Tuesday 31 December 2013

Happy Dark Year


The sun sets on the horizon for the last time in 2013. 

As we prepare to bid farewell to another year, we gather all the things we never want to see again and burn them in a huge gasoline-fueled fire. And, as they burn, the wild flames make us teary-eyed, and the thick black smoke of our bad memories blackens our view a little more, before going up and merging with the black sky above our heads.

We are surrounded by darkness, but we feel fine, and we celebrate. And we display our best Hollywood laughter, as we toast to another black year gone by.

Two years ago it felt like we couldn't make it, but we're still here, and we're getting stronger. We've grown accustomed to life inside these dark woods. We've made this strange place feel like home; we've turned this hell into our playground. And we will keep on fighting.

We have no resolutions for 2014; no plans; no objectives. Our only aim is to stay strong and keep on resisting, blow after blow. We might not win, but we will not surrender. 

Whatever fate has in store for us, we will face it together... And perhaps one day the dark side will shine for us, like the song said. 

But, until then, let's celebrate our one and only victory: the enormous triumph of staying alive.

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Let's have a black celebration
Black celebration
Tonight

To celebrate the fact
That we've seen the back
Of another black... year

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Happy dark 2014.
 

Wednesday 25 December 2013

'Happy Holidays from Depeche Mode'


Depeche Mode's official Christmas postcard for 2013. Do I even have to say anything at all? I think not :'D

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I wrote to Benjamin Ebel about a week ago suggesting him to reuse this concept for Tokio Hotel, but I think he was too busy searching the whole internet in hopes to find the hipsterest Christmas greeting available (PS. mission accomplished) to listen to my selfless advice, so, in the end, he just wrote a standard three-sentence 'Merry Christmas' message in their name... without even photoshopping a picture to go with it! Ah... what happened to the good old days, when we got a brand new Photoshop creation EVERY DAY? Gone! They're gone - just like Neon Dogs' future. 

The poor guy(s) overworked themselves to death in the first half of 2013, but there's no problem, because, once again, I've generously volunteered to do the work for them. So, here's my Tokio Hotel Christmas postcard for 2013, 100% free from Photoshop - just like Benjamin Ebel likes it! ;)


Now that's what I call Christmas Spirit! :D

* ~*~*~*

PS. Christmas Eve wasn't as bad as I expected... pretty much as always. Thanks to the good old music in my Christmas playlist for helping me get through yet another Christmas dinner. And the good thing is now I can go stress-free for almost a week. No planning; no cleaning - just the usual stuff... 

...or perhaps not?

Tuesday 24 December 2013

68 Jahre Rock & Roll


"I was born Ian Fraser Kilmister on Christmas Eve, 1945, some five weeks premature, with beautiful golden hair which, to the delight of my quirky mother, fell out five days later. No fingernails, no eyebrows, and I was bright red. My earliest memory is shouting: at what and for what reason, I don't know. Probably a tantrum, or I may have been rehearsing. I was always an early starter.

My father was not pleased. I suppose you could say me and my father didn't hit it off - he left three months later. Perhaps it was the hair falling out; perhaps he thought I was already taking after him.

My father had been a padre in the RAF during the war, and my mother was a very pretty young librarian with no idea of the duplicity of the clergy - I mean, you teach people that the Messiah was the offspring of a vagabond's wife (who is a virgin) and a ghost? And this is a basis for a worldwide religion? I'm not so sure. I figured if Joseph believed that one, he deserved to sleep in stables!"

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"Talking of two two-faced bastards - my band, Motörhead, got nominated for a Grammy in 1991. The music industry doing us yet another favour, you know. So I got on the plane in Los Angeles - New York's a long walk. I had a pint of Jack Daniels in my pocket: I always find it helps with the sobering up. As we taxied elegantly out on to the sun-drenched tarmac, I took a sip and mused pleasantly on this and that.

A voice: 'Give me taht bottle!'

