Nick Cave turned down an offer to direct the film adaptation of Blood Meridian because he didn’t want to be the one to fuck it up. We hear it’s going to happen anyway, someone else will have to try and translate into images Cormac McCarthy’s description of the pilgrimage across derelict wastelands through which child turns into man into enlightened hyena in a perverse twist on Nietzsche’s account of our future evolution, afflicting not of an individual but a whole nascent nation, sins of your forebears.
Shame Sam Peckinpah is dead, he would have been the man for the job.
Now imagine David Lynch did it. Not gonna happen, but bear with me for a second. Imagine the blur of shadows spreading like ink in water, an account of the rampage of the wild mongrel horde crawling across the mesas like a tsunami of mutilation. Intuitions of carnage reflected in the unblinking eye of a colossal horse, under the punishing sun blood spills black. Indian Jewelry would so be doing the soundtrack for this. They are the Cowboys from Hell, hurricanes herald them, and flowers whither on their wake, the rattlesnake is their totem, and how it coils in their warped music. Their new album, Totaled, is as good as anything they ever produced, and you know they have produced some good shit.
The no holds barred sexy gnarliness of the output from Copenhagen’s finest Skrot Up is only equalled by their generosity. A silent messenger riding on the rugged back of a zombie mammoth stomped past the misty trenches surrounding our emerald bunker recently to deliver a black box full of Z noise goodies, and we will bashing you with its contents over the coming days. Lets begin with Dharma, who hail from Texas like Indian Jewelry (big up Texas), and share with them a taste for human flesh as ground to digestible (nevertheless gory) morsels through judicious applications of technology.
Material Equivalence, included in their ‘Technology and Truth’ tape kicks off with a deceiving snippet of exalted house before kicking you in the face with the beats of the damned. Don’t look so surprised, there was surely something wrong and desperate in its sound, as if it was the wall of an underground cell from which desperate victims had tried to scratch their way of o escape a ghastly fate at the hands of a coven of cybernetic satanists led by the most monotonically sexy aerobic instructor from industrialised hell we have had the perverse pleasure of encountering since ADULT.’s Nicola Kuperus.
Crash Course in Science would be proud.