AGASKODO TELIVEREK – psycho goulash
(CD – Midfinger)
It seems like pure chaos, but if you take a step backwards, breathe in deeply and then meditate on all that is flashing by around you, it might make some sense. If you can do it amidst all the noise and different impressions burning into your retina, that is. Always in high speed, though never as quick as Melt Banana, yet weirder and with more keyboards. Now add pepper, chili, onions and (johnny) paprika to make it taste fine. The fact that the band consists of two hungarian accountants playing a psychotic duo of guitars (Miki Kemesci and Tamas Szabo), a japanese vocalist (Hiroe Takei) and a noise rock drummer (Pharaoh S. Russell) blends with the weird mix of avant noise, screaming shouts, electronic bursts and bubblegum pop melodies. The unpronuncable name of the band seems like an instant deathspell to fame until John Peel (r.i.p.) comes into play. The title of the album, “psycho goulash” starts to make special sense in connection with the record label moniker “midfinger”, because that what it is to normal expectations of a regular music listener. A mashed mix of tiny bitparts all muddled into a bigger structure to form a song and then more songs, some of which don’t seem to start or end, but only to begin and stop. Grap for cover, duck for a hold. People, who like to read Vice magazine, suddenly start to get thoughts in their heads that are clear and find themselves ready to tackle the upcoming school grad tests, while straight and narrow types gasp for air amidst a blazing storm of new impressions. The abused little girl look is all the rage once again. Being weird is the new normal, while acting weird is regarded bland and stupid. Listen to Mr. Bungle. Weirdness abounding in between heavy guitars and dangling one note riffs, a time warp travel twilight zone kind of groove monster sucking everything behind an event horizon formed by a pounding groove, that might turn into a frenzy at any moment. Not knowing what comes next is blissfully being a wise man. And amidst that I am on a diet and still hungry even though I had a nice dinner and I focus in running ten kilometers 5 degrees upwards in less than an hour. Mind blurrs, focus is distorted, but there are well known or at least familiar things coming up against you in high speed. Meet in a disco that plays euro-folk-disco on 72rpm somewhere in the middle of Budapest in a rainy winter night. Kiss a bastard on the lips and then run away, life on double the speed it used to be, like in the Ovomaltine advertisement on television. Take three complex, euro pop concept album from the early Eighties (“Yessongs” or “Dark side of the moon” or the first album by Killing Joke) and play them at double speed all at once on full volume, while listening to Madonna on your mp3 player right next to the speakers. Don’t worry about a thing, go and see the show. Nothing means nothing anymore, but it is full of the highest import. Jingle, Jangle, scream, snort, shout, dangle. The television turns itself on by itself and switches channels from gameshow to Seventies US-show to a James Bond movie to the news and then to teleshopping. A guitar professional talks about structures, timing and technique. The cartoons blurr into blown up oddities. Anything can happen now, it is the modern “satyricana”, and Pan is out and about to douse people with manic frenzy and kill some sheep. An airplane ticket to London is only 29 € if you are lucky.
