Thursday, June 16, 2011

The Pure Essence of Garbage

The new Peste Noire album is going miles to alienate their fanbase for the win!

Famine, who now goes by DJ Famine, said in a 2009 interview with diabolical conquest that the next album would be all reggae, "pure 'fucking' reggae' to be specific. And although he failed to deliver on that promise, ska-punk is present, and so are electronic beats, polka, sex and machine gun samples, funky bass solos, orchestral instrumentation, chicken imitations and those romantic guitar leads that brought fans to this band in the first place. Piling all this genre-fucking onto tracks so expansive and theatrical they can hardly be called 'songs', DJ Famine projects his nationalist agony with a rarefied air and utter disgust for humanity.

Mourning their disdain at having sexual intercourse with the beloved French soil in its current state of decadent putrefaction (gasp, foreigners are walking on it!), the music manages to be all at once extremely melancholic, conservative and fratty—which no doubt will make it a big hit among North-American audiences...

Forget the hipster recuperated Les Legions Noires and their countless children. One no longer needs to suffer the sight of a short-haired, post-collegiate bro moshing in a Mutiilation t-shirt at the reunion show of Ted Leo's old hardcore band (great band tho, Citizen's Arrest). Seize this here metal as one that not only sets its aim on the moral agenda of the cultural mainstream but also one that ecstatically soils the dignity to which this subculture endows its alternative forms. Cultness bedamned, this music is contemporary in the gauchest sense possible. With black metal's trite intimation of 'trueness', the obscure reaches of this pathopuritanical subgenre are increasingly subject to libidinal circulation by urban professionals who, with their media apparatuses, then weave its identifications into a yet another marketable, compensatory veil to enrich their suburbanized lives. 'L'Ordure D'√Čtat Pure' corrects this instrumentalization, the hipster minstrel show of corpse paint and bullet belts loses itself in the mocking sociality of a Rabelesian carnival or within Baudelaire's criminal flaneur. In the advent of hipster metal columns and blogs—even a 'cvlt nation' has recently been founded, mockery has a new cross to which it must howl.

Put this on for a 'poseur test.' If they love it, they're a poseur; if they hate it, they're a poseur. Alienation all around, just like the one ms. DJ Famine, a dual citizen of hell and the kingdom of France, feels. This album finds exile at l'Auberge Espagnole… the Erasmus-sanctioned putrefaction of the mourning corpse of Old Europe impgrenates every second of this highly toxic magister opus of a gargoyle turd.

Like the stylistically miscengenating Lugubrum before them (see their excellent 2008 record, 'Albino de Congo', an album claimed to have been recorded in the former Belgian colony)—a band whose self-described 'brown metal' revels not in the absence of light but rather the matter of our human 'sub-continent'—Peste Noire uncomfortably appends 'shit' to this sub-cultural genre's long-guiding criteria of "only death is real;" confounding the social apprehension of hate one garish fold at a time…

Half a decade ago, at an American Museum a hipster defended the performance of African blues music redone as Cajun chansons by stating that it is "about the moment of miscegenation… that 'mon negre' is a term of endearment." If one only turns this defensive caveat inside out, if one were to locate the belligerent tail to its considerate head, one may find DJ Famine and his art hatefully seething like a Thelemite monk in bestial stupor to the throb of his globally integrated nation-state.

"what infamy! where have nature and the forests gone? everything is ugly. there isn't a natural habitat to hunt in..."

Diapsiquir, keep your guard up…

available now for pre-order on these shores from the band's Mesnie Amerique and on yours thru La Mesnie Herlequin