Remember when Jason Voorhees was shot into space and re-animated like some kind of psychotic, cybernetic Frankenstein, half machine, half scar tissue, to wreak bloody havoc on a crew of gormless idiots who were so faceless they probably defined divine retribution having their faces split in half by the full force of a Goliath sized machete? Well imagine if Dario Argento, in the midst of one of his madder moments, of which we can only imagine there must be many, somehow navigated his way through a deluge of deranged thoughts and figured out a way in which revisit the saga of Helena Markos as a futuristic grim fairytale that takes place in the claustrophobic confines of a cavernous metallic cathedral orbiting Earth one thousand and one years into the future, in a time when the pagan secrets of old have been almost forgotten, but not entirely dead have quietly and without detection come to fester in the wires of the new. If such a thing might ever happen Argento would be wise to let Brassica inherit Goblin’s gnarled throne and take reign of conjuring the pixelated mists of menace that would creep and coat the occult carnage.
Aside from the fact that opting to translate a Slayer song into Italian and letting a computer do all the talking will always be in our books incredibly rad, Ballo dei Morti is awesome for evoking so beautifully in our minds the penultimate moments in which a hapless, nerve wracked female grid co-coordinator floats quivering through luminescent chrome corridors, reflecting her image back at her from all angles making her feel haunted by her own visage which slowly and steadily twists more and more with the realization that she’s helplessly traveling towards something unspeakably terrible that has so far remained unseen, except for the odd passing glimmer in the electronic glow that decorates and soaks everything, a phantom force without face, but only blood soaked calling cards left strewn around the ship, that now beckons and pulls with hypnotic allure, the sound of a robotic incantation that draws in closer and closer.
As we sit back and let them wash over us and probe our collective brains, the futuristic-sounds-by-way-of-the-movies-made-in-the-80s-about-the-future that sadly for us all prophesied an intensely more glamorous 21st century we have yet to exist in, we can’t help but wander that when the brains behind Savage Fantasy concocted the glitzy synthcrusher cruise of Sunset King Theme he closed his eyes and imagined the broken streets of his stomping ground, Los Angeles, as a seedy wasteland of cyborg sex and scarred hustlers in black lipstick and Grace Jones attire sinking into a cesspit of sleaze in the face of an ultimate impending doom darting and dodging gargantuan robotic juggernauts programmed by the shadowy types from above to patrol the streets with lethal iron fists, a future I think we should all fully endorse if it happens to sound this good.
Rose for Bohdan sound like field recordings of some utterly deranged party on a derelict basement of walls covered with revolutionary hyerogliphs out of which everyone comes out purified and more intelligent the morning after. They sound like Sonic Youth fighting for their lives against a horde of undead noise vermin in a customised cadillac scrapyard at the very bottom of Death Valley 69. They sound like Nation of Ulysses burrowing through a vietcong style maze built deep under a Metropolis of lies, reaching the light at the end of the tunnel, an illuminated place whose walls tremble uncertain under the fury of the bombardment, there is a wooden box in the middle of the room, open it, inside, a chainsaw.
Alas, they are no more and we shall miss them, but they are going out with a bang, ‘There it is, The Creeping Moral Decay of the Past Thousand Years’ is their farewell album, which shall be released on cdr by Realicide Youth. For now, you can go here to download it in its entirity at whatever bitrate you want, it is a labour of love but donations are welcome. So, what are you waiting for, spread the word, get active, get real.