I looked up; a stewardess with concrete hair and a mouth like an asshole repeated herself, as history will - 'Give me that bottle!'

Well, I don't know what you might have done, honoured reader, but the fucking thing was bought and paid for. No chance. I volunteered this information. The reply: 'If you don't give me that bottle, I shall put you off the plane!'

This was becoming interesting; we were about fifth in the queue for take-off, were already late, and this bonehead bitch was going to take us out of the line for one pint of Jack Daniels?

'Fair enough,' I said. 'Put my ass off this fucking plane right now,' or words to that effect. And can you believe it, the stupid cretin did it! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! She made all those people late and miss their connections in New York, all for a pint of the amber pick-me-up ...So what? Fuck her! And the horse she rode in on! Come to think of it, perhaps she was the horse she rode in on! I got another flight an hour and a half later.

It was an inauspicious start to the festivities, and it carried on like it began. When we got to the fabled Radio City (Home of the Stars!), everyone was dressed in hired penguin tuxedos, trying to look as much as possible like the motherfuckers who were stealing their money! I don't wear tuxes - I don't think it's really me, you know? And I don't think the ushers liked the Iron Cross.

Anyway, having been nominated for a Grammy for our first album for Sony, I had foolishly entertained the idea that the company might be pleased. I don't think they even noticed! I have still, to this day, not been lucky enough to gaze, enthralled, upon the splendour that is Tommy Mottola - that night he was probably too busy chasing Mariah Carey around her dressing room. I'm not an overly ambitious man: 'Hello' or just 'Glad to have you aboard' or even 'Hey, dude' would have sufficed. Nothing. Nada. Fuck all. So I went to Sire's party. Better. Got laid.

So fuck 'em. And the horse they rode in on!"


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Lemmy Kilmister - 68 years of rock & roll and counting.

Happy birthday to the one and only God of Rock & Roll! :D

Friday 20 December 2013

Ode To The Man Boob


I admit it: I've been a little obsessed with the concept of man boobs lately, but you can't blame me. Not after seeing SyCo's latest achievements in the field of body-building - not to be interpreted in the usual sense of the word, but rather in the literal one.

The image above is the cover of Danzig's classic 1990 album Lucifuge - probably the largest monument to the man boob in modern pop culture. I confess I've been fascinated with this artwork ever since the first time I saw it. I mean... MAN, you literally can't take your eyes off it. The vision of Glenn Danzig's naked chest is magnetic. I know you're supposed to focus on the cross and all of the satanic meanings, but, once you've noticed the man boobs in the background, it becomes impossible to see anything else aside from them ever again.

There is something profoundly disturbing about man boobs. They are probably the only thing compulsive burger-eaters and obsessive body-builders have in common, and, at times, the frontiers between both types of man boob get so blurred it becomes hard to see the difference. I assume Glenn Danzig belongs in the latter category, but only because fat guys rarely chose to expose themselves in such a narcissistic manner.

There is something profoundly disturbing about this pair of man boobs in particular: the thick patch of chest hair; the unabashedly exposed nipples, projecting an ominous elongated shadow upon the ribcage; the fact that, if Glenn Danzig had been a woman, he would have never ever, EVER gotten away with a cover like this...

But that's the funny thing about man boobs: that it is socially acceptable to display them in public without a trace of shame (even when they look way more pornographic and aesthetically questionable than most female chests I know), just because our cultural tradition has established it that way.

Now, isn't THAT fascinating?

...

Long live to the Man Boob! :D

Thursday 19 December 2013

Guten Morgen, Zimmer!


Good morning, room! :)

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Less than a week left for Christmas, and I'm anything but thrilled. Right now, all I can think about is that we have a Christmas dinner to organize, and an epic amount of cleaning to do. If I was disciplined enough, I would have probably already started cleaning one thing a day, but I just CAN'T do that, so, in the end, I think we'll have the typical last-minute-cleaning frenzy. It's a family tradition of sorts ;)

As it's already been happening for the last five or six years of my life, I don't really feel like Christmas is coming. I've never been a fan of Christmas, as a concept. I sort of liked it, back when I was a kid, because I could skip school for two weeks, and because everything was covered in pretty lights. But I guess that's the kind of Christmas magic that fades as you grow old. 

