Tuesday, 1 July 2014

An Unfinished Life - Expose and Demons

 from: England sounds like: metallic hardcorejust one song:grind

 The Ghost Tape

A moonless drive on their way back to Plymouth. The night is quiet. Outside, nothing but an hesitant wind. Inside, the engine, four snoring half-drunk musicians, and a driver, fighting against tiredness, still wondering why the fuck he chose the Moors instead of the A38's. It smells like sweat and cheap beer. Empty bags of crisps lost between the amps, stuck under the guitar cases, wrapped around cables. 
Nothing but an unknown japanese van, old and beige, crossing the rustling emptiness on its way back to Newton Abbot, what’s left of the night, and a well-deserved rest.
Just around Combeston wood, when the B3357 meets an unnamed path , the drummer/driver closes his eyes for half the half of a second.
Just enough time for a gigantic truck to appear on the right.
No lights out, no motor sound. Probably no driver.
And no survivor.
            Next summer. Unexpected heat all over the south of England. Kate and her over-suntanned anorexic brainless crew are on their way to a festival in Brighton. One of her fuck friends is behind the wheel, not liking the way this trip started. The weather is already exhausting, the beer is already insipid, the babbling of the girls is already getting on his nerves. But not as much as the fact of being forced to leave his brand new deep blue Honda Civic in a lousy garage in Yelverton. And not as much as the fact of being forced to drive that shitty dusty rusty whining old van, beige as an un-celebrated MILF’s ass, and slower than Kate cerebral impulses.
The gossip at the back is ending, and the girls are asking for some music. No way to plug any of their IPods to the old radio-cassette player. When they try, in vain, to get any radio signal, they suddenly notice they are in the middle of a kind of nowhere people usually call: “the Moors”. Not a very LOL situation.
But Amy just found a tape under the passenger seat. Black, with three words carved in the plastic. An Unfinished Life.
Why not?
It whiffs for a few seconds, like echos of the hot breeze whirling around their expensive flat caps and haircuts.
But then come the noise.
It’s harsh, it’s raw, and sounds so much unlike their well maintained faces and nicely cut clothes they’d rather cry than go on listening to that shit for a second more.
Chris promptly presses the eject button.
But the tape won’t stop.
I never needed you, you always needed me. 
That's what the tape says. And the music fills the habitacle as a tribe of famished vampire bats would do when entering the donor centre on Derriford road. No more LOL, no more YOLO, just mid-tempi loudly pounding their ears. Cold madness that goes beyond madness, like witnessing an alcoholic mum repeatly stabbing her thirteen years old daughter.
Chris presses the Off button.
But the tape won’t stop.
When sleeping is not my addiction.
That's what the tape shouts. And Chris tries to tear the cassette player out.
I can smell shame in your breathe. 
That's what the tape yells. And Chris tries to drown it in warm beer. To smash it with his fists. And Kate tries to cover the hellish noise with high-pitch screams.
But the tape won’t stop.
And, even worse, it is auto-reverse.
And, even worse, the doors decided to lock themselves.
And, even worse, the engine just puffed and died.
And, even worse, they are stuck in the middle of deserted crossroad.
Thanks God there is no high-speed demonic truck coming on their right.
Well... it seems that the last lesson Life is going to teach them is to never thank God too early: a shadow quickly falls over the van, and its subsequent tangible following just dissolves the old carcass and its occupants into pieces and fluids that will dry and rot in the bushes around for the next thirty six hours.

            Winter. Angela’s Twingo is dead, and she really needs a four-wheel adjuvant to daily reach her uncomfortable chair behind that Tesco cash desk. That’s why she’s here, freezing among the sparse rows of second-to-fifteenth-hand cars. Her budget decides for her: it will be this old beige Nissan. Hopefully it would last till Rob-the-Bastard remembers to pay her her maintenance.
When she is trying to find that bloody handle to get the driver’s seat closer to the wheel, her hand found a greasy bunch of unknown material. It’s a bag of crisps, and it contains a black tape shaterred with pale crumbs.
She grimaces in disgust, and doesn't even try to read the carved words on the plastic No time to lose, the boss is waiting, the customers are waiting, a brand new shitty working day is stamping behind the horizon. She opens her windows, throws everything away, wipes her fingers on her uniform, switches the ignition and sighs. The engine started right away, which is always a good sign...

Expose my Demons on the Unfinished Life bandcamp (where you can get it for free)
on yutubi
the facebook
the big cartel

Some objectivity and clearer review:
PigsquealsandBreaKdow: "I am usually not one for this type of music, but Expose My Demons is good." What else can I say?...

Words by Matthieu

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