The following is an excerpt from Andy Nowicki's upcoming publication, tentatively titled Demon in the Rough
Like “the news,” which today is typically administered
televisually or electronically to produce an immediate result in the brain of its
targeted “consumer,” music is also notorious for being a mood-influencer, even
to the point of altering one’s very consciousness.
As a frequent cause of
powerful psychic reverberations in collective hearts and minds, music can in
fact pose a great danger to social harmony if it is harnessed by nefarious
sources bent on bringing agitation and upset.
Many common themes in popular music have been duly cataloged and commented upon in recent years, with publications like Cracked.com assuming a prominent role in scrutinizing the meaning behind clusters and conglomerations of frequent song lyric leitmotifs.
Yet to my knowledge, no one has reflected upon a particular classification of pop song, nor pondered the significance thereof. I speak, of course, of what could be called the “Wow, You’re Awesome in the Sack!” anthem, a species of pop song which seems expressly the province of female singers, wherein the object of amorous admiration is exclusively men.
The lyrics of most modern-day pop songs are dippy, dopey, silly, sappy, and altogether crappy. But every so often, we have an anthemic event which simultaneously rocks the airwaves and also captures an essential component of the Zeitgeist with poignant alacrity. In early 1981, that event was REO Speedwagon's power ballad anthem, Keep On Loving You.
It has often been remarked that the real losers of the sexual revolution are the so-called “beta males.” After all, prior to the time when the marital covenant became so thoroughly denigrated and devalued as it is now, “betas” actually wielded a kind of clout.
Back when young women were still encouraged by the culture to marry decent men, instead of being pushed to pursue Eat Pray Love-esque escapades with sexy strangers, the better to “find themselves” and so earn their ticket of supposed feminine “authenticity,” it actually paid for guys to be good, solid providers with sweet natures and decent temperaments.
In November of 1876, one hundred and forty years ago, Johannes Brahms’ monumental First Symphony was first heard, performed in Karlsruhe, Germany. The much anticipated work – which took Brahms over 20 years to complete – has become part of the canon of Western music. Ironically, the premiere of The Ring by Brahms’ supposed rival and fellow musical genius, Richard Wagner, was performed for the first time in the same year.
While one critic initially called Brahms’ First Symphony “Beethoven’s Tenth,” it has surpassed that unjust description and now stands on its own merit as a distinct masterpiece. The First Symphony, the three that followed, and the rest of Brahms’ works makes him more than Beethoven’s successor, and a unique musical figure in his own right.
Music died around 1993. I was there at the funeral, on the staff of Riff Raff, a failing rock magazine that realised too late that, post-1993, the music biz would mainly be about recycling pieces of the corpse of the Great Tri-Decade (1963-93), when music was actually alive and capable of growth as a multi-dimensional form of cultural expression.
I must have had an intuition, as the column I was writing at the time was a troll-like humour page by the name of “The Fly Column.”
David Bowie, who recently died after an 18-month battle against cancer, will be remembered for many things. But one of the most interesting points about the man was the degree to which his creativity, especially at its height, coexisted with what came to be considered extremely taboo views, and the degree to which his talent tapered off as he became more acceptable in the eyes of the establishment.
We live in an age of oppressive political correctness, where almost anybody of prominence is forced to toe the line, lest they offend, "trigger," or commit "micro-aggressions"; and, if they do, they are required to humbly beg for forgiveness even where none is offered. Such intolerance even includes rock stars, the wild, shamanistic figures we reared up in the spiritual vacuum of the 1960s and 70s, through our appreciation of the Dionysian aspects of a fast-mutating musical culture.
But what about David Bowie and his obvious interest in Nazism and Fascism? Going by comments made in interviews, song lyrics, and stage imagery, the singer clearly had a crush on the 20th century's real counter culture. Why wasn't more made of this? Why was he let off the hook?
First the evidence of Bowie's fascism. Back in his 1970s heyday, he gleefully told reporters that "Hitler was the first pop star" and declared that "the best thing that can happen is for an extreme right government to come."
portraying Himmler’s sacred realm of dream reality.
Then there is his 1977 composition China Girl, which became a hit in 1983:
I stumble into town, just like a sacred cow
Visions of Swastikas in my head, plans for everyone.