We don't even have our Christmas decorations out yet, and, with the fierce gang of kittens we have at home this year, I'm afraid to even think about how we're going to stop them from tearing our Christmas lights and toy Christmas tree to pieces... but I guess we'll think about that later.

The only thing that reminds me of how threateningly near Christmas is is my festive blak & gold nail polish. I'm wearing it this week, as a rehearsal. It blows my mind to thing that, in just another week, 2013 will be over. Was it a good year? Hell, no! But it was certainly better than 2012, and that's already something. 

Anyway, it's still too early for this sort of year-end analysis...

The thing is I'm still dreading my family Christmas dinner, and that's pretty much it.

At least, I hope that we won't be touching the subject of Catalan politics, because the last thing I want is to spend my evening arguing with Catalan nationalists. But, then again, I don't even know if my aunt & co. are still in that league or not, so we'll just see what happens.

The good thing is I'll get to listen to my specially curated Christmas playlist: five hours of awesome music (NO TRADITIONAL or cheesy Christmas songs included) I associate with my concept of what a magical Christmas atmosphere should be. I'll try to keep my mind focused on that, as I prepare myself to get done with another year. 

There's still a lot of work to do, so I have to get going.

Good night, readers. Try not to dream of Simon Cowell's terrifying man-boobs ;)


*Song included in my Christmas playlist*

Wednesday 18 December 2013

The Low End Of Low


How low can you sink? Never enough, apparently, whenever there are females envolved. That has been Marilyn Manson's life motto for quite a few years already, and it wasn't going to change for his recent collaboration with Avril Lavigne.

That's right: the image above is a piece of fan art (don't worry, I didn't do it myself - it was the internet), but it's not a joke. The collaboration does exist, and it's included in Avril Lavigne's *sigh* self-titled album, that came out about a month ago.

The song in question is called *sigh* Bad Girl *sigh* *sigh* *sigh*, and, right as its title indicates, it is an epic piece of shit. And I'm not saying this just because I'm not a fan of Avril Lavigne and everything she represents - there really is NOTHING you can say in this song's defense. Written by the Nickel-glorious (and Lavigne-husband) Chad Kroeger, among others, the whole thing is a triplet-feel mess, with some pseudo-heavy Beautiful-People-esque distorted guitars, and Avril shouting on top, drowned in a pool of retro reverb, like some especially bratty and unprofessional version of Suzi Quatro. This shit is so awful it makes Taylor Momsen sound like Black Sabbath. It even makes the duet between Ke$ha and Iggy Pop sound sort of decent.  

Marilyn Manson's contrubution is reduced to one single phrase that is mechanically repeated throughout the song, which makes it even worse: if you're going to disgrace your name by taking part in such a questionable project, at least make it worth it. But that was never the objective of this... thing. The only reason for this collaboration - the C-word uglier than cancer - was to include Manson's name in the album tracklist, in order to spark some morbid interest, as well as buying the girl some artistic cred. Judging by the sales and the repercussion of the record, they failed at both, and dropped Manson's credibility levels even lower in the process. But that's exactly what the Industry does. Always. And the most amazing thing is that he doesn't even seem to have learnt that yet... even after being mistreated, criminally underpromoted and kicked out of Interscope in the most unfriendly way.

He, who has the blessing of not having to dance to the beat of the Evil Industry anymore, doesn't quite seem to find his place in the outside world. He might be releasing his records (one record, to date) independently, but he seems extremely reluctant to quit the celebrity game... and he doesn't seem too keen on burning brigdes either. The fearless man who once terrorized America (and the world) with his uncompromising social critique doesn't seem to have the balls to say the truth about the industry, or about the real reasons why his High End Of Low tanked was tanked, or to call Martin Kierszenbaum - the man in charge of his The High End Of Low promo - and Jimmy Iovine the things they really are.

