to the mind of the flesh. There’s no end to decay without a violent new beginning: the cleansing fire of a tabula rasa. We must become very smart to overlook the traps of enlightenment. Know who we aren’t. To become a spy on his own nature, one has to lose the chains of his chromosomes. The future belongs to the individual and it’s always been like that. There’s no Leninism without Lenin. The power of rock’n’roll is its ability to renew and recover. Its inherent penchant for the unique. When things seem getting lost there’ll always be a VENOM at war with Satan, confronting POISON. The metal universe has considerably enhanced since the nucleus of the ‘Black Sabbath – Led Zep’ dichotomy. It’s so large one just cannot take the width of it. Without a sectarian preference we can’t exist any more. That’s why renaming genres is so important when every pupil comes with his own school. Reminiscent of the era of movement, we are trying to navigate by the broken compass. VENOM was the point where punk turned into black death versus the hard core. Then came NAPALM DEATH and THE FALL was no more. 

II/12
Between the media of the masses with no taste of their own and the alternative scene degenerated to slackers’ brawl there is this nowhere land wider than all extremes: the House of the Raving Youth. It came from Chicago and Detroit but found its home base in the anarchist UK. Though lost a lot of strength as growing older, the party that sprouted energy drinks and ecstasy is henceforth going wild and exotic in the fascist hypnotheque of the Goa. Though only an extended derivative of the Puerto-Rican Discotheca, it was the only competitive counterculture of the 80’s combining industrial revolution with the electronic retrospective for an apolitical demonstration of nihilist power. And of course the jazzy rehabilitation of acid making both deep and hard house happy. The techno democracy extended the Saturday night fever into a virtually perennial celebration of pure living, turning ritual partying into a hardest of workship for the Z-generation meant to be the final. It raised the ceremony’s self-made masters to the stardom of shamen with an artistic rank higher than what they would actually scratch. Changing trends faster than you could say no, from breakbeating minimalism to downtempo dubstep, no ideology was needed to return the lost sheep to the aboriginal source of the trance. Acid house created a most natural environment to digitally freak out for the mentally homeless under the benign control of the high priests of parallel transmission tuned to 3 AM eternal around the globe. As THROBBING GRISTLE grew amphitheatric, saving the post-aesthetic values of the glamorous bunker from the demolition hammer of the equalizer, electronic body music revived the cold wave’s frozen soul with no ice melting, which was a magic feat of the androgynous stratagem radically prolonged. Peace restoring over the fields of war but no love implied, the jungle of raving mads, however, is a far cry from the protestant input of STRAWBERRY ALARM CLOCK when it comes to the social impact of the timelords. It’s been a dead generation’s artificial dream from the Temple of Psychick Youth onwards, vainly holding on so vigorously to the imagery of destruction. At its cheating heart, tekno haus muzick, whatever intelligent and proto-fascist, prompted no revolution at all pro or counter, but a revamped escapade through better and better vibes of renegade soundwaves. From the particular aspect of ‘NOVA AKROPOLA’ never the less, the underground mainstream is no terrain of the martial offensive of nuclear reincarnation. NINJA TUNES and trip-hop lounge are no welcome addenda to the majestic ruins of the demolished factory. My cornerstones are MESHUGGAH and DARKTHRONE to stay in the same country. Or FUNKER VOGT to DIE KRUPPS by the other axis. The circle extends from doom-metal to synth-pop, and it’s wide enough by any standard.  Sometimes we must sacrifice our burning love on the altar of cold hate. They may insert once or twice, but PET SHOP BOYS and JANE’S ADDICTION are no regulars of the industrial gathering.
χ


III.