But Bowie had gone even further than that. There are famous pictures of him waving and sieg heiling from an open-top black Mercedes of the kind that Hitler used.
Here's Hitler in a similar car (and with a better crowd response):
Definitely not a coincidence. Then there is the lightning flash mark, a symbol of fascism, that was used for Aladdin Sane, as well as the SS symbols he used onstage for the Ziggy Stardust tour:
Of course, Bowie was an eclectic style stealer and far from being an "actual Nazi." His general sexual and narcotic degeneracy would have precluded that. However, he was at least open to elements and aspects of Nazism and Fascism in a way that made sense for someone in his creative, cerebral, and iconoclastic niche.
His Nazism quotient was certainly high enough to provide endless ammunition for "Social Justice Warriors" and "antifa" with nothing better to do. It is surprising therefore that more was not made of Bowie's flirtations with fascism and his frequent one-night stands with Nazism. Throughout his long career, no public statement or press conference was forced from him, in which he begged for forgiveness for his "hurtful" and "insensitive" comments, lyrics, or actions.
Communism killed 100 million and all I got was this lousy Manic Street Preachers T-shirt.
But then again, in the 1970s and 80s countless bands, including the likes of The Sex Pistols, Joy Division/ New Order, The Skids, and Spear of Destiny played with Nazi imagery. Even the Jewish musician Mick Jones, who later found fame with the Clash, started off in an outfit called London SS!
Toying with Nazi imagery was certainly no worse than toying with Communist imagery, and in my opinion a lot less offensive, as Nazism only killed large numbers of people under wartime conditions, whereas Communism did the same and much worse under peacetime conditions.
But, given the hysteria that surrounds such symbols as the swastika and Confederate flag today, and the totalitarian "zero tolerance" attitude of political correctness, it is still surprising that the PC bigots left Bowie and his legacy alone.
Why is this? Probably it was due to a combination of factors – his age, his Somalian wife (perhaps that's one reason he married her), and his past bisexuality and androgyny. All these factors made him a slightly awkward target for SJWs to attack, as did his powerful lawyers.
But there was also some clever PR management. In rock histories and biographies of the man – like the one I read most recently, Christopher Sandford's Bowie: Loving The Alien (a solid, "meat and potatoes" effort) – Bowie's fascistic dalliance is more-or-less explained away as an aspect of his drug-addled years, rather than anything significant. This, of course, is the kind of excuse an average member of the public would not be allowed if he or she tweeted or shared similar words or imagery on social media after a few drinks too many.
But has PC exacted a cost on Bowie?
Some will say that his talent declined simply because of age; while others will ascribe his creative decline to the same cause as his "fascism" – a brain burnt out on massive amounts of drugs. Both explanations are quite feasible. But I would entertain a third possibility, that for an iconoclastic soul like Bowie his creative downturn was related to the growing intolerance of our age and the unrealistic expectation that rock stars be "respectable" and line up their ideological ducks with the establishment.
This trend really started to get going in the 1980s, and it is perhaps the reason why that decade was also the last truly creative decade in the history of popular music. Bowie's dip in creativity almost perfectly matches the growing imposition of political correctness in the 1980s, with his 1983 album Let's Dance being his last potent record (with the possible exception of his just released final album). Alongside the fascistic China Girl, that album also included gestures towards political correctness, like the narrative touting the "oppression" of the Aborigines on the video for the album's title track.
What is a rock star if he cannot exist beyond the taboos that circumscribe the rest of us? Answer: a mere musician with an stupid hair cut. During the lifetime of David Bowie (1947–2016), visions of swastikas were incapable of ever bringing back the Third Reich, but they might have helped the occasional taboo-busting rock star find a seam of true creativity.
While efforts continue on the wider alternative right to construct an alternative media and strong counter culture, it is heartening to see what has been achieved in France, with the French nationalist music group, Les Brigandes, who consistently produce original brilliant music with potent messages and eye-catching videos.
While a recent discovery to this writer, the Swedish singer Tove Lo obviously has a significant fanbase, one that likely extends throughout the world. The two top results on YouTube for her song, Habits (Stay High) have been viewed 107 million times, and 199 million times respectively. While certainly a compelling song, the tune's lyrical content is emblematic of the destruction of the sexes that the institutional Left has accomplished in the last century or so.