Of course, he must have found out, at some point, that his whole career was a marketing mirage created by Interscope, and that's not an easy pill to swallow. He was Interscope's favourite puppet during the years when alternative rock was cool and Uncle Jimmy was desperate to create controversy at any price, and then he was just left aside, mobbed, and mercilessly thrown into the trashbin. No 'thank you' for the past sales and buzz. No glory for a faded cultural icon, who was probably one of the most influential and memorable characters of the 90s, as well as the frontman of one of the most important bands of the decade, musically speaking. His marketing was a corporate construction. His music and values weren't.

He, who once yelled "I'm not a slave to a god that doesn't exist / I'm not a slave to a world that doesn't give a shit", is now a rapidly aging man who seems to have forgotten his own glory and his own strength. Instead of claming what is due to him, he just sits sadly in a corner, trying to prove to himself (and to the world) that he can still be young and edgy.

He, who once criticised the values of Hollywood, has now become one of the undead creatures that populate the streets of LA. The city has eaten him from the inside, like it does with everone, and he doesn't even seem to have noticed.

And don't get me wrong - the man is still capable of releasing some quality music, but it seems like all his energy and all his ambitions in life are completely gone, like he has already achieved everything... which he definitely hasn't. Even though his career as a whole can't be called a failure, it can't be called a complete success either. He never had the chance to achieve the iconic status that KISS, Black Sabbath, David Bowie or even Nirvana have, not because he doesn't deserve it, but simply because nobody ever has a chance to do that in the era of the Industry Consolidation. And that' a real shame.

In this era, musicians don't work to build their own glory. They work for the glory of the Corporation, and are not even allowed to put their belongings in a cardboard box and take them home, once their work is done. Their successes are expropiated; their failures are charged to their bill and remembered forever. And they still have to be thankful, for having once had the honour of serving the Evil Empire of Music (a.k.a. the Uni-Label), and never ever speak against it, in hopes that, one day, the Gods might, perhaps, find them useful for some of their evil purposes again.

And so, Jimmy Iovine walks free with the money, and delivers speeches to college students at the university he has just bought for himself as a playground to spend his time at during his golden days of glorious retirement, while Marilyn Manson has to live in a modest appartment, with his artistic credibility blown to dust, and with the stigma of the precoucious has-been.

Nothing more left for the 44-year-old Marilyn Manson. Just a glimpse at life in the Low End of Low.

Monday 16 December 2013

Ich bin ein Schwarzkopf


My new Schwarzkopf shampoo is really... schwarz LOL

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And, meanwhile, I'm busy rehearsing Schwarz - the Tokio Hotel song -, still trying to figure out how to adapt it for a one-guitar acoustic performance... and learning to play TH songs usually ends up being Hell on Earth, because there are very few decent guitar tabs available (if at all). That's probably because most TH fans don't know a lot about guitar tabs, and the people who DO know a lot about guitar tabs don't waste their time studying Tokio Hotel songs. 

Most times, it's impossible to even find out in which tuning the song is actually played, and every tab you see says a different thing, so, in the end, you just have to figure it of by ear... and Tokio Hotel DO love some tricky tunings, which usually makes it a pretty tough job. Not bad for a band that is not even supposed to write its own music, right?

In the end, I usually just redo the whole thing my way to fit my general idea of what the song sounds like. And that's pretty much what I'm trying to do with Schwarz.

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I'm dressed in black, playing black songs. Everything around me looks black, but not so black anymore. Perhaps there is no way we can get out of this darkness... but we can still try to rule inside it.

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Der blick zurück ist schwarz
Und vor uns liegt die Nacht
Es gibt kein Zurück
Zum Glück
Zum Glück
Kein Zurück... 

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...and I'm back in black ;)

Saturday 14 December 2013

Kalter Winter / Goldener Herbst



I found this picture on Instagram today, and I just realized that, if someone asked me to sum up all the things I love about Berlin in one picture, this would probably be it.

