Category Archives: Brassica

Tinsel Bitches

Featuring : Brassica + indian jewelry

But the third sister, who is also the youngest- hush! Whisper while we talk of her! Her kingdom is not large, or else not flesh should live; but within that Kingdom all power is hers. Her head, turreted like that of Cybele, rises almost beyond the reach of sight. She droops not, and her eyes, rising so high, might be hidden by distance. But, being what they are, they cannot be hidden; through the treble veil of light which she wears the fierce light of a blazing misery, that rests not for matins or vespers, for noon of day or noon or night, for ebbing or for flowing tide, may be read from the very ground. She is the defier of God. She is also the mother of lunacies, and the suggestress of suicides. Deep lie the roots of her power, but narrow is the nation she rules. For she can approach only those in whom a profound nature has been upheaved by central convulsions; in whom the heart trembles and the brain rocks under conspiracies of tempest from without and tempest from within. Madonna moves with uncertain steps, fast or slow, but still with tragic grace. Our Lady of Sighs creeps timidly and stealthily. But this youngest Sister moves with incalculable motions, bounding, and with tiger’s leaps. She carries no key; for, though coming rarely amongst men, she storms all doors at which she is permitted to enter at all. And her name is Mater Tenebrarum- our Lady of Darkness.

Thomas de Quincey

‘Levana and our Three Ladies of Sorrow’

Suspiria de Profundis


Brassica’s latest, The Centre, is rave music thumping in a negative astral plane of shadows which are crow’s wings taking flight and ink spilling into ominous shapes at the bottom of a white folio, heavy italo disco inhabited by half-glimpsed nightmares and agate-eyed cat people. Synths slash and rhythms pound, just when you thought things couldn’t get any better the house band of undead bikers deliver a solo which is the scream of agonising souls being sucked into fiery jack’s private pit for an eternity of fire sweat and brimstone, careful least the silver chain tying you to reality be snapped by frothing Cerberus jaws and you be forever lost in this land of delirium, if only.

Brassica-The Centre

It had to be Dissident.


The tar melts under the obscene wheels of Indian Jewelry’s ghastly cavalcade, flowers whither and the sun turns red, they have been polishing the machetes with which they hack, slash and rip across the thin sheets of reality in a mesmerising seven armed dance, breathing fire and spitting blood, Zing Zang might be the most powerful demonstration of their dark art yet, music for an anti-natutal eclipse which pounds like the heart of  Gang Gang Dance’s evil twisted sister, that whose room is covered in Throbbing Gristle’s totemic paraphernalia. The dead are coming back to life, and they are devouring the souls of the living, we repeat, they are devouring the souls. What a mess, our kind of mess.

Indian Jewelry- Zing Zang

This is included in Indian Jewelry’s split with Future Blondes.

Behind L.E.Ds At Night

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.

Brassica- Ballo dei Morti


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.

Savage Fantasy – Sunset Kings Theme


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.

Rose for Bohdan-Insideterior