A corrupt age views innocence as an essential absence; that is to say, as a state of
being “not guilty.” Since all ages are corrupt, to varying degrees, we never
quite apprehend innocence for what it truly is: a positive presence.
Philosophy, after all,teaches that man’s telos is the Good; if this is so, then the condition of innocence can’t simply be dismissively
consigned to the silly naivety of childhood, while “knowledge” and “wisdom” get
to be associated with an individual’s embracing of the corruption that
invariably attends maturity, thus demonstrating his complicity with that which
spoils his innocence.
In truth innocence is wisdom, and corruption is folly, NOT
the other way around.
Music... Nothing conveys spirit in a more succinct manner than this sonically-mystic entity which forms an essential pillar of even the most savage of the world's cultures, for good or for ill. Far from being an innocuous substance for leisurely consumption, music is a force whose audible raw materials have immense potential either to degrade or elevate the character of Man, and today it–more often than not–functions as a sonic Trojan Horse, inconspicuously making its way into the minds of men while simultaneously, albeit subtly, releasing destruction upon his being. These notions of music's potentially corrosive effects are wholly anachronistic in our age of flaccid Liberalism; overlooked as well as scoffed at by common men and cultural commissars alike.
It has often been remarked that the real losers of the sexual revolution are the so-called “beta males.” After all, prior to the time when the marital covenant became so thoroughly denigrated and devalued as it is now, “betas” actually wielded a kind of clout.
Back when young women were still encouraged by the culture to marry decent men, instead of being pushed to pursue Eat Pray Love-esque escapades with sexy strangers, the better to “find themselves” and so earn their ticket of supposed feminine “authenticity,” it actually paid for guys to be good, solid providers with sweet natures and decent temperaments.
During such times, men of this sort were quite sought-after commodities, in fact. Prospective wives could, after all, do a lot worse than to pledge troth to a solid, respectable man, even if truth be told he was no Gable or Grant in the looks department, didn’t ooze irresistible tough-guy charisma like Bogart, and didn’t possess the world-conquering ambition of Hitler or Stalin. Even if your "beta" hubby was a bit of a dullard, he at least took care of you, provided for you, and saw to the health and well-being of your children; these matters certainly weren’t small potatoes, and weren’t viewed as such. A good man, everyone agreed, was good to find.
I am no expert on men’s issues, nor can I realistically claim to major in manliness, but still I
venture to declare that the success of “Rude,” a song now gaining extensive
airplay, unintentionally underscores a prominent crisis in modern-day
masculinity.
The following piece was originally published in 2013; it then disappeared ignominiously, along with many other documents, when the Christmas Day Purge took place; it is hereby snatched from oblivion, in all of its morose splendor, and brought again to your attention, by unpopular lack of demand. - A.N.
In the echoing cadences of popular music, the alienated soul finds both the temporary buzz of entrancement and the all-too-familiar drone of his own spiraling hollowness. Hungering and thirsting for a sense of connection, for the comforting if illusory sensation that he is in fact, not alone, he instead most often detects sure affirmation of his utter isolation. Yet the hope always remains as insistent as the hooks of the songs which at first inexplicably captivate and compel his jaded heart. He may just be a thoroughgoing hopeless romantic beneath it all, but that doesn’t stop him from perpetually detecting the bullshit of romance.
Such a one has heard so many “Girl, you’re so beautiful” songs that his heart has turned to stone. He has been subjected to such a plethora of “Man, you’re such a man and oooh you sure know how to love me right” tunes that he’s been afflicted with a permanent case of the dry heaves. That men and women are suckers and fools, each in his or her own way vulnerable to blatantly vacuous praise if it flatters their egos, never ceases to fill him with revulsion. Yet he is even more possessed by bouts of self-loathing when he considers his own occasional weakness for the very same lines. After all, as They Might Be Giants once observed, “A woman’s voice on the radio can convince you you’re in love.” And this is certainly true, for, to quote Buddy Holly, “It’s so easy to fall in love”... and if you think you’re in love, then you pretty much are, sucker.
