My Review:
Virgin Prunes - Caucasian Walk
The stars of the Irish sky were intoxicated in the year of our Lord 1982, intoxicated by a cloud imbued with every emotional storm. The cause of this stellar pain was generated by a pagan ritual full of assorted poisons, put into a cauldron by six wisely crazy druids: they wanted to get the flavours of these concoctions into the vault of heaven and they did not fail in their intent.
The whole thing was called If I Die I Die.
From this sick and perverted shell the song Caucasian Walk rises as the highest artistic expression, a mixture of unhealthy liquids, contaminating beyond imagination: among neurasthenic screams, distorted syncopated Arabian dances, a loop worthy of the most rough and wildest P.I.L., everything is aimed towards the devil's stage celebrating the creation of this stinging therapy.
The lyrics evoke an emotional and creative paralysis, with a very violent criticism capable of freeing the teeth of madness for a lethal bite. Words that entrap and seduce, making one feel perfectly the stench of death coming out of the cauldron in the meantime.
The production of the album was entrusted to Colin Newman of Wire: he was able to contain the six wild guys from Dublin, but there was nothing he could do with this track, as it was impossible to hold back the impetus that pours from the truly volcanic notes and modes, which also seem to come from the first album by Siouxsie & The Banshees.
In front of the mirror where the human race and the beast are ready to face a duel, the tribe goes on the assault, making everything vibrate.
Art, pure as an unbridled thoroughbred, explodes inside the grooves: there are no obstacles that the song cannot overcome, dragging our listening into a lopsided and voracious dance, we are like possessed thanking these coral-filled druids with a hot foam.
Asphyxiating, corrosive, robotic, with a melodic structure that is the siren of a tamed ambulance, the voices come to complete the whole, giving the impression of a revolt that from Ireland is ready to conquer every soul willing to indulge in this molecular hypnosis.
The track hints at a controlled violence and we can certainly hear those words perfectly capable of making us perceive them as appropriate over a rhythm that is a series of punches to the stomach. The end is the obscene stage of two creatures beating the stars with their singing and not only above their heads: a song like this cannot be stopped anywhere in the world. The gods grant a pass for a poisoning that leaves no one safe.
The sounds are evocative, between the earthly life and the nightmare of hell interested in these Irishmen who seem to have all the credentials to one day become honorary citizens, because of this madness that forgets calm and good manners: Virgin Prunes are splendid devils, excited, exciting, and in Caucasian Walk they have already thrown their lava coal, without hesitation. The lyrics alone are enough to realise that there are inner demons in their minds, and it is spectacular how what appears to be a well-executed lysergic act can, however, also demonstrate the lucidity that must be acknowledged. They detect the problems generously offered by politics, go so far as to hint at sexual frustration by putting it all into that famous cauldron. They are extemporaneous but continuous scratches, words that come out not from a cut-up or spontaneous improvisation: there is a plan for reading reality that, if observed carefully, leads us, along with them, to glimpse the sick and distraught world.
It becomes easy to get lost, to release all paranoia within the shell of this creative space that seems to aim at making us souls on a journey where a new pilgrimage is ready to welcome us on arrival: having reached Mecca, we set off again frothing at the mouth to find new places in which the goal is not to get entangled.
Everything becomes a mixture of colours, of transgressions, of moods kept glued by a minimal loop but capable of welding the whole together towards a territory where everything is freed, not as a kind of catharsis but as a refuge, insane and essential, so as to give freedom a mask, being afraid of which is the least of worries: we must taste the poison and become like the stars, intoxicated but happy...
Alex Dematteis
Musicshockworld
Salford
1 July 2022
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