III/1
 We work and love in a dangerous terrain at this age of grand omission. NOVA AKROPOLA, where the Sun never shines, just because of its actual subject matter, could easily be misinterpreted as promoting the darkness it puts on – if the enemy were listening. I’m in a fortunate situation having no listeners whatsoever. Not tempted to compromise with my tiny record collection. I can play NSBM and call it so any time, despite my utter disaccordance. It is far the best music to disagree with. The latest and strongest bulwark of rock’n’roll doomed to survive in the catacombs. It was its previous host who passed me his mike when he got too bored of playing obscure music for five friends - but I don’t have five friends either; not a single one. If you don’t believe it, fuck off! That’s the story of an itinerant stormtrooper. My great rock’n’roll truth. I pay a yearly fee of $15 to the station for the rented air. It’s actually a very low price to buy freedom of speech, but for me it’s a substantial sum with zero return indeed. Plus the bus tickets. It’s a weekly symbol of my overall situation of the perennial dispatch. Helmut is a gutter DJ, so I play what I am. Eventually, I needn’t say a word of my own – the choice of the playlist defines the contents with no comment necessary. The names and the titles become a manifesto quite automatically, like a self-edited poem, through the hazard under focus. Each ninety minutes is built from bricks of triads, painstakingly selected under various precepts. Mainly by genre equivalence systematically transcending throughout the showtime in no particular order of sequence. But there are also special sets on some informative pretext, plus the weekly archives ranging from blues to punk classics and rarities. Though never premeditated, there’s always an auto-generated thematic decodable when re-listening to my documenting cassettes which I like the most to do of the whole dying course. This subliminal magic is strictly demystified by the increased probabilities of limited orientation. I’m fusing the endless fission into a tendentious little bomb that could blow some minds if correctly dropped. Imagine a radioactive emission combined from progressive gothica and martial reconstructivism. And graciously bereft of fill-ins – the radio does not compel me to play ads or station ID’s for which I can’t be grateful enough. The only condition is to do it in broken French which I’m glad to. It’s another comfortable layer of camouflage. Yet I feel better alone with my technical difficulties. I don’t take calls, don’t give away tickets. Don’t promote, don’t announce. I don’t even invite guests any more. I’m doing it all for myself like the last man on Earth. It’s the dusk of Aquarius.

III/2 
Mediocrity no longer a drawback amidst the impersonal professionalism technology offers today to every motivated body with ever increasing affordability, we hardly have any measurement left to decently orientate in the infinite maelstrom of overproduction. That’s the crack of democratic socialism wherethrough the phantom of greed insinuates everywhere. The cleanest stayed the ghosts of the underground; I’d call every family of it the Current 93. Unlike the little hypocritics (!) of the indie grapevine, they are the true warriors of independence deserving the gratitude of both Teutons and Vikings. Originally a desperate attempt of the underrated, self-releasing is the highest ranking effort in our advanced capitalism. It started with the cassette generation of the afterpunk-contra, but the technologic blast radiated it world-wide when the counterrevolution got computerized.  The copies sold might still be most limited, but the – usually immense – output is enough for the longevity the immortal so badly desire. The experiment industry’s greatest works come from one-man superunits on their own labels taking care of everything and the business. This new-found segregation of the individual genius, rightly defined as an isolationist movement, will straightforward beget the  proliferation of personal cult every working artist equally deserves. Although the solitary shepherds are pretty alienated without a sheep behind them, the electric dream is so intense, they usually wouldn’t notice. To kill the sense of reality is conditional for the less fortunate elite of Apocalyptic rock’n’roll. On the conscious plane they do not care at all. There are dozens of new festivals for anything to make one feel the god he is behind turntables. When the slavehood returns there’s little time left for contemplation. For if you force yourself, it’ll bring on your suicide. This is not the hopeful era of THE POLICE. Ever since, ambitions are diminishing. Though anyone would sell anything in a promotional frenzy on the net, there’s a deep despise against the market-oriented – those that made it by fucking with Fortuna. The shadow warriors counter-offensive is dignified acceptance of the socio-political destiny and the whims of evil hazard. The greatest ones, of course, wouldn’t mingle with the chaff. Which is not a choice indeed but a matter over mind. What you gain by that artificial challenge is spy-consciousness: incognito becomes an esoteric state of illumination. STEVE IGNORANT is a good example, though he wouldn’t know. Surely better than BILLY BRAGG for that matter. Integrity protected with fierce jealousy, mass anonymity becomes a most comfortable habit of creative survival. Certificate of non-compromising. The canopy of the underworld is swarming with dead stars. Where rise and fall are simply indiscernible.