But much as he may detest the endless iterations on the standard “inane love song” which in one way or another has long dominated the radio airwaves, these are not what truly makes the alienated soul grind his teeth with rage and mutter fiercely fearsome oaths to himself under his breath. Rather, what really chafes his sensibility is not the phony love song, but the phony “encouragement song.”
Let’s face it: there are a lot of sad, lonely, desperate people in our world. The alienated soul knows this well enough, for he is one such person. But being one of the lonely ought never be confused with claiming solidarity with the lonely. The alienated soul is too proud to associate himself with any group, though he isn’t too proud to own his patheticism. He knows that he is despised and forgotten, an underground man, of little significance or regard, more an amusement to others than a legitimate force with which to be reckoned, a minor threat at best. But at the same time, he’ll take no psychological handouts, thank you very much. He knows that he’s on his own, and much as he may wish it were different, he’ll stay the course for the duration, serving out his time as a dutiful, purposeful prisoner, cultivating his garden and honing his craft all the while, shunning overt bitterness. If life is disappointing, complaining about it does no good; best to cultivate a stoical outlook and resolvedly accept your meager portion.
Yet how the pop singers of the world appear to fret over his lot in life! “All the lonely people, where do they all come from…./Where do they all belong?” wondered Paul McCartney a half-century ago. McCartney may have earnestly cared about the plight of the spiritually homeless, but it is clear that he had no proper empathy for them; rather, as is clear from his lyrics, the very existence of lonely people plainly bewildered him; poor Paul just didn’t know what to do with such folk, could neither grapple with their obscure origins nor figure out where to put them. While Eleanor Rigby is a song possessed of a certain forlorn power, this is largely due to the sheer brutality of the speaker’s candid observations of despair and futility concerning the destitute Eleanor and her well-meaning but hapless would-be rehabilitator Father McKenzie: “No one comes near… What does he care?... No one was saved.”
Most singers, however, aren’t simply content to reflect on what sad cases we lonely people are. Instead, they intend to give us sorry losers a pep talk, by assuring us that we’re not really losers… we’re winners who just don’t know it yet! Their assertions would be laughable—after all, they don’t know the people for whom they’re ostensibly so concerned—were it not for the grating effrontery at the heart of their absurd gesture of effusive compassion. They don’t want to “help”; they merely want to give the appearance of wanting to help, in order to score PR points in showing what caring, down-to-earth celebrities they truly are. “Everybody hurts sometimes, but hold on,” REM instructed us. (Yeah, thanks, you whiney-voiced faux-eccentric Micheal Stipe; now please shove off, faggot.)
Most recently came Katy Perry’s Firework, a song in which the doe-eyed Christian girl-gone-bad breathily assures the listener of his infinite worth. Feeling down? Chin up, chap: all you have to do is “ignite the light and let it shine,” and you’ll “own the night like the Fourth of July, 'cause baby, you're a firework!"
What makes it infuriating, of course, is that we find ourselves wanting to believe her. Our quest to attain self-possessed stoical resolve founders for a second, for a minute, or for even longer, just because some pretty girl with a pretty voice tells us that things can be better if we only “believe in ourselves,” and “go for it.” The effort made to achieve dignity and balance is thus disrupted by the most exceedingly banal of platitudes, packaged in such a way as to appeal to our propensity to yearn for joy. We are undone by our hopefulness, and rendered abject schmucks. Our undying, seemingly un-killable hope fuels our rage, and in turn, somewhat paradoxically, enhances our despair.
"Aww, I thought I was a firework! Bummer..."
WISTFUL THINKING
In my last dispatch, I discussed the psychological conundrum of the alienated soul vis a vis the common themes of relentlessly banal, hideously ubiquitous popular music, themes which are alienating enough to reinforce his deep-seated awareness of psychic dislocation, while at the same time somehow retaining enough allure to leave him helpless before his proclivity to succumb to the very wishful (and wistful) thinking which so often leads him to despise himself.
Such a one finds himself exhorted to feel good about himself (recall “Baby, you’re a firework!”) by his rulers, those plastic soulless phantoms who he’s quite aware couldn’t care less about him, even if they did know him from Adam, which of course they don’t. He recognizes that their pretense of compassion is absurd, an insolent slap to his face and a brazen insult to his intelligence, yet finds he cannot help but be sent at times into pangs of delusional delectation at the thought—“Wouldn’t it be nice?”—of being recognized, affirmed, and befriended by the likes of Katy Perry, et al.
