DJ Hell Music Saliha Enzenauer

HELL – NY Muscle (2003)

Saliha Enzenauer
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All the animals come out at night – whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies, sick, venal. Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets.

-Travis Bickle

The New York of Travis Bickle, Stanley Kubrick and Roman Polanski is real- Byzanz 2.0, a modern Moloch/Metropolis literally build on mudd and ruled by evil bankers and secret grandmasters of the world, its streets reigned by sin and corruption of all kinds. It’s astonishing that this New York never got a full, proper musical hommage- the city’s hymns are either beautiful and glamorous odes that are temporally set before the protagonist’s inevitable bad awakening (Frank Sinatra- New York, New York), or more often they are the usual modern assaults on your soul and intellect, like the pathetic “9/11“ hymns by Enya (Only Time) or Jay-Z (Empire State of Mind).

But wait, did I say that an hommage to sinister New York doesn’t exist? Fear not, the Munich machine DJ Hell (or simply HELL) took care of this matter with his overlooked masterpiece that is geniously titled NY Muscle (2003), a wild and sinister electronic nightmare that sounds like the unmasking outtakes of Eyes Wide Shut that we have never seen. An album that is a deep dive into the filthy underground and functions as counterbalance to the romanticization of the modern day gomorrha.

In history there has been especially one band that has provided us with a sinister sound from New York: the urban cowboys Martin Rev and Alan Vega from Suicide. Therefore it was almost a law that Alan Vega helped refine Hell’s NY Muscle, and that on two tracks. But first the album starts with the wonderfully painful anti-climax that is ‘Keep on Waiting‘, with Erlend Oye (Kings of Convinience) monotonously repeating his words to the rattling, tinny beats „Keep on waiting… I find patience“. Club-wise, we’re already at the coke-fueled, icicled afterhour party here, but the sound is so wavering and tenacious, that the listener also finds himself in the waiting hall of Hell’s central station. And may I add that it is the perfect Corona quarantine hymn.

Alan Vega alarmingly comes in immediately after with ‘Listen to the Hiss‘, a paranoid meltdown to tribal beats that ends in demonic improvisations by the dreamless protagonist, improvisations that culminate in a snakelike whisper and then the mental outcry of the word ‘Escape!’ None of this is pleasant, all of this a pull further into the mirrored and mascara-smeread reality depicted on the album’s cover. It’s a ‘Tragic Picture Showindeed- the title of the next track where James Murphy (LCD Soundsystem / DFA) comes in to let out his male, cosmopolitan disintegration in an erruptous electro banger with garage flair „I’m losing my fucking mind / Black suit, black tie / feeling like I wanna die… Acting young, feeling old… My head hurts / My heart is dead“.

The journey through sinister New York continues: Now imagine the Shining-twins with an Asian touch and finished with a jet-set lifestyle-lobotomy following you in the best, persistent stalker manner you can imagine- et voilà, you have the track ‘Follow You‘. We’re four tracks into the album and already have lost control during this unpredictable Tour de force. With its darkness and aggressiveness, NY Muscle is at times more of an industrial, EBM and even avantgarde album sprinkled with pure, screaming techno aggression (Let No Man Jack) or slow grandezza like on Billy Ray Martin‘s ‘Je Regrette Everything‘. A cleansing negativism and beautiful cancellation of Edith Piaf and all sentimental optimism , windowdressing, and ‘growing from mistakes’- philosophy. No, let’s face the sinful grand malheurs: they were bad, horrible, regrettable; and cleansing negativity is the accompanying survival tactique of the mercilessly moving, hell-dipping NY muscle.

And so Alan Vega’s second appearance is the heart of the album, set up like an electric chair in this menacing carnival of atrocities. While ‘Listen to the Hiss‘ marked the emotional introduction of this killing machine, it’s in full force now, set to music absolutely perfectly. Meet the Heat, meet, meat, heat… you can smell the burned flesh under the death-touch and whip of the lunatic torturer Vega, who carries the calm of the true psychopath in his voice, complete with sedate outbreaks. Vega gives you and Lady Liberty only one advise: „Forget about freedom…yeah, miracles flip-flop, and you wonder why.“

by Saliha Enzenauer

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