III/3
Something economically brand new is happening to the livestock of multiplication’s supermen. Non-competitiveness on the alternative scale, defying the spirit of the Kapital, doesn’t effect the quality of the depressed loner’s ever increasing output. It’s the alchemist balance between quality and quantity – the Salamander of Nirvana reanimated. The purest state of addiction - freedom in the vacuum. Shining stars like MOBY or LASSIGUE BENDTHAUS always emerge yet to transgress the demarcation line, but their acquired fame, any greatly deserved, is strictly academic. Evolution is accelerating towards the final impact and nothing resonates it clearer than the sound of music. What goes around comes back in narrowing cycles as ailing Time loses its power over the death march to infinity. ENO has nothing to do with it any longer, he’s better concerned about the orphans of subhuman wars like genetics were an uncanny legend. You can’t play it insensitive, can you? Conscience is the serpent within. Foul play is forbidden at the adult station. What the sound forgery seems having forgotten throughout the obsessed quest for the ultimate effect is the rhetorical importance of the cosmic robbery ritualist art should primarily be about. Modern technology evolved to reproduce the most natural sounds in an elevated synthesis can easily create an artificial dream-state where harmony and dissonance are wholly interchangeable in both the physiological and the emotional regard. It is a perennial warfare with the demons of disintegration waged from WENDY CARLOS to KARLHEINZ STOCKHAUSEN. The sound of the inner spheres is not a collective affair like RICKY NELSON but the headlong dive of JOHN CAGE into privacy – and those are the best who can make such a fusion. The least experimental ones, like DEUTSCH NEPAL or RAISON d’ETRE. Anything from COLD MEAT INDUSTRY to OLD EUROPA CAFÉ and affiliates. It’s a whole frozen empire from North to South. A global steelworkers’ union of an undeclared crusade. The emergence of dark pop that surely dates back to THE CURE at least by New Style has opened an entire hemisphere for the orchestral maneouvres of an ageless youth born with the wisdom of their ancients. That’s because we’ve got the final summoning here as so perfectly rendered by the great SILENIUS from Straussland for instance. Miracles are happening all over the web of the Lord’s garden-spider. The discoloured melancholy of the extensive margin’s malevolent brotherhood is quite another grey world where the metal industry is confronting gothic aggrotech in the nuclear alliance of a regressive Utopia’s medieval folklore. And it’s all pagan, be it for the devil or the Christ. The Lord of Atheism needs little introduction.

III/4
By its numinous ideal, rock performance ought to be a battlecry amplified: mortal combat between the few and the many.  Its magic generates from the thrill of triumph since the rebirth of the will. That’s what’ll always distinguish it from classical music despite all philharmonic inclinations - the attitude of the training. The ulterior motives of the well-disciplined ego. The reign of charisma over talent that made VINCE TAYLOR so relevant. As an aboriginally protestant medium, what Alan Freed finally named was a vicious cocktail of adverse elements in the inverted complex of innocent revolt – and throughout all the darkening ages it has never exhausted that redeeming fire. It’s only become more and more aware in the following generations facing new crimes as the world is turning. The line from dance craze to black death is straight like poison aero addressing the heart of the enemy. We count rock’n’roll from the moment entertainment turned into riot on a legitimate basis. On the white side it’s about the years of JOHNNY RAY. The devil’s music is composed for temptation. What differs it from its folky roots is its engaging propaganda of sin from JEANNIE C. RILEY up to MADONNA, to talk about the weaker sex once in a while. It is a moral campaign, not only kids around the block. An adorable experiment with subversive intelligence. The tastes have multiplied a lot since THE ANIMALS. However, heavenly ambience and screaming bloody gore are equal invitees of ‘NOVA AKROPOLA’ at the harrowing of Hell. I’m trying to light a candle in the downward tunnel’s Luciferian darkness, Sir. No spirit will fall again for the lies of the Sun. Illumination is a nuclear infection from below irradiating the soul of the martyrs. The photosynthesis of the mind. The dark stars that still want to shine must descend to the deepest valley for their gold exchanging pain and suffer. Not as much as RICKY MARTIN but fairly more profoundly. It is always beneficial to know whom you are fighting with. Metal’s greatest virtue from hair to trash has been its ceaseless perseverance. CHUCK SCHULDINER was picked to exemplify it.

