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.
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.