BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. I do not know a single thing about Nackt Insecten or music, but here are some things that I definitely do know. It is very hard to ignore a frothing, twelve-foot locust, particularly when he appears to have something to say but no immediate way of saying it. It writhes about in agony amid the bemused punters, spitting and seething, the hairs on its thorax rippling in the putrid, unholy glow of the Trongate twilight.
I am surprised this creature has been allowed to live. It stands erect now, slowly unfolding its many sacred orifices, and unleashes his pitiful song-of-sad-sadness upon Glasgow’s premier vegetable mutilation clinic, which you can listen to below. His followers begin to circle him, ringing bells and sounding chimes, attempting to open up the gates to the dimension this creature congealed in. This actually works. In the rift to the next world which opens up above my head, I see myself sitting in Mono with a drink I couldn’t possibly afford and a mouth made of diamonds. ‘FATUOUS WANKER’ is what he screamed at me.
I did not attend this gig. I’d give it an I for ‘In Vitro’. I want my soul back. Would you like to venture into the void with me to help get it back. No.