Though the only information I’ve been able to find
[ via The Juke ] :
” BATHAUS is an ‘artist/collective/phantasm’ working in sound distortion, performance, photography and video. BATHAUS uses new media combined with analogue techniques to produce spectacular performances which integrate original sound and video projections, as well as live movement and dance pieces. The flickr page includes photographs and manipulated stills from the original video pieces. The videos are projected and shot using a Minolta Freedom III 35mm camera with expired film. “
Although procrastinators / individuals with a propensity toward slack should take note: The release is limited to a scant 75 copies. Said another way? If you’re interested, nap on your gas bill — not this one, chap . . .
And hey: Of the 75 copies, subtract a digit . . . Since from the blahg comments left from this moment till the final spin of Big Ben’s minute hand on January 31 [PST], I’ll be choosing a name at random. That’s right darklings, snarklings, and hexed-out genre-as-yet-undefined glamazons: time to set the Wheel of Fortune in motion again, for a reader give-away! Good times ; good times, indeed . . . [So long as you gorgeous fvckrs remember to provide a valid email address with your entries! Stated with an implicit emphasis on Please, that is. Implicit, though it doesn’t hurt to verba/vocalize “And thanks!” ‘Cause in terms of mad gratitude? BB, I’ve got it . . . More than these shoes and skin of mine can contain, often seems.]
To re-cap : I†† create dopamine-drenched spectral [anti]pop, nightmare lullabies rife with occult symbolism and mysteries that unfold themselves with each listen.
Or . . .with flowery adjectives scraped away; sentiment stripped to its barest-of-bones, bleached structural remains :
It’s one of chaos: there’s prattle over terminology in the insular world of ‘outsider music,’ and I can’t help but be amused. Y’see, the English language has these things called “labels,” and the reaction people have to them reinforces the power of nomenclature. Give it a try sometime: arrange a few consonants and vowels, toss ‘em around, see what kind of response you get.
But what if the words aren’t words but rather occult symbols/symbology? I’ve often wanted to speak in hieroglyphics — with cartoon captions, for added effect — but I just can’t seem to get band names like †‡† & \\\^◊^/// to dance their way off my tongue.
They’re part of a scene that — as with any ‘scene’ — seems to have as many detractors as devotees, which I think is a good thing. On one manicured claw, there’s the trappings of being pigeon-holed; on the other, opportunities that might present themselves through being Guilty By Association. Rather than tl;dr the obvious, how about I introduce the genres? Sub-genres? [ Again: an argument I opt to file under None Of My Business ]
Witch House † Ghost Drone † Zombie Rave † Drag
With origins as questionable as to what extent they’ll have an effect, they’re like strands of the same virus — or a dark and murky exploration into a game of Choose Your Own Adventure.
Whatever the case, I’m backin’ the brilliant post “Enthralled By Thee Witch” by My Pal The Crook [ creative director,co-owner and founder of the streetwear line Мишка NYC ], who describes this mysterious burgeoning mileu as “Goth music for a new generation and a new millennium, fully embracing all the things that drew kids into the genre through the 70s and 80s — the secrecy, the occultism, the suspense, the danger, and the moodiness — but minus all the things that turned people off from it in the 90s: the neon dreads, the vinyl pants, the fangs, and the platform industrial boots.”
Fucking dead-on, that! Brings to mind a relevant aside from Hex Files: Resurrection to which I’m hereby formally applying an asterisk… I’ve got a choke-hold on A.D.H.D. at the moment, and want to turn you on to the prolific nightmare collective that MPTC’s blogature high—or, rather: LOW—lights, and whose death drones and surreal liquid dreamscapes have been dominating my laptop as of late.
A toxic gumbo of the terrifying and terribly terrific, MATER SUSPIRIA VISION is a brilliant composite: The music they craft induces ripples of gooseflesh; the visual accompaniment renders a viewer spellbound.
