"London Final" Con-Dom, Anenzephalia & Whitehouse

"The Red Rose" London - 28 September 2001

by Marco Wertham - edited by Joan Hacker

Reaching HINOEUMA in London is always an expensive adventure, in money, time and energy.

Here they are like every other time: white trash swallowing fish and chips, flocks of half castes challenging each other in a struggle of annoying ring tones with sardonic laughter which would offend any other biped's intelligence, half drunk yobs in designer t-shirts, fat black women with crying kids, stupid Essex girls who would wear sandals and mini skirts in the Siberian winter just to show their perfectly shaven legs mangled by obscene cellulite and a soundtrack of squeaky voices amplified by the echo coming from the very inside of their almost empty cerebral cavity...

Every time it is the same, so ritually perfect, with all its smell of grease, sweat and beer.

I wonder if any of these scumbags get paid by somebody to recreate this pantomime just for me whenever I leave Suffolk for the Capital of the decayed empire... Thank you very much for the thought... Never realised I was so special…

Look at them, this might be the next step of evolution. They are not even funny. Being tacky is the new norm, the village fool became the mayor and the noise of this train seems to be the only familiar element left in a rainbow that goes from the straw yellow of any of these cunts' hair, to the shitty mild brown of the half apes jerking in excitement for the singing digital bananas. I wish Malcom X could see them and teach them a lesson. Is Blair really scared of Farrakhan? God bless the Nation of Islam, at least they know how to dress properly and stay silent, with their silly hats, but sporting some dignity while they march in line.

What does a yob dream about? What's his goal in life beside football and getting as alcoholic as dad, grandpa and everyone before him?

Are these 16 year old plumber's daughters really planning to get a boob job? Is it that important to them to risk long life asymmetry to feel at ease with their body?

And what will those bloody Yardies do with their lives?

Colour is painted differently on each of these people's faces, but the same dim expression is badly hidden behind a smile showing badly cured teeth... And they might be just fifteen.

I fucking hate you East Anglia... God punish England, sink the queen wrapped in a union Jack and get ready to build a massive parking place for Mittel Europa.

England, your latest generations are obnoxious, so cheap, tacky, greasy...

Look at them, teenage godivas, wearing these pink tight shirts, their micro boobs squeezed and ready to explode straight in your face at the first cough, balanced on fat asses as big as those of a cotton field black mama.
Strip them off their top and they would be left with nothing but two pinky pierced nipples, everything as flat as this desk... The picture is completed by floppy tummies hanging from just above the belt...

Fuck , look at yourself, you are 17 and you look like a Zeppelin filled with fat, grease and cheap parfume bought at SAYNSBURY's. A baked potato on two legs.
I hate your white trainers, your screechy voice, the way you wave you hair when you look at bloke. They are not going to notice you now, but yeah, I know somebody is gona shag you anyway. Booze will be your best mate tonight and will add what your charm misses.

I wonder if Jordan was like this as well before pumping silicon in every part of her body...

After about 2 hours holding my breath, I'm on Seven Sister's road, walking in a jungle of old Greek immigrants handling their komboloi outside of totally out of place "kafeinos". I feel more at home and not just because I loved Crete during my only proper holiday of the last 10 years.

A crack whore with make up and disgraceful slippers stands outside of a social centre and looks as if coming out from a venereal swimming pool, surrounded by tramps and this bloke with a cowboy hat wearing a "QUEER AS FUCK" t-shirt.

The Red Rose is ahead of me and I run immediately into the HINOEUMA door only to discover that Gaya and friends haven't arrived yet.

Luckily, an extremely tired Mike Dando (Con-Dom) is ready to offer me a drink...
I try to not stress him immediately with my over-enthusiasm, although it is difficult to keep my warm temper running after one year of semi-isolation in flat Suffolk countryside without meeting people of "my ranks"…

Few words and our attention goes to the TWIN TOWERS attack, which had happened not too long before. There was no ANTHRAX scare and no war yet and it seemed to be a common hope that the Yanks would understand once and for all what it feels like to get bombed while you are quietly sitting on the toilet reading a tabloid...

Gaya and the Germans arrive, then WHITEHOUSE, and some more familiar faces amongst them Andy Penguin in a fake Nazi uniform, a left over from some dodgy British war movie which will capture the attention of the more pc oriented people of the evening.

The sound check starts and there seem to be many problems (a speaker melted) so I go out of the venue and chat with friends at the RED ROSE where people in camouflage are mixed with old alcoholics, ex cons with cheap ink tattoos on their hands, whores and Goths.