Six years ago, I was sitting in one of those trains, watching the autumn leaves quickly passing before me, still in disbelief. It was the autumn – the first thing I loved about Germany. As soon as our plane came out from behind a thick layer of clouds, right before landing in the Berlin Tegel Airport, the first thing I saw were the cooling towers of a nuclear power plant, a few lakes, and the trees covered in autumn leaves – red, brown, orange and yellow trees everywhere.

“They have AUTUMN!!!” I screamed. “This is TOO hardcore!!!!”

Visiting Berlin on the last days of October was definitely the best idea we could have ever had; despite the cold, despite the short days… This is what Berlin feels like for me, and I couldn’t possibly love it any more.

There is something about the Mediterranean climate that feels asphyxiating after a while: the merciless heat, the ever-present sun, the almost imperceptible shift from too hot to too cold and back, and the never-changing vegetation. That’s probably why, seeing an autumn landscape looking exactly the way I felt it was meant to look caused such an impact on me.

There’s something about the German autumn that reminds me of home – my Russian home, the one I left when I was still too young to remember –, but I don’t love Russia the way I love Germany. Not even close. Despite the fact that I’ve been living in the not-so-free capitalistic world for twenty years already, I think somewhere deep inside I’m still afraid of the Iron Curtain. I still have the fear that, if I ever step on that country again, I will get locked and never allowed to go back.

That doesn’t happen with Germany. Germany is similar enough to Russia to make me feel at home, but different enough to not make me feel imprisoned by my origins. It’s free from memories. It’s free from family ties.

Aside from that, my love for Germany is a mystery, just like my love for Japan. All I know (and I learned that thanks to that one and only trip to Berlin I made in 2007) is that it was there before I was conditioned by my love for a certain German band we won’t be discussing here.

Berlin is an endless city. It extends beyond the horizon, and you can’t even imagine how far you are from reaching its end. It makes you feel so tiny, when you realize you can’t even walk from one landmark to another without catching the U-Bahn, or the tram, or the bus… And the day is over before you’ve even had a chance to explore a thousandth part of the things you wanted to explore. It swallows you whole, and you don’t mind. And you feel happy about it. And you know that, no matter what you do, there is always going to be a million things you will never be able to explore.

Berlin is so huge; it has so many worlds inside it: the cleanest parks and avenues, and the dirtiest streets; the extremely crowded landmarks, and the loneliest and quietest places you'll ever see; the ultra-modern buildings of the corporate age, and the shabby ruins of the DDR, still standing; the bullet holes in the walls, the pieces of the Berlin wall, the decrepit squat houses with half their roofs ripped away by the bombs; the most civilised people, and the drunkest hooligans; the agents of order, politely reminding you of what you can and you cannot do; the disgusting doner kebab restaurants, the pretzels, the currywurst kiosks, and the delicious China-Box take-aways; the McDonald’s at the train station, open at 5am, where you can eat and take a nap while you wait for the morning bus… And all the things I will never be able to know or see, because the city is so big…

That is what Berlin means to me.

I look at this picture now and I realise that, somewhere in Berlin, the leaves are still golden, and the U-Bahn and S-Bahn trains still roll from end to end of the endless city, transporting thousands of Germans (and not only Germans) every day. And it makes me feel that maybe the world is not too small for me, after all.

Despite all the bastards, the awful tabloids and the horrible reality and talent shows on TV; despite Heidi Klum and Dieter Bohlen, Germany is still a place worth dreaming of.

Or that’s what I need to believe.

