"Like any other music which incorporates unorthodox, unexpected and unpredictable ingredients, our hybrid variety of figures could be classified as 'experimental'. The most important thing is that it pushes our personal creative boundaries when we’re in process of making something. But when the work is done and the release is shaped, we prefer to label it as 'post-experimental'… As far as the current LEBENSernst project is concerned, we tried to produce a sort of versatile sound-canvas on which anyone could figure his own life story." comment the band-mates.

"Yellow, battered and shark-like machine whirled away his heavy monolith sleep. Car was operated by a bearded loose-toothed punk, shouting out grizzly insults. A middle-aged woman’s trunk was thrown into the air mercilessly and the next moment he opens his eyes into the inevitable. Above panic, above ground, he clutches the oxygen bottle. Surrounded by frozen figures, betrayed by a defected loom them all. A box of fear inside a metal box. Pressurization failed, brains slowed down but the breathing remains. You know what’s happening. This unstoppable mausoleum, looped in its gloomy glory. The mansion in the dream was crumbling but the furniture looked inhabited, the sheer canvases strangely vacant. Strangely because there were touches of the artist hand: dots, circles, sneaky symbols, all in dull, uninspiring colors. Open drawers on the carpeted floor, ravished, brimming over with clothes, antique trinkets and blurry photos. Also a white refrigerator with fine-boned female hand hanging out of its belly, dripping blood. He touched the aluminum hammer, then began pacing slowly. Some angrily gesticulating people outside, clearly seen through the holes in plywood panels. Probably neighbors, agitated by all those unexplained sounds and expressionist flashes in the night. But the artist didn’t mean to harm anyone. He just did what the worm in the abyss told him. How poetic! Now it’s time to regain the pulse, to move on. It goes into his ears – this heavily processed with celestial electronics litany in an unknown, hiccupping dialect; it splits into epileptic stereo, divided by an urgent, blood-curdling scream, rather animalistic. It’s like being surrounded by VHS tape signal rippling. And all the long way to the cockpit he hears it:

Мы здесь точно АААААА идём на воскре
шение. В жизни ЖЖЖЖ картинам вери
ть нельзя. Прощ ААААА е надо было ра
ссказывать о бе ЖЖЖЖ ссмертьи. Слыш
ите? Трамвая ж АААААА илец, в магнитах
мы мчимся. Ты ЖЖЖЖ через комнату с
ыскала деньги. ААААА Магниты однаж
ды взорвутся п ЖЖЖЖ росто и остаточ
но. Сон не опас ААААА ная магия. Вдруг
мощи вызовут ЖЖЖЖ победу? Океана в
ласти ты не ис ААААА пользовала ни раз
у. Мы лишь прош ЖЖЖЖ ли под деревья
ми в твой сад ра АААААА венства. Сегодн
я маме разрешил ЖЖЖЖ твои техники. Ко
зероги память на ННЕЕ ша, и сами идут
в авангарде у нас УБББИ Я, кажется, се
рдце имею. Мате ВВВАА риально я живу
дома. Я жду. На ТТТЖЖЖ ш дом. На крае..
Да-да, знаю, нам ААААА видно. Старый
дом. ААА Позови.

Without checking, he feels cartoon angel occupants on the wings chatting, giggling, immune to the gushing winds of death. His legs shuffle, ears concave, eyeballs zoom out. Climb and level, 19 times in a row. The circuit breaker broken, the misconceptions, the defining seconds, oh the pitiless pity. Fixed smiles, the wordless beauty of thoughtless horror. He thinks in supposedly beautiful metaphors now, clear sign of hypoxia. Holding pattern is so fragile. People encircle the construction, ready to invade. It’s a cheap variation on zombie / consumerist theme, as envisioned by a demented German director from 1970’s, ostensibly still relevant. Everyone has a valve. Hell, he needs helium, the artist. For his “EIB (Entrails in Balloon)” project. Cryogenic viscera scattered over the clouds – what a fresh and paradoxically dignified idea. You shall think outside of the box. But now there’s no exit. It is logical – the outside forces will crash the object, sooner or later, in any dimension, by pressure or gravity, whatever the most brutal. Hidden messages in malfunctioning devices. The recording device in the quiet emptiness of the Investigative Hall. The first impact glorious, the last erroneous. Or is it the other way around? The usual split, goodbye my cousin. In Technicolor pixels his glowing helmet becomes a mirror of everything that is permanent. He’s looking at his own shadow now, busy at the controls, while masks mockingly dangle around. No contact established. People everywhere, screaming, sleeping. They’re too much to handle. The artist hides behind the canvas, his grin widens, showing green teeth. Cavities in the earth moan. Remuneration, Happy Hour. Blood and snow juxtapose, overlap. Bloodied clouds, snowing wounds. The bottle emptied, the tank thirsty, fuel leaving thin trails of hope. He’s foaming at the mouth, touching the yoke. Carry on, good propellers! Too late now. Lootate won. No wait

NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The suspended bombardment of the ultimate reality skins him and diffuses the skeleton momentarily. It’s a torture of a quasi-religious sort. And what really were you expecting? Everything is documented, screenshots of life exhaust appear ever so rapidly. The boundaries don’t exist anymore, there’s no “He”. And now you can see, why I recount this awfully poignant story for the youth and the weak-minded. Don’t be taken aback by such incidents for many things happen in the air or in the dead of night to the small-time participants in this macabre carnival».

And with those very words she finished, slowly got up and kissed my forehead. She smelled of dangerous perspectives and patchouli. My slit got moist in an instant. Shame I’ll never see her again."

Avrosh Kothin, 2009. This exclusive excerpt from the upcoming “1000 Facials of Howard Boycock” trilogy is brought to you via MTTA Outercontacts Inc.