Category Archives: indian jewelry

20jazzfunkgreats best of 2010: Paranormal Beauty Contest

As we approach thee end of 2010, we open the gun locker, gaffer tape a flashlight to our pump action shotgun and slide into the vietcong tunnels of what went on this year. There be monsters there.

Being the all encompassing unstandardised weirdoes that we are, we make no attempt at ranking our choices, or to classify them by format. We just about manage to drop them into different buckets which aren’t quite genres, but a chromatic scale of the kirlian aura colours that they impressed upon us.

Let’s begin with black. Things that go slash in the night.

Chris Carter – The Space Between: Optimo music present to us a resurrected artefact from the dawn of our current philosophies.  Instrumental sides to the freestyle battles of Gods.

Chris Carter – Clouds (posted 2008)

Cold Waves and Minimal Electronics Vol. 1.: An urban survival guide for the modern existential hero. Can be read as a cyberpunk anthology, or as a collection of fashion tips for the cavalcade of the damned.

Eleven Pond- Watching Trees (posted in 2009)

Florene – Homemade Extacy. Those blips you see breaking the speed limit in your radar, lt. Strumpf, as you swig on your hip flask behind a battered roadside advert in the scorching Texan night, they aren’t your average joy riders. No, they are the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and they are looking for a rave.

Florene- Homemade Extacy (new post)

Gatekeeper: Giza.Herr Mannheim, I think that upgrading the operating system of our robotic assembly line with a code sequence downloaded from an anonymous source located somewhere in the sidereal voids wasn’t such a hot idea.

Gatekeeper- Serpent (posted Dec 6th)

Indian Jewelry: Totaled. Dorothy is bored in her house in the middle of the desert. A whirlwind takes her to a world of impossible colour . She jacks a pickup truck and storms down the yellow paths with her gang of metal men and talking beasts, under a black cloud of flying monkeys. Oz is toppled and anarchy ensues.

Indian Jewelry- Excessive Moonlight (posted May 18th)

Liars: Sisterworld. This is the sort of pop music that fills the airwaves in those desolate places where prepubescent worshippers of a pagan cult slaughtered all the adults.

Married in Berdichev: Readying. Walking down the private collection of the Hunterian museum at night, where beauty stands still, preserved in aspic.

Married in Berdichev- I Need the Sun (posted July 27th)

Model Man – Shouldn’t I be Dead by Now? Dry ice and airbrushed laser beams thunder over a brutal coastline as Tron’s less binary characters engage in fatalistic plans for their escape.

Model Man – Shouldn’t (posted October 18th)

Mueran Humanos: S/T. The dead are not quiet in Mueran Humanos’ album. Within, walls continue upright, bricks meet, floors are firm, and doors are sensibly shut. Silence lies steadily against the wood and stone. And we who walk here… walk alone.

Mueran Humanos: Festival de las Luces (New post)

Psychic Ills- FRKWYS 4: Doomsday ragas kinaesthetically synchronised with the infra-red output of the Predator’s mask, while manhunting in the Arabian desert.

Psychic Ills- Mantis (Juan Atkins Remix) (Posted August 26th)

Puerto Rico Flowers: 4. Me and Bauhaus getting it on in the abandoned abattoir (a love story).

Puerto Rico Flowers: Let’s Make Friends (new post)

Salem – King Night: Filling 20JFG’s lungs with bewitching dreams since 2008, Salem deliver the album that brushes past any middling concerns of genre partisans.  Exquisite beauty lurking beneath waves of delay and syrup.

Salem – Frost (New Post)

Scorpion Violente: Uberschleiss. The Gabber Meinhof aren’t a wild bunch of decadent noisemongers hellbent on collapsing society by industrial means. No, they are the research & development department of the survivalist massive, prototyping sonic armaments to be deployed against the undead hordes crawling from an oversubscribed hell.

Scorpion Violente: Viol et Revanche (posted October 18th)

Teeth of the Sea: Your Mercury. Sexual transcendence you achieve while your flesh dissolves under the leathery wings of the bat people of The Beastmaster.

