from: Netherlands
sounds like: good old dirty hardcore
jusr one song: Not like you
The killing EP
Bad news knocking at my door. Through
the tainted glass appeared that big meat-eating chain-smoking shadow
I used to work for at the Waldeck Police Squad. It is standing on the
other side like an old white sperm whale, coming from the depths of my
past to swallow the ridiculous bits of a present clumsily written
backwards on a fragil piece of glass. Pierre Allain, Détective
privé, that's what I am now. And it could be written Nobody,
Nothing, who would see the difference?
My hand is looking for my tomato juice,
and by the time I wipe my mouth of the thick red remains of a
nervous sip, he is already in front of me, that stinking
over-confident walking lung cancer known by the name of Sergeant
Pascal.
I start by showing him the open
window :
« Cigarette. »
As he skirts my desk, a big brown
enveloppe lands over the paperwork I spread to pretend I'm busy.
« Why didn't you send this
by e-mail ?
- When was the last time you even
read one of my e-mail ? »
I open the enveloppe, to find the
expected crudely exposed pictures of some dead bodies I am supposed
to be interested in.
Male, white, in his late thirties,
Buddy Holly glasses hazardously fallen half their way on the nose,
thin lips, well shaven. Fashionable haircut, the one you can see on
each and every head at electro private DJ sets and other
post-hardcore mosh pits. His stupid moustache is covered by a crusty
dark red matter that can't be anything but dried blood. No sign of bruises on the whole face. The pictures stapled on the
back show the same neat falsely kitsch-but-cool landscape,
crossed by a crackled river of hemoglobin. Coming from the left ear.
Coming from the right.
Male, white, in his late thirties
again. Cautiously bearded. Same haircut, a bit longer ; same
face features, a bit grosser. And the same unbroken nose that bled
way down to the tightly buttoned collar of a lumberjack shirt that
never got closer to any chainsaw. Blood on the front, blood from the
right, blood from the left, coming from the same ear-drums
haemorrhage.
Male, white, a bit older, his face
clearly showing pain and horror, like it was wax suddenly hit hard by the
seal of some demonic clerk. The hair is a real mess, and the dressing
a bit more classical : white shirt, tie, balck jacket. But the
bloodstains are the same : identical freshness and origin.
I feel strangely indifferent to those
suffering faces, and much more worried by the old ashtray smell that
invaded my personal sphere.
« The names : Alistair Mc
Owen, Wes Cassavetti, and Jean-Marc...
- Don't know any of them. What were
they ? Designers ? Last victims of the usual gay
harassment your men still enjoy after a long working night ?
- Journalist, blogger, pianist.
« Music lovers », hipsters faggets I would gladly kick
in the face to be sure I never hear their voice. The kind
of precious pussies you used to hang out on your spare time. »
He unfolds a paper and starts to
painfully read :
« Alistair Mc Owen is a renowned
writer for the BitchPork alternative website. Through the years he
spent in various music labels... bla, bla, bla... specialized in
post-folk and lo-fi neo psychedelic shit. Cassavetti is the
official biographer of the what ? ... Hannibal
Collective and Panda Smear... bla bla bla... And the last one,
the piano player, is a... let's see... minimalist mogul, the
direct disciple of Moonfrog and Phillip Grass. That kind of
useless fucks.
- If you and your men wouldn't be
useless fucks too, you wouldn't be here begging for my help. So, say
it now. »
He throws a CD-R over the tortured face
of the piano guy.
« Found on each crime scene. The
last thing they all heard. And, according to that crazy coroner,
probably the cause of their death.
- Killed by music ?
- I thought it was shit. But when I
first listened to it, I had to admit it made sense.
- A pity it didn't kill you too.
- I'm not a pussy music blogger, I
heard much worse than psychedefuck minimalist crap for masturbating
bearded gay wankers. That shit only made me want to kill the fuckers who recorded it. »
No label, no name, no cover. Just a
good old silver anonymous CD-R. Why would I give a fuck about this ?
I tried to catch his eyes, he tried to avoid mine.
« Say it. Now. »
Big inspiration, big smelly expiration.
« Ok Pierre : we need you.
- Last time you said it, you were
about to snitch on me and kick me out of my job, just...
- Play the fucking CD and tell me
who these fuckers are. We already talked too much, and I wouldn't
like to send one of my colleague to have a look at your licence. »
So be it, fat cocksucker. Play.
1,2,3,4. Harsh hardcore straight in the
face. Angry voice, no kidding, and a moshing part arriving only 30
seconds after the beginning of the first song. Slowing down, like a
beast approaching its prey, then vanishing. Good job. And I surely
know who they are. Roaring punk-rooted DIY recorded EP, New York
basement style, no fashion, just dirt. The guy is now screaming « I'm
not like you », and that's exactly what I'd like to shove down
that Sergeant Pascal's throat. I'm not like you, not like your filthy
rotten cops. I never was. The beating continues, wonky rhythm that
reminds me of those unlucky ectasy-fueled male prostitutes curled in
the corner of their cell after the midnight visit. Of those
anonymous faces left with no teeth on a wet pavement just before
dawn. Of the pain and the violence oozing from their walls, their
smiles, their jokes about the racoons, the niggers, the bitches. Of
my own fists on that particular drunken bastard, that particular
night. « Bad luck » is the last song of the EP, and it
was also the last song on my police career. Bad luck, or kind of :
the drunken bastard was not one of those half demented tramp you pick
up to drown your dying wedding in a bath of blood and snot supposedly
to clean the streets. He was one of us, one of them, one of
those cops I wouldn't even spit on. Bad luck for him, he is still
on a wheelchair, and I still can't regret it.
Before the usual nausea overwhelms me,
before I start to sink into my own misery, past, present, and future,
I spit the information. Just to end up that mediocre soap opera.
Just to get him out, with his badly cut suit, his begging eyes, and
the filth he brought here to stick my nose in.
« Backbreaker. Cursed for
life. A bit like you, a lot like me. From Netherlands, if they
still exist. And if that secretary of yours didn't burn what's left
of her brain on Rosé Pamplemousse, she may find them on the
internet. »
He steps forward, collects the picture,
carefully avoiding to thank me, to even look at me. When he extends
his hand, it's surely not to shake mine, but to press the Eject
button.
And next thing I remember is the
surprise in his eyes, the blood flowing down his nose, and my fist
ready to hit again.
« The CD stays here, and you, you
get the fuck out my office. »
Once again, the Sergeant Pascal leaves
me alone with my painful knuckles and a shitload of hassles to come.
So I press Play again, just to fill the
void, just to kick the silence in the balls like I kicked my life in
the trashcan.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If your brain is not floating in too much Rosé Pamplemousse, you can find Cursed for life, for free download on Backbreaker's bandcamp
Da Facebook (you may get a physical copy if you beg for it, and if the postman is not a kleptomaniac hardcore fan)
Pierre Allain initially comes from here (FR)
Objectivity at:
Legend Arising
