By Carmen Juarez
Butcher picks up her red guitar.
Shredddddd – it’s a tidal wave wall of noise.
Oooh it’s in my chest!
This is why we were given plugs.
Sounds like The End. A sonic onslaught.
Kevin Shields stares us down as our ears get fucked apart.
There’s a kid pulling his earplugs in and out. No! Stop! What are you thinking?
Plane air rushes past. But incredibly louder.
And REALLY WINDY.
Like what it might sound like if you could fly as fast as a 747 without anything to protect your eardrums from the wind.
And it goes on. And on. And on. We’re being transported.
Don’t their wrists hurt from all this strumming? It’s like they’re wanking on stage for us.
Oh. Right.
Goodbye forever, high frequencies.
Live photography (2008, June: Roundhouse, London): Greg Neate