Tuesday, April 8, 2008  12:48 am 

Shining Trapezohedrons

When the evil forces of Virgin Media and Orange plot against the valiant dalliances of your trusted narrators, all hell breaks loose in the blogging front. Continuity goes out the fucking window. You can’t blog in the fiery pits of Acheron, which is just where 2OJFG were momentarily flung (Stu made it out to go see Gary Numan - not much of an improvement over damnation though, it seems) and there is no internet connection in the tenth circle of Hell - if there was, it would be dial-up and that’s way too horrific a fate to behold. We are trying to say sorry. Please accept our apologies.

Never fear though, cos while we wallowed in the blue flames of Acheron’s pit of bad times, we managed to hook up with musicians who work in the night, those that dwell in dark air and draw inspiration from it.

When the sub-zero throb of galactic dance music tones in from the great obsidian black of space beyond the sky, it sounds something like the growl that begins ‘Yeah!’ from the new 12″ by Simone Fedi out now on Eskimo. That throbbing growl whirls everything up into a demonic twister effect as all the synths in the world cry out in a unison of pleasurable pain, all frequencies converging on one 8 minute track committed to shining black vinyl that is dragged through hoovering vortexes and filtered in space storms, fried by forking lightning a mile long and pelted by meteor showers.

Simone Fedi - Yeah!

This cosmic extinction level event is best heard at 3am at the ancient Mayan jungle rave bathed in the darkly lurid glow of a flashing black pyramid, the tip pulsing with the pale red shimmer of the Shining Trapezohedron discoball that calls forth the black smoke nightmare that sears the flesh and melts the bones.

The Devil obviously heard us when we chanted last year for a Padded Cell album. We sat in the circle of virgin’s blood over the exact point where the compass spins out of control and the pressure of the dark ones can be felt in your chest. We spoke in tongues and Satan heard our pleas, appearing to us in silhouette on a dark mountain range. He extended a hairy claw, and as we took the promo CD all the monkeys in the forest down below began to tear the other animals apart, screeching maniacally whilst the Moon turned red.

Padded Cell - City Of Lies

So, we are thinking that this Carpenterian musical landscape is a possible pact that Padded Cell made with The Giallos Flame, as there are enough myriad shuffling zombie tones creeping through the dark apartment block beats as there are shifting disco bleeps and pulses, that we come to expect from Padded Cell. Birds with crystal plumage perch on razor wired telegraph poles and concentrate their steely translucent eyes on a scene unfolding in an abandoned apartment penthouse in the late 1970’s. A lady is backing away down a hall of red walls, mirrors and billowing silk curtains, pleading for her life as a knife wielding assailant edges slowly but purposefully in for the kill. She might have gotten away, only she didn’t expect the undead office worker with the melting visage to grab her from behind her escape route door where he drags her into a stairwell and bites into her pale flesh.

DC Recordings bring the full widescreen British grindhouse horror in May.

Now onto our last cohort of chaotic black arts, Black Devil Disco Club. ‘Eight Oh Eight’ will be the last LP in the cosmic trilogy, thus completing the triangle of inhuman horror that will appear over the lands like bloody strands of Aurora Borealis, then in the centre of this shining constellation a great eye will open and a thousand great evils will spring from the void to rip holes in your very reality. Or so we are told.

Hear now, how the evil awakens in Never No Dollars, Ian Curtis’ lost soul clambers up from a steaming fetid fissure in the ground, spinning his head 360 and ranting backwards over an endless Patrick Cowley voodoo bossanova drumbeat.

Black Devil Disco Club - Never No Dollars

In this 3rd LP, BDDC are going all out with the oddball dancefloor sounds - its as much elasticated Giorgio Moroder sexual strut as it is the notion of The Immortals’ synths coming to life and eating them in a discopic bloodbath of theramin and sequencer orgies, all played out on a shimmering silver skull stage in an abandoned medieval fortress in Budapest that harbours strange evil tombs that consume anyone foolish enough to set foot inside.

labels >> Cosmic, Horror, black devil disco club, demons, padded cell, simone fedi