III/5
Never the less, pro or contra, there is a foul taste to the freedom acquired. To tell the child by its name, it emanates from the unison obsession with murder of the brutal sort as opposed to hiphop’s rivalrous showdown. Metal machine men seldom shoot each other but are much filthier at the bottom of their ass. The pageant goes for desecrating the dignity of life. The farther you go, the wider the market.  The beast sells no less than beauty these doomy days – actually, they’re sharing the same shelf. Though there’s an entire wave of medical orientation for Hell’s ardent surfers mocking at the mortuary, the grand majority is into torture killing. Unusual forms of execution – like impalement, disembowelment, decapitation – are most popular terms of the dictionary of bad vibrations in the Demonarchy’s land of dark fantasia. I know it’s comic strip, I’m not a bigot, but it also happens and purer depictions will not help to halt it if they wanted to. IMPALED NAZARENE just makes me more psychotic. And ROTTING CHRIST more paranoiac. To howl with these evil motherfuckers is masochistic suicide, but what a loneliest wolf can do? The ratio between quality and extreme is direct as an index. Just take EXHUMED for one. Violence is the quintessence of the race for infernal glory, and the best death in metal comes from the neo-conformist wish to repulse. ‘Cause true attraction draws thru repulsion since the magnet went crazy. No pain - no entertainment; the values of show business have been spiritualized. If you don’t like mutilation, don’t wanna be a guitar hero like ALEXI LAIHO. Playing menuettes at the headbangers’ ball is a gallant gesture requiring extreme cruelty. FRANK ZAPPA may be laughing in his grave but THE BERZERKER is not the same funny as the BONZO DOG BAND was. It is mind-boggling to see how wide rock’n’roll expanded the circle. The main problem with the children of Bodom is their ignorant mixing up of terror and horror. Pop saves the day in Tokyo but Odin is not the father of Dracula any bloodthirsty a god. Lustmurderers and alien zombies are not on the same bill of rights. Add to it the infantine flagging of genocidal tendencies falsely attributed to Satanic influences and you’ve got the map of chaos for the distressed wanderer. No wonder I’m closing myself in the panic room of ‘NOVA AKROPOLA’ with my fascistoid idealism, in order to escape the Mexican prison unlike poor David Zack. Crime won’t kill the crime, just makes you an accomplice before the Judges largely Antichristian. I don’t think it was dilemmatic for SIMPLE MINDS yet. STEVE ALBINI confused us.

III/6
In the virtual realm of Dadaist rock’n’roll’s adult dreaming, the main enemy of any honest performer is his beloved public. The struggle goes for conquest. We are shouting at the devil. It’s a conviction praxis only the greatest stars can execute in style. You have to be a rope-dancer over the valley. There is a great progress noticeable in that pansexual relationship though. In the golden years of the eternal past, when the show was business, the RAT PACK knew no limit in making them public crave for more fun. Despite his public image, Sinatra was Mr. Oblivion on the concert stage. With the onset of rock’n’roll the manners of the assault have profoundly changed. Music became a sporting game and every roused rebel a potential champion. It reintroduced ritual to the stage and transformed dancing into a political statement. Obviously the greatest intervention since the enlightenment and that for everybody now in our genetic democracy. The virus of the artificial mutation was extremely powerful – pride and joy of the accredited Elohim. Competition through revolt needed a different kind of love than the prototypical class society. Let me just remind you to JERRY LEE LEWIS, Sir. Though quickly softened down to Bobbys by the executives, the urban folklore’s spirit of renewal could never be depressed again – the conflagration sparked in Memphis keeps devastating the whole civilized world including the Arctics. Since beggar’s banquet the independence of youth culture is formally constitutionalized. There’s no real time-gap between THE STOOGES and THE WHO in that regard. Punk rock finally nailed the attitude into a movement of anarchy giving all the power to those who blame. Laying the foundations of the VIRGIN empire on the right hand. But in the gutter of the deceased the dirty rotten imbeciles are still seducing us with hate giving no shit to the ELVIS COSTELLO story. The constellations alter but the Law remains the same: as long as Crowley rules nothing’s ever sacred. Where there is will, there is triumph.  Democracy can be manipulated. The Bargain’s deal is very correct indeed – if you need it, you’ll get it. Mars is at your desire. We live in a material world with no litigation. The SEX PISTOLS reunion gag was another sweet spit in immortality’s face. Revolution is a spooky ghost but will serve Aladdin well as long as he’s sane. Since the Kapital, amoral by nature, learned to see the profit in its own demise as sagely predicted, monopolies sooner incorporate the alternative market than letting it be. We got a system which likes to fuck with us. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone gets spoiled somehow sometimes. Earth is a marketplace of transcendent values – fair exchange between two dimensions. Reality ain’t worth to be challenged. Shame on you if disaccept the ethos of temptation.

