Another crazed night... Kocka is a fairly large room, one that could easily support 350 people. Our gracious host, Igor, anticipated we'd draw 15 souls from Split's 200,000 inhabitants; that we managed to pique the curiosity of three times that number seemed to please the local faithful no end. The proof would be in our performance, however, as nuances would necessarily be lost in the obsidian echo chamber.
Zivottinja kicked things off with a powerful set of ever-attenuating ambient doom, cartilaginous filaments stretching further, further... Excellent.
We went apeshit, and that's about as much as I remember. I caught Balazs smashing his cymbal stand out of the corner of my right eye; with two mike cords wrapped around my throat and my torso hanging over the edge of the stage railing, I snatched a glimpse of Eva and Sickboy with their heads tilted back at alarming angles, orbs rolled back into their sockets. Yes, my droogies, it was good...
Karmakumulator joined us for an extended encore of "Mothers Over Silverpoint", and at the end of our set we danced with obscene fervor to a Croat jump-style ditty that popped up on Igor's computer. (He used a bad-ass desktop model to trigger deformation filters that abraded harmonic contours from my "Mothers" vocal; he fired up Winamp as the final note of our collaborative assault faded.) The audience thought this also a part of our performance, and the last burst of activity engendered an oft-disquieting round of semi-nationalistic karaoke that persisted well into the early morning hours... Complete madness on every level.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Some things should be kept in the dark. Our mountain road trek from Zagreb to Split disturbed the Hell out of all of us... Croatia's topography is astonishing, but her gutted homes, bullet-riddled churches, defaced monuments, and eviscerated villages don't seem to share equal space on travel brochures. It's impossible for outsiders to immediately fathom the underlying disquiets that exacerbated the Rat u Hrvatskoj (the Croatian War), and difficult to ascertain the foul redoubt where those same malignancies have received sanctuary. Given the hundred-odd swastikas we've seen tagged into the concrete facade of the slowly deteriorating office building that rests atop and adjacent to Klub Kocka, one can only surmise that such horrors are, as ever, posited deep from within...