The Goat’s Latest Obsession: “After-hours Dance Party At The Goat’s”
Opener “Violet Revanche” (I think it means “rape and revenge”) briskly ushers you through a secret entrance to one of those clubs you’ve seen in movies like “Irreversible,” “Seven,” or “8mm” that you’ve always wished to go to but were too pussy to seek out. It wastes no time in hypnotizing you and demands your clothing before proceeding. You acquiesce, your will no longer yours as you begin your oddessey through corridors of unimaginable sexual misanthropy.
Since this style of music — whatever the fuck you might think appropriate to call it — is so foreign to me, I have neither a frame of reference nor any idea how to even qualify the sounds I’m hearing. I’m kind of at a loss to describe it objectively. Are these synths? Computer-based programs, emulators or some other form of digital fuckery? I can’t really be bothered with it, as to do so would take my attention too far from the sleazy beats and depraved atmosphere.
Though most of the titles are not in English, the few that are — “Ray ov Gold,” “The Cherrypopper” — give cryptic insight into what Scorpion Violente’s M.O. may be. And while the sometimes muffled, always reverb-saturated vocals are mostly unintelligible to these cretin ears, they are true gospels of perversion. The few words I’ve made out make it impossible to be anything but and I pick up on the sleaze like a dog smells fear. Here it’s best to let your mind wander and surprise yourself with just how terrible you can be. And then there’s “Christopher Walken” and I’m not sure I want to know what’s going on there. At the end of the album, it will obliterate what is left of your mind and modulate your vas deferens.
In some weird way, Scorpion Violente works for me on the same level that Ride For Revenge does. And that the label who released Uberschleiss alleges that Scorpion Violente is a gay beast from France obsessed with analogue trash electronics and bad sexual habits just kicks it up a notch. I haven’t been able to stop listening to this since it was shown to me by my good friend Rick at the GODLY Redscroll Records in Wallingford, Connecticut (no really… this is the best record store in New England since Phoenix closed). It is sonic tiger balm for my prurient soul.
Should Italian Afro-Cosmic pioneer Andrea Baldelli go to Hell upon his death and be annointed house DJ, Uberschleiss will have proven aurally prophetic.