III/7
To fear from the exploiter is an obsolete feeling. Let alone Antisemitic. No one got corrupted yet by a major label; if there is a problem it must be you. The hate of giants is inherent with dwarves. Selling out is the name of the game; you’re an indie geek if don’t think so. Stop the frustration now. You’re not trapped. There is no way to change the system from without – monopol capitalism is based on mutual dependency. Every brainless management understood by now that the artist knows more about the time we live in. At the hour of the big rush there’s no room left for market analysis. You will stay what you are, just the sound will be better. Contracts are made in heaven. The danger is elsewhere – it’s never the money. It comes from the light for the partisans of fame. Don’t try to rule the world before killing your ego. Once caught by the wheels it won’t be possible. When no love of the public shall diminish your self-hate, only then you may enjoy the fruits of your labor. And that stands from the Gran’ Ole Opry to Ozzfest. Only the strongest wolves survive this heavenly ordeal but who can be strong enough when so mightily loaded. You must be BRYAN FERRY to stand that test. Kicking the face of chaos might seem a Gargantuan feat for Laveyan disciples, but the illusion of success will make the winner forget that a situation can as well be changed, not only expressed. And that’s “Anton’s Anathema” coming from the leftfield. Cursing god is a reasonable response but shouldn’t consume all your unholy energy. Violence for violence’s sake is a criminal abuse of the medium’s saving power – hypocrisy’s exposed flesh is chewed off to the bones. If you want to shock you’d better take your rifle. We are overnazi crusaders and don’t take no share in the warfares of the Untermenschen’s. Violence is vengeance and vengeance is impersonal. Torture and murder, the two most favorite topics of the new republicans, become a lot less funny when your girlfriend’s gotten slain – that narrow is the line between magick and reallity. But you know what, even Southern Lord would be outraged of overnational socialist black metal for traitors to their countries… Whilst the burning witch returns to prepare her self-defense. I don’t really see my niche in the extending cathedral. That’s why O.S.P. must become the center or nothing. My aim is true.

III/8
Here we go again. 'Letter to=from Bardo' wants to write itself, keen to become another tainted propaganda. I’m terribly sorry, Sir, but do not have the time to separate my files any more. I’m doing this for the garbage can. All I want to say is that ‘You’ve got the right to fight to party’ was the last good message I heard any cynically sent. Since then rap turned into hiphop and the war-cry into Ragnarok. This highway to Hell is a downward spiral any way we ride it. So what should we do to be cosmically correct? Accelerate or withhold? We are a very intelligent specie we presume, but this dilemma is far beyond our comprehensive domain. We’d better do what we like disregarding all consequences. That’s where stagnation roots. Pro plus contra equals zero. Money is the sole safety we have devised, if I’m not mistaken. Or maybe I am; I’ve never had any. I’d sooner die than work for it. I’m an unborn renegade of the most disgusting karma on the plateau of exile. Now comes the personal lament of the sham DJ’s diary. I can’t help it and don’t even want to. The problem with me is that I’m a contradictator by avocation. It’s like a hobby for the Word. Nothing I respect more than consumerism, yet there isn’t a thing I would like to possess – except for cosmetics and records. Very much the same as in ’75, untouched by the hand of technology. All I’ve ever begged for was the guarantee. I cannot do a thing without it, and that’s my major sin. The primordial reason why I’m kept entombed in history’s forlorn background – I’m missing the urge to follow the Sun. Why should I struggle if couldn’t enjoy it. Here in the dark I can at least feel like a cliché justly unoutspoken. No wish – no drive; I’ve run down long before gotten started. Doesn’t sound like a new Detroit, does it? Any advanced a spy, you can’t come out as your own blasphemer. It makes no sense. I’m a funeral object lying in my self-made coffin: paralyzed casualty of an evil coalition of negative coincidences. If I only sigh what any motorhead may loudly scream, people instantly write me off as the untalented archetype of a fascist idiot. Sending my ugly self outright back in the isolation tank – those bitches of the Son I’m endeavoring to wed! So I’ve learned to keep my profile lower than the low. Keep doing my anaemic nite-flights till the alleged Aurora failing to come – there’s only one promise anyway, isn’t there?  I’m trying to see through the Eternal’s single eye within my taste limits. Behind the distorted visions of the crystal castle under permanent reconstruction. Fighting off the bewildered ghost of Leon Trotzky. There’s never been an existence more tedious than mine. The Judgement is a librarian’s job: putting names into alphabetical order. That’s not the way to come around. I’m a blind and paranoid man, with no innovative knack whatsoever. A clumsy civilian on a paramilitary mission. Frightened like a monster from his own shadow. I’d need more intelligence than a terrified white rat for such a secret service. My perfidious ideals outrage chauvinists of all sorts and my moral principles offend the whole family. My marriage proposition is completely indecent. Lilith is a Lesbian engaged with the Beast. I’d have to be the lord of the ring to change her cold cold heart. So welcome to my late night atrocity exhibition at ‘NOVA AKROPOLA’, where time is no waste. Whola lotta shakin goin' on.