"It says nothing to me about my life"
What such a one as he finds so vexing is the indomitable insistence of the inherent, ingrained human impulse towards desiring companionship, appreciation, and popularity, a propensity which runs directly counter to his need to preserve and safeguard his dignity and authenticity, in isolation if necessary. Awareness of this repugnant weakness is a particularly devastating blow to the alienated soul, who sets great store in maintaining his sense of pride, regardless of whether or not the world accepts him.
Sadly, stoicism—his favored palliative philosophical approach—isn’t in his genes, and doesn’t appear to run in his blood. No matter how hard he tries, he still finds that he wants to be respected, admired, and loved by those who now only ignore and—at best—condescend to him. He wants not only to be great, but also to be recognized for his ostensible greatness. Indeed, it is with no shortage of horror that he apprehends just how far he truly stands from his ideal self. It is sickening just how much he relies on affirmation from others to give himself a boost. Appalling indeed how a woman’s voice on the radio is all it takes to make him hope and yearn for the impossible, to the detriment of everything he holds dear.
Yes, he knows this much: he is wretched and contemptible. Yet an endlessly escalating cycle of self-loathing can’t be his final destination. Even while in the midst of riding his dolorously shame spiral, he well-enough recognizes that his self-generated anguish represents a dead end, one from which he must eventually rebound. And after all, he has always acknowledged his patheticism, even though it has been wrapped in a kind of pride. If the world sees him as a loser, he likes to think he wears his loserhood as a badge of honor. He can accept rejection; it’s little more than he’s ever known. But can he accept the fact that he still yearns for acceptance from his haughty tormentors, even while enduring the merciless slings and arrows of their scorn? Can he embrace his patheticism, even to the extent of acknowledging his own inescapable folly, in addition to the folly of the world?
Not bloody likely, I’m afraid. For where would that leave him? If he can’t fall back on his rebellion against the world, what does he have? If, beneath it all, he only yearns to be celebrated by the powers-that-be who now ignore him or hold him in contempt, then how can he face himself, much less the world?
Instead, the alienated soul finds himself yearning to “fix” himself. Maybe there is some lever or button that he can flip or push within his soul, which will turn off his desire to be liked and accepted. Perhaps he should do exercises, something like spiritual sit-ups, in order to strengthen his resolve, the better to become self-reliant and at last be freed from the futility of hope and the vanity of vanity.
If his folly is inborn, a part of his nature, he finds himself reasoning, then is it possible to change his nature? If a leopard can’t help being born with his spots, can he nevertheless find a way to peel them off, especially if they prove to be spiritually carcinomic? Our hero’s mind dashes to thoughts of a more radical cure than he’d previously entertained. Perhaps self-slaughter? Perhaps self-emasculation? Surely there is some way to target the root of the infernal problem, whether that root be lodged in the loins, the mind, the heart, or consciousness itself…Anything would be better than to continue in such a grim orbit around ephemeral vacuities, never even approaching his desired destination, stuck in miserable stasis.
The violence he has long felt towards the outside world, while in so sense mitigated in intensity, thus gets redirected inward. The alienated soul finds himself not just alienated from the modern world, but from himself. Both the interior and the exterior are in need of authoritative alteration, he concludes, but as with some interpretations of Islam, the inner-directed jihadnow presents itself as the more essential one. Indeed, he senses the urgency with greater and greater bouts of ferocious delirium: Something must be launched into the very core of his being—a focused attack on that within himself which for so long has festered, working to undermine his resolution.
He thinks of Panic, the disarmingly mordant ironic 80s anthem of social upheaval and defiance by The Smiths. In that song, the disaffected speaker (Morrissey, natch) encourages open attack against the media establishment, specifically with reference to the purveyors of popular music. “Burn down the disco!” he commands us, adding that we should “Hang the blessed DJ, ’cuz the music that they constantly play…says nothing to me about my life.”
All of what the great Morrissey speaks of here is true, without a doubt. His critique is perpetually relevant, no less so today than it was thirty years ago. Our rulers hold us at a distance, exploit us unmercifully before shoving us into the grave at a time of their convenience, even as they shamelessly keep us mesmerized in the interim with baubles, bread, and circuses. If we are men, we cannot—must not—tolerate such a state of affairs.
