Dr Jacques COULARDEAU

YOUNG FATHERS – DEAD – WWW.YOUNG6FATHERS.COM – 2014

They are beyond the limits of the reclusion of music in genres. They are of no genre at all because they are their own everything fighting against the world that is trying to catch them and to laminate them into flotsam and jetsam on the ocean of rejection and in the sky of exploitation, under the rollercoaster and the bulldozer of superpostmodernistic-expialidocious magic poison that will put some potion in your engine and a tiger in your pants. Front or back depends on your desire to enjoy or to suffer, to climax or to be climaxed into and filled to the brim.

That surrounding warlike world is everywhere superb and frightening like a noise that makes you deaf, like a noise that makes you dead, like a noise that makes you a recluse in some kind of rat’s hole at the bottom of a cave at the end of a dead-end impasse and blind alley all three in one. And you pretend to see, you pretend to be seen ! ! ! You are nothing but an invisible blind monster in a coal cellar illuminated by the lightning of their warlike cataclysm, à la Ralph Ellison.

So then what can I do?

Nothing brother, nothing father, nothing mother, nothing sister. You are fucked up and you can’t even fuck anyone up or down because they have stolen your family jewels, they have cut them clean and neat at stomach level. Nothing left of anything that could have been a tool to inflict any vengeful despicable hatred. You have lost your sword because they cut it off your groin and it is dangling now from their belt next to the scalps of all their victims.

In this world there is nothing left and you try in all possible ways to capture and dominate that crowd of a noise that is overpowering your very heart rhythm into some cardiac arrest but your words are useless and powerless and impotent. You cry and cry, you repeat and repeat, you yell and yell, you shout and shout, but nothing will come out of your brain, out of your mind, out of your mouth even, even so or nevertheless, except barborygmi from the deepest vegetative intestines of your body in the process of dying that have taken over your skull and filled up your cranium.

So you try to reinvent what used to be so strong in your imagination. You try to still dream yourself as the catalyst of a revolution, daydream yourself as an AK47 shitting and spitting its bullets in a never-ending succession of death blows and lethal bullets. But all that is passé, finished and in fact you have no past and no future because you have no present and your hand is impotent as for even making your body hurt, let alone have an orgasm of pleasure or even of pain. You cannot start because you do not know how to begin.

That final song, chant, dirge that is falling from the lips of the nearly dead Jesus on his cross that you collect as if it were the most sacred blood of the most precious god is in fact your testament to this world that has to change as fast as possible if you do not want to just hand yourself two feet over the ground. And if you do not do it yourself there will always be someone who will do it for you; there is always a little courageous hangman among your neighbors who love you so that they will provide the rope free and they will pull on your feet when you are hanging to speed up your final urination. Mother fucker or is it father fucker?

Beyond rock of any type, beyond rap of any flavor, beyond slam of any suburban self-declaring slam poet. You are beyond any sacred book, be it the Bible or the Quran, not to mention the Dhammapada or any other Thorah of sorts or of some sort or other. You do not need a wall of wailing in any sacred city because you are the only wall of wailing you can ever consider and that wall you are is wailing all right, day and night. That’s the most powerful part of this music: it is self-flagellating itself with its own notes and words and yet it demands more, it requires more, it longs for more and we are swallowed up in that personal sadistic masochism of an Auto-de-Fe that roasts your body, our flesh under the sad eyes of your mind, our mind because you have no soul, we have no soul and your mind, our mind is trapped in your brain, our brain that will eventually sizzle on the grill of purification.

In other words I fell for that raping music that made my senses rage and my passions desire diving into it and let it purely torture me to death, knowing that death will bring some painful resurrection like the pain one feels after a successful orgasm when it stops.

Dr Jacques COULARDEAU

POLITICALLY CORRECT VERSION

They are beyond the limits of the reclusion of music in genres. They are of no genre at all because they are their own everything fighting against the world that is trying to catch them and to laminate them into flotsam and jetsam on the ocean of rejection and in the sky of exploitation, under the rollercoaster and the bulldozer of superpostmodernistic-expialidocious magic poison that will put some potion in your engine and a tiger in your pants. Front or back depends on your desire to enjoy or to suffer, to climax or to be climaxed into and filled to the brim.

That surrounding warlike world is everywhere superb and frightening like a noise that makes you deaf, like a noise that makes you dead, like a noise that makes you a recluse in some kind of rat’s hole at the bottom of a cave at the end of a dead-end impasse and blind alley all three in one. And you pretend to see, you pretend to be seen ! ! ! You are nothing but an invisible blind monster in a coal cellar illuminated by the lightning of their warlike cataclysm, à la Ralph Ellison.

So then what can I do?

Nothing brother, nothing father, nothing mother, nothing sister. You are f***ed up and you can’t even f*** anyone up or down because they have stolen your family jewels, they have cut them clean and neat at stomach level. Nothing left of anything that could have been a tool to inflict any vengeful despicable hatred. You have lost your sword because they cut it off your groin and it is dangling now from their belt next to the scalps of all their victims.

In this world there is nothing left and you try in all possible ways to capture and dominate that crowd of a noise that is overpowering your very heart rhythm into some cardiac arrest but your words are useless and powerless and impotent. You cry and cry, you repeat and repeat, you yell and yell, you shout and shout, but nothing will come out of your brain, out of your mind, out of your mouth even, even so or nevertheless, except barborygmi from the deepest vegetative intestines of your body in the process of dying that have taken over your skull and filled up your cranium.

So you try to reinvent what used to be so strong in your imagination. You try to still dream yourself as the catalyst of a revolution, daydream yourself as an AK47 shitting and spitting its bullets in a never-ending succession of death blows and lethal bullets. But all that is passé, finished and in fact you have no past and no future because you have no present and your hand is impotent as for even making your body hurt, let alone have an orgasm of pleasure or even of pain. You cannot start because you do not know how to begin.

That final song, chant, dirge that is falling from the lips of the nearly dead Jesus on his cross that you collect as if it were the most sacred blood of the most precious god is in fact your testament to this world that has to change as fast as possible if you do not want to just hand yourself two feet over the ground. And if you do not do it yourself there will always be someone who will do it for you; there is always a little courageous hangman among your neighbors who love you so that they will provide the rope free and they will pull on your feet when you are hanging to speed up your final urination. Mother f***er or is it father f***er?

Beyond rock of any type, beyond rap of any flavor, beyond slam of any suburban self-declaring slam poet. You are beyond any sacred book, be it the Bible or the Quran, not to mention the Dhammapada or any other Thorah of sorts or of some sort or other. You do not need a wall of wailing in any sacred city because you are the only wall of wailing you can ever consider and that wall you are is wailing all right, day and night. That’s the most powerful part of this music: it is self-flagellating itself with its own notes and words and yet it demands more, it requires more, it longs for more and we are swallowed up in that personal sadistic masochism of an Auto-de-Fe that roasts your body, our flesh under the sad eyes of your mind, our mind because you have no soul, we have no soul and your mind, our mind is trapped in your brain, our brain that will eventually sizzle on the grill of purification.

In other words I fell for that raping music that made my senses rage and my passions desire diving into it and let it purely torture me to death, knowing that death will bring some painful resurrection like the pain one feels after a successful orgasm when it stops.

Dr Jacques COULARDEAU

AMAZON.COM refuses the censored version whereas AMAZON.CO.UK has already put it on line and AMAZON.FR has so far done nothing but they had the original version so I just provided the censored one.