571: What a way to wallow

After seeing Laibach in Manchester last Thursday (thoughts on that experience to follow shortly) the excitement of experimental music has hit me physically and emotionally, whereas previously the appeal was mainly intellectual in the beard-stroking sense. For those unfamiliar Laibach are a Slovenian military/industrial band/collective who have been knocking around for thirty years, using facist/pseudo-facist imagery to pervert and corrupt covers of Western pop songs. I first heard them in 1996 when the song 'Message from the Black Star' from the album Jesus Christ Superstar was included on a free CD included with Metal Hammer magazine. It was probably the oddest thing on a CD full of poppy crap (Feeder, was it? I can't remember). Soon I had various albums on CD, tape, and vinyl. And we all lived happily ever after.

Now, deep abandonded in the desert of despair, and the drudge of bass/snare simultaneous slo-mo thuds, howlin' wailin' wall of noise and blowin' harps with bad seeds and freundschaft mit Deutsch und Amerikanische. The noise of music, mainly 1980's, often with hints of Germany, From Her to Eternity and other distortions and screams. Ahh, the fun of Throbbing Gristle; the fun of pulling teeth and hitting hammers off fingertips. Cut, by Sylvia Plath, she wrote, 'What a thrill – My thumb instead of an onion. The top quite gone, except for a sort of hinge, of skin. A flap like a hat. Dead white. Then that red plush [...] How you jump – Trepanned veteran, dirty girl. Thumb stump'. What fun.

A video on Twitter of a vomiting metal singer adds to the unpleasentness and Einstürzende Neubauten makes a mess of this room's air molecules. I had them all perfectly lined up. It took me weeks with a pair of tweezers and an electron microscope, but now they are all a-jumble again, and I mus' begin ag'in. The words come so hard, a struggle, a bubble that wont burst, the blood blister on my palm caused yesterday at work when two solid wooden shelves clapped together suddenly, pulling my skin tween their nipping grip. A bite of board that stung and was gone. Almost a week with no words, and now a bloody force that's as hard to read as it is to plop out. Only the leftover liebfraumilch and orange-centred chocolate truffles provide any respite. What a way to wallow.