Friday 13 December 2013

Disassociative


I can tell you what they say in space
That our Earth is too grey
But when the spirit is so digital
The body acts this way

That world was killing me
That world was killing me
Disassociative
That world was killing me
That world was killing me
Disassociative

The nervous systems down
The nervous systems down
I know
The nervous systems down
The nervous systems down
I know

I can never get out of here
I don't want to just float in fear
A dead astronaut in space 
I can never get out of here
I don't want to just float in fear
A dead astronaut in space

Sometimes we walk like we were shot
Through our heads, my love
We write a song in space like we're
Already dead and gone

Your world was killing me
Your world was killing me
Disassociative
Your world was killing me
Your world was killing me
Disassociative

I can never get out of here
I don't want to just float in fear
A dead astronaut in space 
I can never get out of here
I don't want to just float in fear
A dead astronaut in space

The nervous systems down
The nervous systems down
The nervous systems down
The nervous systems down

I can never get out of here
I don't want to just float in fear
A dead astronaut in space
I can never get out of here
I don't want to just float in fear

A dead astronaut in space

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"No man can surpass his own time, for the spirit of his time is also his own spirit." 
[*]

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Thursday 12 December 2013

Der Anfang


Hello, readers old and new.

To those of you who already know me, this will probably come as a big surprise. I bet you did not expect me to get back to such an anachronistic format as the personal blog is, but here I am... once again. I'm here and I'm going to keep writing, because that's what I do... or at least a big part of it. And even if the big-data-oriented Internet 2.0 doesn't favour this form of expression, I'm going to keep on doing it. 'Cause that's what I fucking do. 

The intrusive big data collectors we've come to know as 'social networks' are not going to last forever. Art is. In every possible form.

I've kept myself away from writing - REALLY writing - for more than two years now, and the reason for that - aside from the changing internet demographics - is that I've been dealing with depression. That's right, my old friends. You might not have noticed that, if you've been reading my tweets, because that's what we all do in twitter: we smile and we pretend to be moderately satisfied, because that's the way Mother Google wants us to feel. But not anymore. 

I'm so tired of not being able to express myself as the person I REALLY am, I just can't take it anymore.

I'm tired of being tired.

I'm bored of being bored.

I'm sick of being sick.

So yes, I've been depressed for the last three years - more depressed than I ever thought I could be -, for so many reasons I can't even begin to explain them here... but don't worry - you'll find out, eventually. During these dark years, I've seen all the things I believe in shattered. I've seen all my hopes destroyed. I've seen the people I love and admire being slowly deprived from everything they were, stripped from every little bit of human dignity they had left, forced to go through the most humiliating experiences I could ever have imagined, confined to the most miserable forms of existence; robbed, enslaved and outraged; reduced to a sad ghostly projection of the people they used to be... and my own spirit slowly dying with theirs. I've seen the light of my world extinguished. I've lost my faith in freedom, my faith in humanity, my faith in life.

But here I am... still. And I'm not planning to give up anytime soon.

As you might have already noticed, I'm writing in English now. I don't think that matters too much, though. I've always liked twisting languages a lot, and that's definitely not going to change. 

I don't even know how many of you - my loyal old readers - are still left here to care about whatever things I have to say, but we'll find that out along the way. We created great things together. I hope we can do that again.

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To those of you who don't know me yet... I'm sorry - I sort of forgot you were there. It's hard to explain who I am or what this blog is about at this point. The only thing I can tell you is I'm NOT writing about fashion (I have another blog for that). I'm NOT writing about cosmetics. I'm NOT writing about cooking. And I'm definitely NOT writing about lifestyle.

This blog is just me, in my purest form of expression - nothing more, and nothing less -, so be prepared for some potentially explicit content, the occasional swearing - whenever the fuck I feel like it -, polemic themes, unedited raw emotions, lenghty autobiographical tales, scary journeys through the depths of my psyche, exhaustive analysis of the cultural reality, pieces from my everyday life, picutres of beautiful androgynous people, endless love for Germany and the Germans (not all of them LOL), countless Simpsons references, Japan, cats, an insane amount of music, mindblowing absurd and, if my spirit ever gets back to form, even uncontrolled fangirling. We'll leave that one out for now, though.

Welcome to The Deadly Fetishes.

Enjoy it... if you can.