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21 August Jon NotveidtLa prematura scomparsa di Jon Notveidt ha innescato come spesso accade in questi casi una serie di meccanismi perversi per i quali pubblico indifferente, appassionati e per giunta coloro che non sapevano nemmeno chi fossero i Dissection prima d'ora si sono diametralmente divisi. Alcuni ne hanno approfittato per scagliarsi contro il Satanismo e il suicidio di quello che non era solamente un musicista ma sopratutto un uomo con pensieri, emozioni, cultura e personalità distinte da tutti noi. Altri hanno iniziato quella triste e pietosa serie di saluti e rimpianti che fa ancora più senso. Jon Notveidt aveva trentun'anni e dentro la sua anima sapeva di avere dato tutto. Per favore adesso lasciatelo in pace. 19 August Dissection statementAs rumours have started to spread we feel obliged to confirm Jon Nödtveidt's death. Jon Nödtveidt was a man who lived his life according to his convictions and True Will. A couple of days ago he chose to end his life by his own hands. As a true Satanist he led his life in the way he wanted and ended it when he felt that he had fulfilled his self-created destiny. Not everyone will have understanding or acceptance for his personal path in this life and beyond, but all must respect his choice. Those of us who have met him in his last days can assure that he was more focussed, happier and stronger than ever. It is our full conviction that he left this world of lies with a scornful laughter, knowing that he had fulfilled everything that he had set up for himself to accomplish. The empty space that he leaves behind will be filled with the dark essence that he manifested through his life and black-magical work. His legacy and Luciferian Fire will live on through those few who truly knew him and appreciated his work for what it really was and still is. As our brother's goal in life and death never was to "Rest in Peace", we will instead wish him victories in all battles to come, until the Acosmic Destiny has been fulfilled. For the glory of the Dark Gods and the Wrathful Chaos!
TuonelaSorrow is my bread
And tears I drink as wine Oblivion my happiness Ground under teeth of time For cold be the stone
When frost ve devoured the land Consolation is no gift Of winters icy hand Upon a crust of snow
Ill lay my broken frame What steel and iron wont take Ill give in winters name No good a sullen sout no use a simple knave No groom for brides of plaited hair This man old and lame If only I could breathe
To see the sun of may But still longer are the nigths than days As I wither away Came the man of crown
With sound of war drums beat Said no sword arms strong enough Without my two good feet But not overlooked am i In eyes of the maid Ill wed Ill reap the crops of tuonela My brides wealth in death Sad SongPale, sad eyes won't cry A face without a smile, the grace, the lies, the fall Amused to loose it all Sad about all the things you'll never see So sad about all, everything You and me So sad about all That feeling never dies Sad about all the ways I wanna be So sad about all, everything You and me So sad about all That feeling never lies Pain grows a lot, but you won't see So sad about all, everything You and me So sad about all The things we never had 01 August BasquiatIl volo di un angelo dalla pelle scura. Un volo straziante eppure colmo di lustrini fino all’orlo, irradiato da luci issate su pannelli instabili eppure catastrofico, disastrato. Il viaggio insalubre di Jean-Michel Basquiat talento immane dell’arte moderna e altrettanto manipolatore di tutti coloro che gli stavano attorno. Chi lo odiava e lo sfruttava veniva amato fino all’esaurimento nervoso, chi lo amava e tentava di indirizzarlo sulla strada meno impervia veniva per questo evitato nell’anima. La sua poesia, i graffiti con cui ha ricoperto il mondo un attimo prima che crollasse, i suoi 27 anni vissuti come dovessero terminare appena l’attimo dopo sono in questa raccolta biografica di storie e pensieri attraversati in totale sazietà dalle sue immagini convulse. I sogni finiti nella spazzatura. L’arte ammorbata dalla conformità ma in fondo nostra, lussuriosamente nostra. In fondo, quel fondo, non voleva essere un artista nero. Voleva essere un artista famoso. |
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