ℑ⊇≥◊≤⊆ℜ — Another challenge insofar as vocal pronunciation : Doppleganger of MSV creates maddeningly ultra-limited-edition sets [ the first of which was capped at a hundred downloads; the next, at 200; the third, bumped to 300…a supply nowhere near ample, nonetheless ].
The Special Edition that’s linked above, however, has an
✶ OPEN-ENDED DOWNLOAD POLICY ✶
[ Translation: You want it? Then G E T . S O M E ! ]
Rifling through the ridiculous four-digit number of unanswered missives clogging my In-Box like a steady diet of deep-fried dill pickles, KFC and biscuits slathered in bacon fat does the arteries, it took but a cursory glance at the last sacrilegious e-card Ugly Shyla sent starring Scooter (R.I.P.), her three-legged cat, and I was transported back to April of 2003. Convergence, an annual festival for those more shadowy in spirit, had booked me as a spoken word performer among that year’s roster. Jared, ever the trooper in terms of road trips, had joined me on this excursion to Las Vegas: convention capitol of the world, tackiest city in the country, and home of the flamingo-themed Hilton hotel where for four days it was as if a black cloud descended upon its fuchsia presence.
That’s when I first “officially” met Shyla ♥—
Why the quotation marks? A counter-culture periodical entitled Swag had premiered around this time, and both Shyla and I graced its pages. I’d read the feature on her and hence already knew about the ‘morbid fine art’ dolls she creates, her involvement with the performance art troupe (A-M-F), her wicked sense of personal style (fish-hooks through flesh used in lieu of garter belts), how her mom (known in the scene as ‘Goth Mom’) turned her on to the joys of John Waters, Satanism and transvestites. All of that was fine and fascinating, but—more than anything—I was intrigued by the knowledge that this remarkable creature hailed from a tiny town called Jennings, Louisiana.
My own history composed of 18 years in Nowheresville, Arkansas—where I grew up not on a street, but a ‘Rural Route’ consisting of dirt and gravel—I can’t help but be drawn to other southern-fried freaks. Not so much for the sake of sharing tear-stained stories of persecution, but rather because some of the most fascinating individuals I’ve ever met have sprouted from completely random spots among The Fly-Over States’ detritus. While it sucked with sharp fangs during those days of puberty and pimples, I’m grateful to have developed as an individual without a clique to inform or guide me. Said another way? There was no “Check-List of Cool,” no tables in the caf polarized by those who fit within the parameters of Punk, Goth, Mod, Ska, etc.
When there’s no need to conform among the non-conformists? That’s when the aberrant has an opportunity to define itself.
But I digress. Ugly Shyla is aberrant, if anything—and sick, sick, siiiick in the best sense of the word.
:: A Sexy Shyla Pin-Up Print :: Available Through Her Web Shop ::
We clocked each other in the (ahem) “Bizarre Bazaar”: me in a custom Liz McGrath pinstripe suit adorned with gaping wounds and open sores oozing with red glitter; she in a pristine white baby doll dress that’d been ripped apart and re-stitched with thick black thread to match her full-eye black sclera contacts.
Sure, there’s the blue hair, the fishnets: this is familiar territory for most of us.
But once we made it past the “Don’t-I-Know-You-From…” social pleasantries?
That’s when I began to learn the good stuff.
:: artwork utilizing menstrual blood as a medium ::
Rather than a welcome mat, you’ll be greeted by an image of your hostess bound in a warm, fuzzy straightjacket. It might be hard to make out what she’s saying on account of the Hannibal Lecter-Lite safety guard that obscures her mouth…but if you look deep into those eyes eclipsed by contact lenses a ruptured shade of red, there’s an inherent sense that in Ugly Shyla’s world—complete with gauche magenta-on-pink animal-print wallpaper and the royal proclamation “Mental Illness With Style” scrawled in a gorgeous font rife with manic intensity—this is her version of an invitation to step inside.
Then, once you ease into the nascent stages of dementia via multi-sensory bombardment,
once you abandon all distinctions between what’s extreme and what’s extremely absurd,
it’s hard not to feel immediately welcomed…and at home.