One of the wonders of the Internet is how it allows curmudgeonly little bastards like ourselves to launch arbitrary assaults on whatever novel fad that happens to slip into the wrong side of the soiled bed where we lay, like the unwelcome head of a shit stallion running ahead of the pack of popular culture.
We whisper at it with wet lips. This is what dawns look like in our decayed habitat.
It is teenage vampires which concern us today, those pale and pseudo-satanic cherubs with chiselled jaws and gelled hair which have infested the wistful minds of confused youths, like acceptable role models for anorexia because the digestive system of the undead is a barren land, like Patrick Swayzee in dirty dancing if only a non-descript post-emo outfit was the house band.
Nay we say to these avatars of kitsch ferality, nay, we were weaned on the stench of Dracul the impaler, rotten gums encrusted with millennial blood-clots under a mantle of fungal Transilvanian soil, on the impressionistic shadows of Nosferatu’s derelict demesne, on Brian Lumley’s trashy Necromantic chronicles, where the wampyr thrives on the body of the infected like a cthonian cancer, projecting leprous tentacles across deformed fangs to feast on the blood of the victim, on the cryptic masquerade of the World of Darkness as illustrated by Tim Bradstreet, under the showers of gore of the slaughterhouse rave that Blade gatecrashed, even on the new wave rebellion of the Lost Boys, surely soon to be remade, perchance inadvertent antecedent of the blight that afflicts us today.
Nay we say, let us retch engulfed by the whiff of the second hand haemoglobin nourishing these super-evolved leeches, let us stare into their corrupted pupils stretching like rusty razorblades over yellow iris beyond which unhinged bloodlust lays, no morality, no restraint, these guys are not pretty, they don’t want to sleep with you, they don’t want to show off their superhuman speed like quarterbacks strutting their feathers in front of quivering cheerleaders, no, they are monsters roaming in a misty land beyond good and evil, in their lonely and sad world thirst rules absolute, you are prey, nothing else.
Some time ago we had the perverse pleasure of introducing you to the macabre delights of Mueran Humanos. Theirs are Gothic echoes of Argentina, from Argentum, latin for silver which kills werewolves, and sometimes vampires too, but also the material of which the knives wielded at satanic masses are forged, echoes we say, echoes that spread across the authoritarian landscapes of Possession-era Berlin like ink stolen from an apocryphal sequel of the house of leaves, now set in pock-marked concrete whence mouths stretch agape frozen in a silent shout.
Remember the dazzling urban landscapes of Demons? You should, smudge them with a layer of surrealism straight off a Lynch noire and slip into unsettling dreams where a coven of devilishly handsome cyphers stare at you in silence, stern examiners in the viva voce for a doctorate in the dark arts, with telepathic tendrils which are Leones en China they scour your mind in a psychic carpet-bomb operation worth of Spacemen 3’s esoteric brethren.
Over the conflagration levitates disembodied Carmen, like a Death’s Head Hawkmoth, her croon that of a rapporteur broadcasting from a dantesque scenario of satanic distortion and fluttering raven wings.
Mueran Humanos are looking for a label to release the album. Get in touch with them, the rest of it is as good as this.
The kinaesthetic optical output of EBM is a strobe shower of pillars of white light framing muscular shapes clad in leather, golden pendants dangling off ears protruding from emaciated faces, shaven scalps.
If we close the sensory loop back into sound we are confronted with the archetypical paranoid bassline, that which harkens back to a Nitzer Ebb gangbang, to a Front 242 manhunt, to a DAF riot, shock-waves project us into a tactile realm of bondage fantasies and cybernetic interfacing, the body revels against such intrusion, vomits itself back to a mechanistic dome of audiopain where beats pummel with the indifferent precision of hateful machinery.
Past this gauntlet we escape into ideological spaces where the propaganda of nihilistic politics spreads across synaptic circuits firing up like baroque weapons systems commissioned by a deranged military complex.
Faced with this lethal battery we leap into the level below.
Into another quagmire.
Like Cabaret Voltaire said, quoting the Seeds, there’s No Escape. From our hunters, or the thrill of this chase.
So here ends our descent into underbelly of the prince of darkness, a spiderleg forest leading to genitalia shrivelled like the putrescent carcass of an antediluvian white worm. The Bram Stoker reference is surely apt, for isn’t he the one who resurrected the wampyr like some clueless Transilvanian peasant spilling blood upon the tomb where Peter Cushing thought he had finally, and once and for all, laid the sucker to rest? He did, he did.
Brusque Twins’ ‘Black and Without Eyes’ brings to mind Jonathan Harker’s excursions into the forbidden sections of Dracul’s rotten manor, orchestral manoeuvres of a deathly ballet which begin down dusty corridors decorated with faded portraits projecting holographic memories of the father replicant, and continue into the boudoir that precedes damned bliss, past a door of heavy oak into a bedroom where the Wives lure the meek Englishman with mesmerising chants like venus flytraps of undead flesh, synthetic stabs stand for the caress of fangs against puritan skin, staccato drum machines for lusty foreplay against animated mannequins.
It would all be a wonderful tale of sexual awakening if it wasn’t for the fact that this millenial succubi are Satan’s own whores, weaned on the tender flesh of innocent babies.