oOoOO are one of the not-so-best-kept secret soundtracks of much treading across mountains of madness in the white fields of the 20jazzfunkgreats confabulation. They were extensively featured in Salem’s Wemakeitgood mixtape, and in our own little special send-off to 2009. Every other blog is writing about them. They are so hot right now. Not hard to figure out why.
Because as you step into the secret parish where dark pacts are forged somewhere in the no man’s land between El Adobe and Santa Teresa, you will walk past a beautiful mural of the Virgin Mary illuminated in a position of ecstasy, perfect face framed in a shroud of ruby fabric. Examine her features more closely when the beacon of evil omen standing at the altar which is your destination sends its stroboscopic pulse of codeine light down the tunnel. Because there is something subtly wrong with this portrait.
As the drone of blood pumping across your arteries raises in pitch, you realise aghast that she is blinking an eye at you in wicked anticipation, mother of pearl teeth shine liquid in an enigmatic smile which means murder as much as it means salvation.
Like the Knife, Salem or Glass Candy, oOoOO stand at the strange crossroads between sanctity and sex. We can’t wait to see where they go next.
oOoOO are making us a mixtape one of these days. Get ready.
And we are loving Roberto Bolaño’s 2666 by the way.
Picture our Lotek hero, archetypical figure of existential daring best exemplified by the Warrior on the edge of time in the glorious front-cover of Hawkwind’s selfsame album. Picture him preparing for his long trip from Vigrid to Paradise Island, down the scorched highways of Route 666. In his path stand vigilant and at the ready Archons that brandish trumpets of angelic metal encrusted with diamonds, colossal cherubs armed with battle hammers, and a golem which reconfigures itself into a myriad beasts like a zealous version of Demon’s Seed Proteus.
Cue the classic scene where our Lotek hero arranges his psychedelic weaponry like John Matrix before dropping down with numb fury into an emerald island infested with moustached mercenaries.
No AK-47 in his bag, and if it were, it would be loaded not with cruel looking bullet of 7.62mm, but with vicious spells of Umbran magic.
No fragmentation grenades hanging from his chest, and if they did, they would explode not with a shocking burst of incandescent shrapnel, but into magenta fields of bewitching glamour.
But we can’t tell you about the secret of his kosmische weapons, because if we did we would have to kill you. The only thing we can say is that a tie-dyed headband is tightly wrapped around his forehead, and that Kid Wizard are blasting from his walkman.
And we are loving Bayonetta, by the way.