III/9
The close encounter with democracy’s phantom is only theatre of pain. The dying spawn of God and the unborn kernel of Lucifer in an abysmal alliance of survival with the slaughter natives drilled to gain and trained to fight beyond redemption. Not knowing themselves a tiniest bit, the UR are waging a largely instinctive war with the demons of karma on a rampage in the vacuum. Freedom has its hazards. It’s hard to keep a neutral stance towards the Judeo-Christ in the geo-political situation of our trans-occidental identity – the Christian way of life is the first thing a Euro traitor must betray by my irreligious opinion. Burn down your own house first before torching your neighbor’s. The dogma of forgiveness is the worst aberration ever imprinted in the human consciousness. It took two thousand years of terror to be put in the judicial praxis: these are the days of the glorious return. Enthronment of the false Antichrist. The same people that pray for the killer’s soul are gunning down pro-choicers in a world we used to call modern. Police is blaming the victim for the rape. All those rednecks could convert to Islam. Thank god there are wars they can fight each other. For an independent spy I consider myself to be, Satan does not offer a genuine solution. Only the Lord of Atheism does, who’s neither this nor that. “God Is None”. Our church of treason is open for all denominations – no deity exempt. You may desecrate Apollo if you want to, O Arjuna. Nothing’s sacred, everything’s sacred. That’s the heathen state of mind. Assassination of the spirit is a routine sport of life’s dismal dimension better to avoid for alien surfers. There’s an immune system set up as a genetic fence to reject the seeds before they radicalize. That it ain’t working well is our cosmic luck. Amidst the bestial insanity of a murderous vegetation innocent is the worst you can be – the model of unjust punishment is the weirdest idol ever worshipped. I formally throw up seeing a lamb crucified. Nowanights, single women may get off the bus anywhere if dare to ask the driver – the accommodation is practically unlimited. The devil’s impotence to frighten us infuriates him and it’s having disastrous consequences - the gates of Hell are opening too wide. Enough is enough, as Osho used to say, but it seems nothing is. They call it “brutal” and the ripper a “psycho” – there’s no deed they could not name. To see justice done is the only concern of the victim’s family. Although to punish a crime after being committed is definitely too late. But after all it’s the parole officer who finally decides the future in total Venezuela. And they are horny amazons fucking with the lifers; I saw it in a porno movie.

III/10
The patent solution is a multiracist alliance of the overnational elite. A putschist union of the universal refugee. Judged by their individual contexts alone, there are two kinds of characters solely. Polarity can be radicalized. The good guys and the bad ones. Anywhere, anytime. Abel, the gentleman, and Cain, the psychopath. The Last Judgement we so ardently push does not speak in tongues. It ignores the map of mountains and rivers creating dialects. The Ten Commandos are a universal law for all moral minorities of the civilized hemisphere. Which is still but one quarter of the farm’s de facto population like it’s always been, with no regard on the quantitative increase. It’s unreal but true. We’ve been fighting our lives away for native causes. Now that history is over in the Bismarckian sense, we must learn to see through the looking glass with Albert Einstein’s third eye. You must denounce all you believed in when joining the party of the living dead. To become a certified immortal will cost you everything. It’s the blackmail of the bargain targeting spirit gamblers. The weirdest principle of my anticult is not take money from anyone for anything. We only give because that’s the surest enslavement. Gratefulness disempowers. We don’t need lobbyist and the mob. Things are black and white if you can differentiate. The Oshist stratagem as far as I can decode it is to end all misguided hostilities between nations and set focus on the genetic plague that equally hits the whole terrestrial populace. Since we can conceive babies in the lab, all we got to do is to properly name the cause. Halt the spread of the subhumanist virus before nobody’s left to witness. The benevolent mind of the 24 must be thoroughly eradicated. The UR are agnostic saints of dialectic immaterialism – elite corps of the blissful obliteration. It is Baphomet’s Gospel to the wayward troops of Antichristian soldiers. Treason to the Earth or no marchin’ in. What’s so evil in it I just cannot get.