Teeth of the Sea: A.C.R.O.N.Y.M. (posted October the 7th)

Xander Harris – Urban Gothic Synth drenched ode to Brian Keene.  A mix tape of all our favourite horror scores ripped to shreds and assembled into terrifyingly catchy shapes.

Xander Harris – Opening Credits (posted August 20th)

Texas Never Whispers

Featuring : Dharma + indian jewelry

Nick Cave turned down an offer to direct the film adaptation of Blood Meridian because he didn’t want to be the one to fuck it up. We hear it’s going to happen anyway, someone else will have to try and translate into images Cormac McCarthy’s  description of the pilgrimage across derelict wastelands through which child turns into man into enlightened hyena in a perverse twist on Nietzsche’s account of our future evolution, afflicting not of an individual but a whole nascent nation, sins of your forebears.

Shame Sam Peckinpah is dead, he would have been the man for the job.

Now imagine David Lynch did it. Not gonna happen, but bear with me for a second. Imagine the blur of shadows spreading like ink in water, an account of the rampage of the wild mongrel horde crawling across the mesas like a tsunami of mutilation. Intuitions of carnage reflected in the unblinking eye of a colossal horse, under the punishing sun blood spills black. Indian Jewelry would so be doing the soundtrack for this. They are the Cowboys from Hell, hurricanes herald them, and flowers whither on their wake, the rattlesnake is their totem, and how it coils in their warped music. Their new album, Totaled, is as good as anything they ever produced, and you know they have produced some good shit.

Indian Jewelry- Excessive Moonlight

The no holds barred sexy gnarliness of the output from Copenhagen’s finest Skrot Up is only equalled by their generosity. A silent messenger riding on the rugged back of a zombie mammoth stomped past the misty trenches surrounding our emerald bunker recently to deliver a black box full of Z noise goodies, and we will bashing you with its contents over the coming days. Lets begin with Dharma, who hail from Texas like Indian Jewelry (big up Texas), and share with them a taste for human flesh as ground to digestible (nevertheless gory) morsels through judicious applications of technology.

Material Equivalence, included in their ‘Technology and Truth’ tape kicks off with a deceiving snippet of exalted house before kicking you in the face with the beats of the damned. Don’t look so surprised, there was surely something wrong and desperate in its sound, as if it was the wall of an underground cell from which desperate victims had tried to scratch their way of o escape a ghastly fate at the hands of a coven of cybernetic satanists led by the most monotonically sexy aerobic instructor from industrialised hell we have had the perverse pleasure of encountering since ADULT.’s Nicola Kuperus.

Crash Course in Science would be proud.

Dharma- Material Equivalence

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.


Featuring : indian jewelry + Man Man

I am having to write this post in a dimly lit taberna because my Internet Service Providers are shit. Yes, I am talking about you Orange. You are shit. But by this time a crack team of homeostatic robots with pincers that inflict gangrened wounds are advancing towards your HQs, they can’t be detected by your puny security systems, and shall climb up your tower of evil like oil arising smooth up the dirty water of your existence, because I deserve justice. And you, punishment.

And why do I say this? Perhaps because my trip down the dusty roads towards this point in the plains where one can tap into the pool of light which teh interwebs is has been fraught with peril and doom, and even though I am alive, I am also scarred and crazed and require retribution which can only be paid in flesh, a few pounds, yes.


As the caravan marched between the crags of el Paso de la Bestia, yellow like bones of giants laid to rest in the graveyards of the desert, we noticed a strange vibration, a humming, a chanting accompanied by tribal drums that surrounded us like a ring of invisible fire, every black flame a ghost raising from the earth and ululating a siren song that penetrated our souls insidious intent on drawing us towards damnation. The horses went crazy and kicked and jumped, and old Silas, my trusty man-at-arms muttered something about the Indian Jewelry. About how this place is haunted, and a beastly wendigo roams its nights, a creature of shadows feared by the tribes of old, its claws pierce not the flesh, but the idea of the flesh with a poisonous caress. Only a primeval sign can keep it at bay but the knowledge of the nature of this sign went the way the tribes of old went, vanished in the shadows of history, so the beast roams unchecked ready to devour those who tread its grounds.

