We broadly agree with James Murphy’s recent statement– “I like pretty music by people who make ugly music. I don’t like pretty music by people who make pretty music very much – it smells like a scented candle.”
That is the reason why we love German Army and other Kill Shaman peeps. Kitsch is a collateral victim of their quest for something else. Beauty, Truth, the American Dream? All of these things can be defined by what they are not, ghosts haunting the grotesque tapestries they make with materials harvested from the night, and from the dead interstices between local TV stations.
Those places where the seams of reality bulge the ugliest, like festering wounds.
(This is the artwork for the tape btw).
The holy patrons of Kosmische spent decades hurling messages into Central-European skies. This was a low-tech blueprint for SETI, and also the Voyager probe. It ignored the warnings of H.P. Lovecraft aficionados fearful that these foolish signals would act as beacons for the world-destroyers and soul-devourers that lurk in interstellar space.
They may have had a point.
German Army’s music spills insidiously into our wholesome homeland like the whispering of shady agents preparing the grounds for invasion, would we by any chance be interested in joining their fifth column? Before we have a chance to answer (or contacting X-COM), we are strung by a synthetic monofilament vibrating with the echo of that old Kosmische howl, arrived after a journey into the Uncanny Valley and back.
We lay still, as our pupils fill with ink, truly sold on the idea of a better-integrated future.
Axis Sova pull a similar trick in a different ecosystem. Their masters are not sidereal monstrosities, but the disembodied spirits that organised religion kicked out into the wilderness – the brotherhood of possessors that David Lynch has pointed his finger at in several occasions.
They await for their chance in the great hinterland, building traps like Mega-Satanic versions of Coyote with an exclusive line of ACME ordnance designed by H.R. Giger.
They transmogrify into hitch-hiking Baba Yagas, and thumb up their fleshless fingers in the middle of the night.
They inject sonic viruses in the brains of travelling rockers as they sleep in their touring trux, to make them make music that lures innocent listeners into the Great Nothing.
They ride in there, and return ridden. Just like this.
You can acquire Axis Sova’s fantastic ‘Weight of a Colour’ LP from Kill Shaman.