I always enjoy when a tracklist makes me think of a story, particularly when you have an intro taken out from an 80’s antihero film trailer where everything’s gone to shit. Isn’t it nice when a piece of culture freshly created makes you learn a bunch of things? Or when you jump from your chair screaming ‘That’s fuckin’ Snake Plissken!!’.

Yes, “Timestalker” went to the past and brought me something different.

Is it full of holes or is it a great work from a pioneer of the Swiss Synth Scene?

I don’t know and I couldn’t care less, you thought this was a review? It isn’t. I just listen to it repeatedly while twisting my mind just for you.

An asphalt jungle, an urban skyline of fear, waiting, watching, destroying…

This first track deserves an aerial shot of New York City just as Detroit had one in 87, but no need for a news report, we already know we’re fucked. Gangs are everywhere doing gangy things, like gangcriming, gangraping, gangdrugging and who could forget about gangbanging? Yeah, I’m talking about those 80’s felons, but the sounding is teleporting me 50 years ahead and making me materialize a BFG 9000 in my arms.

Run, skate, drive or hide cuz’ the Pariahs just rose and they make me wander those infested blocks, evaporating the wicked with my green projectile without caring of collateral damage. I’m not thinking straight, these sounds give me the urge to get in this Roaring Interceptor and just flee the scene, giving me hope for better aim and more vile screaming from excruciating pain along the way. Good thing I found a Sawn-Off inside with free refills…

This is it! The outbreak of Evil gets me. It accompanies me while I insanely mop-up what I can find while I kid with these pedals. The majority of drivers always bitch about automated gearboxes, but how the fuck are you supposed to shoot pedestrians accurately while managing a clutch ? This is easier, and let’s be honest, these are hard times. I’ll take every perk I can, even the Bloody Mess…

The Call for Vengeance gets my finger soft. I’ve decided to relax a bit during my drive, since these blocks do not have empty husks in need of forceful holes in the thoracic vertebrae. I’ve decided to kewl off at the BCBG hell hole. This awful place reminds me of home, without the Streets of Rage villainy silhouettes. Heard it used to be a Punk rendez-vous kind of place. Dunno much about that but what a weird sounding this is, never thought it could be so enjoyable as I almost tapped my feet synchronized with this off rhythm bit. I just witnessed some guy getting his head crushed by a RoadHouse kick…

I cannot bare to see this Ultra-Violence going on without engaging. I don’t care if I lose as they always taught me that the important thing is to participate. The struggle is what counts, it’s what makes you better as a whole, not some kind of gratification. Head-butts, roundhouse kicks, some visit to the dentist, New Rocks head crushing and sawn-off pointing. Seems I win again. I get off there and find myself aching for more. Lucky day, Punk…

Seems I shouldn’t participate, sometimes. Another group was waiting outside, next to the V8. They used up my BFG on the local shops, for local people. There is nothing for me there. I shot in the face the one they call Poison for having fun with my gun. Nobody gets fun with my gun without getting sprayed.

Took my knife from the New Rocks while they jumped over, they got me in a sandwich of bloody ribs but I got some jawbreakers in my knuckles and eyepoppers in my blade. The whole thing stopped for they were not ready to participate. I can see they never came out of kindergarden as I have many years of teaching. The rest just ran off letting three of their mates all over my ride and one in shock repeating the same senseless numbers ‘404’. A lot cleaner than pints of blood all around and as far as desensitization goes, a lot funnier. I have to say, the improv’ reddish paintjob gives the Mad Mobile some rage.

I just go without worrying of those bodies, as they’ll fall on the way.

Feels good to be The last survivor of any dire situation.



Text by Flama Jiberish