After quite a long wait noise starts to come from the venue and I put myself in the queue while ANENZEPHALIA started the dances.
While patiently waiting for my turn to get in (since I didn't realise I was on the guest list, thanks Gaya) I get approached by a horrible drunk blonde subhuman running after everybody in search of a desperate snog.

She fucking stinks of wee and alcohol, looks wasted. Tall, quite slim besides a horribly swollen tummy, showing age with a diet of booze...
She might have looked attractive before what I imagine to be a slow decay, her hair is still nice, well groomed, unlike her fallen teeth… I cannot avoid thinking about my new American friends Jane, Joan and Guy… Every time their mouths open, a flash of light blinds me… One of the very few things I envy Yanks for is their glowing teeth, but we are in Albion and these indecent animals seem to be the result of years of drugs and possibly a violent domestic history. I imagine her dressed like a middle class woman, possibly married to a butcher who comes home pissed off and beats the crap out of her, forcing her to wear sunglasses for endless days. Then he suddenly dies, possibly a car crash, and she discovers the joy of alchol, and sinks sinks sinks, drinking her husband's inheritance away to end up in the street… How long did it take for her to turn like this? Or has she always been like this?
I don't know and I don't want to, I just wish she would stick her fucking hands somewhere other than my shoulder and disappear with one glare.

The blonde venereal stick is dressed like a teen age slapper, like thousands you see pushing each other at the local Top Shop in search of some ridiculous dress to wear for their hunt for a prematurely interrupted Saturday evening shag.
My doubt on her sexuality lasted for days til somebody wrote that she was going around proudly showing everybody her newly shaved pussy...

Guy from NY catches me just in time to get back into the venue and enjoy at least 60% of ANENZEPHALIA show.

For all those who don't know, Anenzephalia is one of the best German power electronic projects. They add to the familiar German trademark loops a series of high pitched feedbacks, and instead of avowing themselves to an aggressive performance they tend to keep sounds and image more atmospheric and intense, although the sound pierces ear drums.
Michael stands still on stage screaming while Klaus (Genocide Organ/Tesco) does his work at the sound desk.
I wish there would be more projects like this and less "wanna be GO without the equipment and the feelings".

As in previous actions we have a video composition with a stable frame (some kind of old TV monitor)where images flow confused, giving a sense of dynamic movement in contrast with Michael's statuary pose.
They are great, I haven't seen them perform live for a long time, and also this time I was fully satisfied by their performance. The problem was that people were sitting two meters from the front of the stage- I've seen much more enthusiasm in my comrades when I was a boy scout singing prayers around the fire after two days of endless rain just after the Cernobyl disaster (so if I get blood cancer you know when I got it).

I start spotting more familiar faces that I haven't seen for ages and a couple of celebs like Richard Kern's model Lucy McKenzie and Richard James (APHEX TWIN). A chat with old and new faces and a minute of fresh air and here we go with a new WHITEHOUSE action.

As soon as the music is supplied by Jane of NOISEINDEX (http://www.noiseindex.com), the crowd seems to come back to life and push under the stage. I project myself to the very front. Jane was not Ms. TESCO USA yet but definitely got the attention of different people in the crowd murmuring about her identity…

Somebody is already yelling "CUNT" and CUNT and WANKER are going to be the most (ab)used words in the venue for the next 45 minutes, like a verbal ping pong match between the trio and the public; but it won't be just swearwords flying...

Sotos walks in and more insults come. The first glass gets on stage even before the "music" has started.
Best is next and takes the microphone yelling insults.
Bennet follows and put himself at the right of the stage handling the sound bank before taking control on the microphone and leading the crowd in what will be more than just another extreme electronics show...
I can't remember the order of any tracks, I could attempt to say they opened with "CRUISE (Force the truth)", "Princess Disease", "Thank Your Lucky Stars" which is what power electronics should be. The wall of sound is impenetrable but absolutely clear. I can recognise every single wave...
The new tracks are built mostly with sounds miles away from today's trendy loops.
Cruise's backing track sounds like a pitch shifted irregular cardiac pulse with apparently round surfaces which would lead you to believe you could touch them, but then they slide out of your hands melting around your neck, choking you, to then leave the grip when the next track starts and forces you to sit on a different punishment device, something that looks like a brand new steel anvil where an invisible hammer crushes your toes.

