the Antarcticans

Veiled in dark masks of shadows and scars, The Slave-Ghosts, charged by misanthropic appetites and paranoias to release themselves by anatomic fission from the shapes, voices, identities, religions of the failed human. Ripped off face from voice, limb from body, the attachments of culture that attacks the individual and earth. This is the revolution of the spectral population, the dead, a culture against culture. They call out from a tundra distant with space where a katabatic wind surges past seething with a dissonant melody resounding with the vestiges of the deserted cowboy, the simmering glacier, a mountain falling in avalanche, the dense silence of a forest. With a cache of guitars breaching out of one dimension into another, distorted by translation into our sonic system, they send out on the wire secret transmissions of warnings. These songs are the folklore of the post-mortum, post-consumer casualties fallen on the modern salient. Refusing transience and advancing, forwarding, marching in the beat of pulse, the throb of the force animating world: love will subvert the existing.

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