III/11
Today is the day. Yesterday’s gone and tomorrow is nowhere. We shouldn’t wait out the Sunset, that’s all I’m saying since 1980 and can’t help but hear a whole choir backing me up. The lyrical content has reached epic proportions by metal conceptualists. But there’s no sign of awakening, except for the titles. Escape into legends is the surest way to go. Fiction is another one. The psychic warriors of new set out to explore, and thus conquer, the dark. Hammer the enemy and turn machines into guns. But it all ended with the goodwill. Things aren’t expected to be really happening – that’s the curse on the damned. The grey army can’t stand by their words because they weren’t meant in the first place. It’s all marketing stunt. Industrial heads do not speak their mind, they only quote themselves. Same with the metal forgery, just they don’t even know what. It degrades the massive revelation to the distorted blurbs of an irresponsible spirit dying to scare the insensitive mortal. It deflates the absolute minority’s 93 currents to the garbage sorting of junior dinosaurs. So you’d better listen to LEGENDARY PINK DOTS and nothing else when it comes to doubts. Especially the early ones, before the mass production. Then link to the collaborators, I won’t enumerate it here. Any starting point should create its own perfect web. That’s why I loathe cyber-democracy so damn much. The chaff never belonged to my socialism. Again, the world is united in technology now, at the Aurora of a new order. One for the devil – one for the Christ; the Cosmic Bargain never ends. Most excellent black metal is coming from Israel (MELECHESH; ORPHANED LAND); supreme trash from Brazil (SEPULTURA; ANGRA). Megadeath rules all over Asia. Ukraine and Belarus are swarming with pagan gothics (NOKTURNAL MORTUM; GOD’S TOWER) just like Mother Russia (MENTAL HOME; ALKONOST). Both Poland and Austria are of imperial domination (BELFEGOR; BELPHEGOR). You can’t tell Swedish ambience from Italian. Countries just do not exist any more, the deaf can hear it. The real world ceased to be a colony of the UK. Only the language stayed common, God save the Queen.

III/12
The Anglican roots of the industrial revolution are never the less undeniable as far as music matters. Born as a counterculture to the glimmering glam, it paved a parallel way to punk rock and prolonged the novelty of the second British invasion turning its spontaneous anarchy into pseudo-syndicalist constructivism. The imaginary movement of industrial people – meant to be a black collar working class of elitarian supremacists – was the primal attempt to exorcise the demon of redemption from the alternative market. It declared a world-war on imperialist pop, creating its own consumership out of the ‘lectric blue from Hiroshima to Hollywood. It extended the frontiers of mutation all across the universe, giving ailing dance culture a rejuvenating shock therapy. They called it NURSE WITH WOUND. Wakeford & Stapleton. Stardom became a fake urge; honestly simulated but of lesser concern than to THE BEATLES in Hamburg. Anonymity has in fact become the highest rank available, something worthwhile to strive for. It’s not disrespect of the Kapital but sheer esoteric careerism of the malignant knighthood. It’s not introversion – it’s superhumility. Whoever wants to be unneeded. Most of the electronic wizards’ enormous catalogs are directly laid upon the Eternal’s altar. The elect are only creating to prove themselves worthy. Fame and fortune is not on the cards. It’s not impossible though, check Susan Lawly – the rule can always break. But not even from DOUGLAS P. you may expect to take it seriously. The death generation can’t be fooled and that’s a good reason to celebrate. The richest star has paved the way to the homo superior. Let’s call him ALBIN JULIUS. Check as well out Hau Rock, if you wanna hear something good yet. I’ve learned, it cannot harm.
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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