Sotos walks up and down yelling "cunt", "wankers", inviting the crowd to take the stage for physical confrontations. It felt like being at those "free ring" box matches of 100 years ago where any daring drunk could get on stage and attempt to beat the champion to the end the night at the hospital.

For the first 15 minutes the show is very intense, but nothing different from what I've already experienced in the past.

We have Bennet screaming his guts out in his hysterical voice, Best stealing the microphone here and there, Sotos provoking and people pushing under the stage like at a Hardcore gig under the large amount of peeping tom's cameras capturing the event. There should be around about 10 different versions of videos of this show.

Then things start to degenerate... Best is taken down from the stage and Sotos carries him back with some difficulty, then slaps very hard a fan who laughs at first and then doesn't seem to be very impressed and replies by throwing beer.

If the alcoholic golden shower is impressive, the hailstorm of glasses is unbeliavable...

Fuck... WHITEHOUSE is all about domination, and the slaves seem to revolt in this moment although most of them have insane smiles of excitement on their faces.
Not everybody since a pair of chicks gets extremely eager to strike Sotos and Bennet after their make up melted under an unwanted beer shower. One of them smacks her boyfriend on his nose, causing him to bleed, because he didn't defend her…

Glass bullets are flying like in a trench war, but our heroes are bullet proof and answer the fire with more beer and insults.

I hate beer, it smells of wee… normally just being near a pint would make me puke and I still can't believe I was totally bathing in yellow liquid for most of the evening. I just attempt to do a minimum of human shielding to Joan who was attempting to take some pics while all hell breaks loose in the hall...

A woman gets on stage with a present, and if I have seen right, Peter snogs her and then kicks her off stage yelling something like "fuck off, cunt!"...

"Cunt" is all the world wants and "cunt" is what the world gets.
They could set up a competition with prizes to count how many times the "C" world has been spoken, shouted, yelled, and cried out in less than an hour...

Slaves crawl at their master's feet and his whip of distortion falls on their back cracking in the hot Hinoeuma hall.
The fact their willingness to be submitted doesn't make the master love them... Or at least they don't show it at all...

"Do you believe in rock'n'roll?!" Although I never did, I find myself answering affirmative with all the voice I have left raising both my fists to the sky. And so do all the bodies pushing in a orgy of sweat, beer and noise.

Best grins his smile and tries to grab the microphone from Bennet who jumps, screams, acting buggery on both his companions (yeah I know even those pussies of Ramstein do the same) but the highlight comes while in the global convulsion of hypertonic wall of noises he starts mimicking Malcom McDowell's Thumb dance in Tinto Brass' unrecognised masterpiece Caligula. Everything is so bizarre, grotesque and out of place... But perfect… Surreal… I still can't believe it is the same polite person with whom I had shaken hands few hours before.

William walks off stage, Sotos goes on struggling with the public, acting as a target like a giant bear in a funfair, who, instead of changing direction answers with more beer launching when hit by a bullet.
Some chick with her make up melted and her hair reduced, as my father would say "like the ass of a sheep", gets evidently offended and counterattacks while Sotos walk off stage leaving Philip Best alone.

This time his solo is based on a treatment of a backing track in the way of "Private" or "Public", or better, Sotos' acclaimed "Buyer's Market" CD.
So you know what you get, a glorification of abuse through the voice of the involontary actors of the definitive sublimation of pornography.
And it's legal... Yeah. Just put on Channel 4 or BBC2 after 9:00, wait and see.
This is not "The Brass Eye", this is not a fucking parody, and it's here, forced straight into your ear, with no journalist acting as a reassuring mediator interrupting the sauciest parts with his comments and leaving morbid questions open... It comes from the neighbour, it's something you experienced yourself and still hurts although you don't want to remember…
A pastiche of unpoetic grief which probably all those who like to read between the lines might interpret as WHITEHOUSE warning that NOBODY is safe in the game of life... But these pretentious wankers are wrong fools attempting to feel more comfortable in listening to something that to me sounds like taking the victim, whoever he/she is, whatever his/her age is, out of the grave to reenact her passion in an infinite loop to uncover details missed the previous time...

Philip smiles and plays with an over enthusiastic public.
Somebody moves a microphone toward the monitors creating further feedback.

Bennet and Sotos come back for a magnificent version of "Just Like A Cunt", fuck... I find myself with a smile that I don't remember having at a gig since I went in very good company to LENINGRAD COWBOYS in 1999.

