We wonder which abandoned military bases did Scorpion Violente raid for their vicious armaments, under a full moon surely. What we don’t doubt is that in due time they will be approached by dour spooks with craggy faces, cropped hair and suspicious bulges under their cheap polyester jackets with some questions about the illegal footprint of their pervert mambo. There are severe protocols that forbid the deployment of dual use armaments by civilians- say, the components of decommissioned Grauzone-class missiles originally developed by the DDR from which Scorpion Violente have assembled their drum machines, or the riot-control emetic projectors whose blueprints inspired the malevolent synthetic currents that animate their skeletal romps. Or the corrupted variants of beauty-destroying Anthrax in which they dab their guitars at the beginning of every show.
We also fear that these agents of security organisations denominated by cryptic acronyms, based in Geneva, Langley, Sebastopol, will never be see their unsuspecting families again, for Scorpion Violente are not civilians but suicide commandos of a nihilistic conspiracy aimed at collapsing societal structures with judiciously administered shocks of skronk und rumble. And they are terrifyingly good at their job. Just listen to this.
Scorpion Violente’s Uberschleiss album will be coming out on the 22th of October on AVANT! Records.
Will Burnett, aka Speculator, of Grackle and Galaxy Toobin’ fame has something very cool going at WT Records. After introducing you to Pagan Future’s Laser Edged techno last week, now we bring you Model Man (an alter ego for Le Hague’s DJ Overdose), whose ‘Shouldn’t I be Dead by Now?’ EP is a wonderful strut through the avenues of that mythical citadel of Ulthar that 20jazzfunkgreats oft visit in day-dream reveries induced by intoxicating musics. In it we find quotes to the peer-reviewed production of 1960s instinctive astrophysicists, and schlocky stills that buzz with an eerie Carpenterian purr, searing shards of synthetic purity retrieved from Throbbing Gristle’s cancerous swamp, and even holographic postcards from a Rimini that survives in the coke-impacted memories of aged Italian lotharios.
A melange of our obsessions then.
Shouldn’t is, of course, everyone’s advice to a nubile Jamie Lee Curtis staring into the light spilling from a door ajar at the end of the dark corridor. Shouldn’t, but will. The twin ghost forces of sex and death wouldn’t have it any other way. Model Man stares over her shoulder as she approaches her rendezvous with the knife.