But it is not enough to burn down the (proverbial) disco or to let the (metaphorical) DJ dangle. We must also grapple with what makes us so uniquely vulnerable to such manipulation. Find it, seize upon it, slaughter it mercilessly. Hang the inner DJ, and burn down the disco in our soul.
Andy Nowicki, co-editor of Alternative Right, is the author of seven books, including Under the Nihil, The Doctor and the Heretic, Considering Suicide, and his latest, Beauty and the Least. He occasionally updates his blog when the spirit moves him to do so.
April must surely be the most English of months. Not only is it the month when our countryside, our gardens and public parks seem to burst into life, April also witnesses the festival of the patron saint of England, St. George as well as the anniversary of the birthday of the worlds’ most famous poet and playwright, the English Bard himself ; William Shakespeare.
There is another factor which one might interpret as being a significant contribution to the undying spirit of the English nation; a piece of music which is simple in its composition but stunning, almost divine, in its performance.
The video posted above will function as a kind of vividly colorful Rorschach blob. Your reaction to it will, I'm afraid, prove to be utterly predictable, regardless of who you are—at least in the vast majority of cases. As with all Rorschachs, what you see is what you get; which is to say, what you "get" is limited by the ideological horseblinders you have chosen to wear.
The Homo and the Negro, a provocatively-titled collection of essays recently published by Counter-Currents, reveals one of the more interestingly idiosyncratic, and thus far largely unsung, writers of the far right.
James J. O’Meara has called his own writing style “psychedelic,” and while I don’t know if this is meant to imply the actual influence of LSD in this Detroit-born, Canadian-educated baby boomer’s life, one can indeed sense quite a bit more of a Phillip K. Dick-vibe in his work than anything Evolian or Spenglerian. But maybe that’s just a roundabout way of saying that, while O’Meara has a profound interest in matters of intellectual substance, his writing is at the same time entertaining to read, and not in any way stuffy or stultifyingly academic-sounding.
There have always been doubts about just who Laibach are and what they are up to. First who are they? The band is a collective so it is never too clear where “who” ends, although it seems to begin with Milan Fras, the doom-laden vocalist who chants and growls rather than sings most of their lyrics.
Next, what are they up to? This question often crops up as the Slovenian collective often plays with Communistic and Fascistic imagery. This might seem a little edgytarian to those of us from the more Beatlesque or Miley Cyrusy parts of the cosmos, but let’s not forget that Slovenia, the band’s homeland, was, is, and has been perched much closer to the great Fascist/Communist fault line that ran through Europe for most of the 20th century. Any musician from those parts who doesn’t reflect that in their music and style is probably making a conscious effort not to.
Given the fact that the Western music industry and media have always been hard liberals, Laibach have needed to hedge their bets when operating outside their local area by throwing in a little bit of cognitive dissonance – e.g. taking the piss out of NATO (a low cost solution for them) – and by allowing everything they do to be taken ironically.
But what if they actually were . . . ulp . . . evil fascists?!
Well, that wouldn’t matter too much, as they are officially “weird and foreign.” I guess you could call this taking advantage of their “Slovenian Privilege.”
From this unique niche, over three decades they have been able to follow their ominous jack-booted muse down a dank, electro-industrial passage that has by default increasingly come to echo the dissonant hum and sense of foreboding that lies at the heart of the Neu-Europa, a much troubled continent, where the past glowers with increasing anger at the present, and where the future hatches dark plans of its own.
Their new record Spectre is a further development of this dynamic. Jaunty opening track The Whistleblowers has been interpreted as a reference to the Snowden affair, but is much more an evocation of the kind of teamwork, toughness, and group-mindedness that seems like a nostalgic yearning in the present atomized age. This is highlighted in the excellent and inspiring video for the track.
This interpretation is strengthened by the second track, the squalling electro of No History. Over a cacophonous swirl, Fras and a female singer – possibly Anja Rupel – chant and sing lyrics like, “Use the wisdom of ancient sages/ Call out for heroes/ Who will be the creed/ Of a new political faith.”