The aftermath of their performance is dreadful... Glasses everywhere, beer on the floor, Dando get on stage looking very concerned for his gear the innocent victim of unholy rain...

His mixer is covered in alcohol and fragments of glass are stuck between the knobs.
He's not the only one to look a little bit pissed off, the staff of the RED ROSE is not very impressed by the loss of a tenth of their glasses and the time they will have to waste cleaning the floor....

But here he comes, few minutes and it is as if nothing happened, volume rises once again CON-DOM start his wreckage, with his body half painted in white, half in black as the two main colours of his protagonists of his latest concept "The Colour of A Man's Skin".

It's late, somebody starts to leave, but the tension is high, though nothing is happening.
A big bloke stands just ahead of the video beamer so we'll have his hair on the screen instead of the scenes of the thought provoking video for more than half of the show....

People stand still absorbed by Mike's intense performance. This man is as little as me, but once on stage radiates strength, tension, pain... His body language doesn't betray for one second, making you believe he's actually living what he's talking about... This is not theatre... This is not acting...

Be it the March of Farrakan's Nation of Islam, or the attacks of COMBAT 18, the Turner Diaries cover followed, names and surnames of the main protagonist of anglo saxon racial tensions are used here as actors of something that only the blind could see as propaganda.

I didn't listen to the record yet, so the only track I recognised is "Nation of Islam" (which played one month after the Twin Towers happenings definitely punched somebody in the stomach),. There's a slightly less sexual approach than of previous performances I've seen, although a scrap featuring a white woman getting sandwiched by two massive black guys (out take of Joe Damato's "Porno Holocaust") seems to symbolize one of the many subjects used in the "race war"... From one side the occidental fear of the savage capturing white beauties, on the other the "fuck da white bitch" ghetto culture.

No one seems to come out as a winner in this game, language becomes very similar and the "blue eye devil" and the "nigga'" are doomed to hunt each other in an endless vortex of hatred which Dando manipulates confirming himself as my fave front man ever and somebody who uses concepts not as simple embellishment and decorations for his noise symphonies.

Unfortunately I start getting extremely tired, my pensioner metabolism strikes and everything starts turning around, but not enough to spoil an evening which brought together three different kind of power electronics with various sounds, styles, approaches and concepts, each perfect for what they were attempting to express...

The end of the evening is spent with further blabbling before crashing at Gaya's place with Dando collapsing in one minute on his bed, everybody having fun and so on and having one/two hours of sleep before leaving for Victoria Station.
Everybody is extremely tired, I'm not too much since I haven't slept so my neurons were still awake from the previous night.

I part with Dando, the Germans and Jane while they wait for their coach to Leeds. I nearly run to find myself at King's Cross waiting to have a chat with Sotos...
After 1 hour in the station with all my stuff I realise I arrived two hours early.
So I collapse on a bench outside WH SMITH attempting to read something with serious difficulty understanding anything...

I try to digest something not too junky, but here it comes again... The stench of London.... Sweat, grease, fish and chips... Bloody hell it's 9:30 and these people are already swallowing shit from wrapped tabloid paper...

I'm surrounded.

A pathetic, middle-aged woman wears a T-shirt cursing Arsenal's football coach, some survivors of the gigs, white trash, yardies... different names, different bodies, same dumb faces...

At 9:45 Peter arrives, looks like his hand is hurting a little bit, we go in one of these fast food places and have a chat and then we meet some of his mates, a German couple and Xavier of TIMELESS magazine...

A nice morning with a good laugh and then, after Peter leaves us, I stay around with Xavier coming out with the funniest things...

My adventure is reaching its end, half dead, a crawl to Liverpool Street station and everything looks nicer, yobs smile all happy, ringtones plays Bregovic melodies, single mothers carry prams full of flowers.... everything in slow motion... I must already be sleeping...

Reaching Hadleigh in a sleepwalker state the following day to collapse in bed wishing I would have gone to Leeds.
ON Sunday I got to speak with Dap of The Grey Wolves who was expecting the Germans to reach his place... He told me that it was even wilder; Dave from Smell and Quim seems to have done a ballet (btw once and for all, it was not me to shave his eyebrows during the Origami/Marhaugh/Wertham tour and paint his head... ), a sieg heiling guy got punched, WH ended up with Sotos beating up people even wilder and being brought to hospital after cutting one of his hands during the brawl... Wish I was there...

"Do you believe in rock and roll???" I start to think so.

All Photo of Joan Hacker - originally appeared in www.noiseindex.com