The warm night’s layers become unstuck and start combining in unusual configurations as we start our journey and the city is eerie, more silent than ever before, abandoned except for the dispersed flow of people moving hesitantly up and down Calle Madeiro as if unconvinced about direction, murmuring under the low orange lights that carve deep contrasts on the deeply bent facades.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
After many months of convulsions The Diagonikals' first album is out on iTunes:
Primrose Pill appears in a strangely compelling short video, manipulating the masses into purchasing the toxic product. If her cannibalistic/cabbalistic/anti-capitalistic tactic proves successful black sarcasm will seep out and provoke generalized sepsis of the social order.
Here's the original blurb describing this terrifying experiment (we advise those easy to hypnotize to stop reading and watching here):
"Using hitherto secret subliminal techniques pioneered by dadaism and Eastern Block cartoons this video features Ms.Primrose Pill (The Diagonikals) pushing her band's album in a twirl of images - including retro refrigerators, electric butt plugs, Betty Page, toilet bowls, objet a and a special appearance by the infamous 'bourgeois sack' - that will leave your brain twitching. Watching this video will be planting into your mind the irresistible urge to purchase the first Diagonikals album ( 'Origasmi' now available on iTunes!!!). The mesmerizing soundtrack is "Bourgeois Sack" by The Diagonikals (on iTunes!!)."
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Saturday, June 30, 2012
“Nothing is lowlier than the bourgeois sack, that quivering mollusk that eats at one end and shits at the other!” grins the old avant-gardiste. “It hides its shame behind obstinate toil and can only enjoy cruelty! It dreams to be a wreck on the strings of meaning, the flaccid vesicle, but still wakes up to find its sheets stained by shameful discharges, ha, ha, ha! And you can see all its thoughts running through that translucent tract, it’s nauseating! There is no higher goal than blocking this sack's accumulations, strangling its over fertile productivity and being useless!” she cries, covered by monochrome sound.
And indeed here is one, holding her delicate pink viscera with one hand and dancing with careful abandon; then the others come out, marshalling their output of ecstasies, traumas and commodities in cadence with the rusty typewriter. The relentless flow of letters marks the flesh, soothing as a lullaby, gagging for a moment the mourning mouths in the pit of the belly. But the amnesia is never completed, the menacing shapes reappear, wavering at the edge of the retina; so they lock themselves in the safety of cars and move orderly, like moths whose eyes secrete light, each one an armored dot in the tragic swarm.
Then the valves are overrun, the electric barriers are shot and oily, pungent flows come out, the body shrunk and overblown randomly, the vocabulary a desperate algorhythm of repetitions, the mouldy cavities drowning, until the steel rhythm starts again, calming the convulsions into disciplined reverberations.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Every bourgeois infantry-wo/man toils to leave a mark on the indifferent symbolic order. Something: a tag, a portrait, a button, a smudge, a scratch in the dirt that will remember our name; a little dusty urn bearing our label on the interminable shelves of meaning. Warhol’s “15 minutes of fame” are one wretched attempt to overcome the fated submission; there are other ways, from having a child (the urn carrying your name, genes and desires) to carving your name on a tree. We, for example, lift our leg, piss on a fence and take a photo of the drying stain. These insignificant events display our narcissistic hunger for recognition. The crumb trail that tries to lead us “home” starts with London coz, by the queen’s anal beard, who doesn’t want to leave a mark on London? We have prowled mostly around Hammersmith, sticking ours on whatever we could.