The only disappointment is when they throw in a mention of Occupy Wall Street, but even this is left hanging ambiguously by the next line – “And judge the intentions of those we don’t trust.”
Having pointed the finger in this way, Laibach switch back into obfuscation mode with the next track, the industrial computer game pop of Eat Liver! a frenetic, ugly creature that scuttles and buzzes like a radioactive cockroach on amphetamines. Never mind who controls Wall Street. What about the rampant promotion of the ass-munching antics of lesbians, gays, and, yes, straights that the title phrase (possibly) refers to?
While you’re still disoriented by this and starting to think, in some deep, dark nebulous way, that, yes, Liberalism really is an irredeemable evil, the title of the next song Americana, allows a negative association to form, although the gothicky pop, laced with choral and string effects, is pure “Europeana,” like a lost soundtrack from a spaghetti space Western.
We Are Millions And Millions Are One is a duet between the unlikely couple of Fras and his female comrade, and the closest thing to a love song on the album. It brings things almost to the banal, setting the stage for Eurovision to unleash its glacial menace and apocalyptic message of European disintegration. This is clearly stated – “Europe is falling apart” – and reiterated over a track that noticeably develops a little Middle Eastern swagger and truncates the last line to “Europe is falling!”
With lyrics like “In the absence of war/ We are questioning peace/ In the absence of god/ We all pray to police” you would literally have to be a wilful moron or simply a Liberal music journalist to miss the fact that this album is a serious and sincerely felt critique of Europe and modernity, and not some post-modern joke by a bunch of Slovenian pranksters. But even if it were, the fact that it resonates tells its own story.
Walk With Me and Bossanova show the outfit’s musical amplitude, throwing out a range of angular and unconventional sounds and lyrics larded with sinister references. In live shows Walk With Me is performed with marching feet on the screen behind the stage; while Bossanova has lyrics like: “Feed my hunger with poverty/ Feed my anger with children/ Feed my lust with bikini food/ Feed my ego with luxury/ I’m having a good time/And I want my nation to break down,” which almost reads like a haiku (or more correctly a tanka) of disenchantment with modern materialist society.
After hamming it up and plugging themselves into the electro pop of Resistance of Futile, Laibach make something of a statement by ending with a track called Koran.
The album’s title Spectre of course evokes the spectre of Communism from Marx and Engels’ 1848 The Communist Manifesto, but now, of course, Europe faces quite a different spectre, that represented by multiculturalism and the tolerance of demographically asymmetrical systems within the same state, namely the secular materialism, sexual egalitarianism, and anti-natalism of the West and the demographic dynamite of Islam and other Third World systems.
Again, one would have to be a complete moron or Liberal to avoid the simple logic of racial replacement that this entails. The track frames this dichotomy with a naive female voice mouthing the kind of feelgood platitudes on which liberalism is based over an aromatherapeutic music track: “I believe in a better world/ I believe in a better place/ I believe in brotherhood, equality and freedom/ I believe in happiness for all.”
Fras then undercuts this with his trademark growl as the music spirals into a darker place, intoning “Words are substance for tomorrow/ They are weapons of our mind/ Words can take us far away/ They will leave us all behind.” The duet is not so much between opposites as between one who is fully deluded (the typical Liberal) and the other, who is only half deluded but starting to awaken. Needless to say, such lyrics could only have been written by one who was fully awake.
Abundant hooks aside, what makes “Team” most aurally compelling is the manner with which it both embodies and transcends the youthful enthusiasm of one “wise beyond her years,” expressing simultaneous pleasure and dissatisfaction with what she feels – perhaps perceptively, perhaps rashly – to be her lot in life.
In his amusingly-titled article “Smells Like Dead Junkie,” Jim Goad, an iconoclastic icon if ever there was one, takes rhetorical dead aim at Kurt Cobain, the famously fame-hating rock star, heroin addict, and supposed voice of Generation X, who took literal dead aim at himself back on April 5, 1994, when the self-directed Shot Heard ’Round the Grunge World tore a massive hole through the Nirvana frontman’s peroxide-fringed head, knocking the life out of this lead screamer’s poetically plaintive blue eyes and caking the ceiling of the celebrated anti-celebrity’s Seattle mansion with his gorgeously tortured brains.