That night was hell and blood, dense darkness pushed against the feeble circle of light of the bonfire like an oleaginous sea licking the pale shores of our sanity, Silas said there was something out there and shot his rifle into a space of nothingness where something which was neither alive nor dead roamed, he shrieked and yelled like a madman, gentle Silas who taught me how to ride a horse when I was small, turned into a animal crazed with fear and rage, trapped inside a cage of light, a cage with fragile bars being bent out of shape by an unimaginable strength and a will to consume, one moment he was there and afterwards he wasn’t, he didn’t run, his arms went first and his twitching legs afterwards, something dragged him out into a place which is the opposite of fire but burns eternal, to make him burn with it.

At that moment I fainted realising that there was no way out and this night would be the last I’d breathe, slipping into a dream which was also a trance, and I saw a circle of ectoplasmic figures raising from the ground around me, they looked hollow and wise and their hair was braided and decorated with feathers, one of them spread its hands criss-crossed with deep ridges and iwhispered something in a tongue I couldn’t understand and a shape glimmered from it into the dust of the ground. I awoke and knew what to do, scrambled to that space where the piece of silvery jewel shined like a mirage, picked it up, put it inside the moribund bonfire and when it was hot enough, marked my flesh with the symbol it was, I screamed into the space of the night as it seared my side, but something screamed, shrieked, ululated stronger, a million tendrils of evil hungry furious and unsatisfied which slowly faded in the distance like a maelstrom of putrescent water sliding down a sink in the centre of the desert. Then I fainted. When I woke up, I saw the horses rigid and dead with a grimace in their noble faces that I didn’t know could exist in the faces of horses. I never found the piece of Indian Jewelry, but I carry its symbol carved in my flesh, and it makes me feel stronger.

Indian Jewelry- Barbwire

Indian Jewelry know the dark ways of the spirits, and walk with me now, proud and fierce, you can find their spells in ‘We are the Wild Beast’, which will be available soon.


Void of a horse, I had to walk through streets of a city where hordes worship at the altar of old Gods whose words and rituals have been rehearsed and rehashed for all eternity, for so long even the Gods themselves have become exhausted of a repetition of tribute and homage, piles of fruit and meat and barrels of beer rotting at the feet of their icons, laid there by worshippers who don’t understand that if the city is to grow and thrive, new Gods need to be created, and with a new attitude, one that isn’t happy having found, but dissatisfied because it has found and keeps searching, tapping into new mythologies and legends with zest and wild eyed enthusiasm. And so did colourful flies swarm over the city to feast on all this wasted produce, directed by the magic wands of snake oil sellers clad in fancy outfits agitated with a cynical pretence of enthusiasm feigned in exchange for a leather pouch full of gold.

Aghast I walked in the tumult, trying to ignore the shrieking, the generic tribes crowding in front of icons of wood I could have sworn were crying static in utter boredom, but then there was a new noise and I looked behind and I saw a bizarre caravan approaching in the distance, crowds stepped aside to let it pass, they stared at its colourful banners envious, aware that such colours cannot be achieved through a new posture, but with crazed gusto and a commitment and an inner knowledge which resonates in the truthfulness of the crazed music of their march, gypsies not intent on settling to create a new church and establishing rules for worshipping and belonging, but just passing by as part of their colourful crusade through all lands, like a long snake drawing a symbol of life for the birds to observe mirthful from their high positions in the bosom of a sky which shines brighter, all clouds cleared by the merry singing of this caravan. I followed them mesmerised through vibrant landscapes emerald and obsidian and purple and eventually got here, turned into a convert of nothing and all at once, a believer in a spirit or idea more than a form, one of singularity achieved through sincerity and intensity, I am but spreading the word now, nothing to learn and everything to enjoy, both when listening and when following not their path, but their joyous example,

Man Man- Harpoon Fever (Queequeeg’s Playhouse)

They are Man Man, and they keep burning gloriously unique in Rabbit Habbits.


Be special. Get tickets at Resident, Edgeworld or Rounder. FTW