# ghost rider by alan vega and suicide right off the rusty nail-studded bat a warning: a muddy pulse - heavy repetition. martin rev at the controls dealing out the code. we awake to find ourselves like kyle reese (w/ the one thirty second under perry) running hard down some filthy dark alleyway of the near future dystopian megacity in the hard slap middle of the nth century prime. no time. out of luck options or choices and thankfully love. only cold digital steel and a steely-eyed sense of style. alan vega on stage where ey was born channelling elvis (times) blondie by way of sal paradiso on a cheap amp. showing us how it's done. jerry-lee collars flared ey twitches as though electrified by fate moves with kabuki-precise driven purpose - smoking a cigarette like someone just called "last call" at the local dive bar and ey was about to (once again) eject himself back out (ie. deeper into) hyper-digital antispace varying degrees of warp detracking magnetic damage decolorization smearing paranoia and other glitches assault the cheap tape from which this awesome concert was ripped. dark rings of pain and acute artistic intent around ir eyes alan rapid-scans the frozen darkness immediately beyond the flare of the surrounding sentinel studio lights which provide no heat. flashing like sarah fawcett in saturn 3 on blue dreamers. the way alan tightly draws ir elbows in a musical karateka before delivering another devastating switchblade line like it was raw electronic judgement. the way ey wraps ir hand around the mike chord ready to punch out reality itself (a gesture later used to effect by researchers like the mighty rollins) a matter how you much you can take and how much you can feedback. damaged stars in the universe - a sudden echoing cry sounds out into/as the night. shake it out deal with it. deals long done before we arrived on the scene with our flash bulbs press kits and hyper-cynical placeholder philosophy about what it all means mr. jones // republic of bob