“Hi there, yes you, standing on a corner of the big metropolis on a Saturday night, in the throes of despondency, you dilettante who longs for adventures in a never-ending tunnel of black sateen, all dressed up and nowhere to go, you, daydreaming of slender bird-men and angelic vixens gliding over a chessboard of gold and ivory. I have something for you, you, but you will have to pay the price for it, not in money, I don’t care for your trivial money, but I want a bit of your soul, that bit of your soul that I will own when whenever, after I take you to and bring you back from that place you don’t know yet, yet you strive for, you long, whenever you fear that you will never feel the same things that you are going to feel tonight, and you search for me in the corners of the big metropolis one Saturday night after another, dream of me and the dream ticket that I’m flashing in your face now, the dream ticket to that place you may have glimpsed in fantastic reverie, felt in those instants of silence that precede the beat, but you fear did not exist, yet it does, not easy to find though, you need me for that, so you search for me in angst, and in doing so you pay, every night, at an usurious rate, think of it an investment, for one night, when you have given up all hope, I shall appear again, emerge from the sticky shadows of a cul de sac, my rotten smile on, the dream ticket in my hand, to take you there again, it doesn’t have a name, it is a nameless place, it is where the dance happens, it is somewhere between heaven and hell, a limbo of movement and a ecstatic stasis, who cares, who wants names when you have emotions, come on, let’s go, what do you say, are you coming with me?”
“Why would I want to go with you, odorous peddler of demonic temptations, I have no need for a place with no name, and I have no soul to spare, at lest for you, you trickster, for I am a member of the club of the 20jazzfunkgreats, curated by ghost seers who channel the sounds of that Elysium that you describe, sans the extortionate toll at the gate, you can keep your angelic shindigs, I will stay with my friends, imperfect humans sweating and suffering, for that’s what gives the dance its meaning, in fact, it is for them I wait, and what may look to you like despondency is mere impatience, ah, here they come, go away now, shoo, look for another customer, I don’t need you to make my Saturday night happen, I’ve got it all sorted, just listen to the hits of the joint that will host us tonight, don’t tell me you can best them, or maybe tell me, for I know you are a liar, go away now, the night is young, you may yet get lucky, I know I will”.
(two pictures above via 50 Watts)
Our physical mass begins with Night Angles, who in their most excellent forthcoming release in classy Swedish label Force Majeure deliver a slew of smooth, enigmatic dance-floor infiltration devices in the rich musical vein of classico italo composers such as Cerrone and Moroder. Aerodynamour pulses like the drums of that ritual through which a proud Atlantidan tribe marooned in a diminutive Mediterranean island design and build a silver rocket of pure dreamstuff that will take them to the distant stars that are their original home.
It’s out on the 16th of May. Pre-order a copy here. And check out the video, premiere times!
(This one is by Frank Frazetta, who else?)
Eddie Mars’ Future 12 (out in Unofficial Records) is the kind of beast that brings you back from the toilet without washing your hands or checking your hair (or dusting your nose), a pure dirty-pumping-throw-your-hands-in-the-air-and-dance-with-strangers cage-fighting anthem for vogueing gladiators that laces together all the classic motifs of the heavy edge of the italo conspiracy (ciao Smith ’n’ Hack), and spices it with some modern crescendo dynamics bound to inspire liver-busting deeds. Utterly gross, just the way we like it.
We have now for a while meant to say something about Soft Metals’ total rendition of the tune that built this house, but it wasn’t until now, when we conveyed this apocalyptic feast, that we have found the proper moment to drop it. We hear you protest, wondering how you have managed to finish your nights satisfied without this monster awaiting for you at the end, breathing toxic fire and lashing its titanium dragon tail from a cloud of acid smoke like the invincible boss that concludes that epic Japanese Role Playing Game that was never released because it brainfried all who play-tested it, don’t hope for victory, it’s all about survival.
Just like Genesis likes it.