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Realicide Rex
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about

Robert Inhuman, ANOTHER GAME I WON'T PLAY...

I have never mailed out a Realicide record to anyone for them to write a review in a magazine or webzine. I almost never read reviews unless something happens to cross my path while I am really bored. (And fuck me for ever being bored anyway!) I don't ask for reviews, or read them, because I do not value them for the most part. Even though I am trying to survive off a small publications label, I don't have time or energy to keep up with the continuous "who's who" tide of competitive media, especially online where this tsunami of parasitic swill would threaten to engulf my mere 24 hours a day entirely.

And I'm very sure that the word IS "parasitic". The reviewers in the press sculpt their own identities only from the mangled scraps of those of the artists they desiccate in their written pseudo-propagandas. Without us as fodder they cannot exist. And even in the case of positive reviews, we are their crutch, and it doesn't make the situation seem more pleasant when they are used as our's in return! I don't want to be known fondly because of what someone wrote in a newspaper or on a blog. Let my actual life and public works speak for themselves. Let me work with distributors who can get the direct information into peoples' hands, instead of just hearsay and speculation that encourages or discourages people to spend their money on the material.

Something that I think confuses me the most, when I read something written about a Realicide record, is that since I am largely unfamiliar with these magazines I do not have any associations to the names tagged on, "...by Bobby Such-and-such" etc. Why am I supposed to follow the advice of someone whose credentials and agenda are a complete mystery to me? These reviews are only of use to people who are record COLLECTORS, who can follow along with a language and value system entirely dependent on name-dropping and obscure pseudo-cultural references, and what use is that in the big scheme of it all?

My refusal to cooperate (AKA suck-up) to the press means the road somewhat less traveled in my means of selling the records my label puts forth. Most of these sales happen on tour, through face-to-face encounters with as many kids who show interest in Realicide as possible. This directness is something I wouldn't trade for the world (well, unless the world starts to be a lot cooler) and is one of the things that still motivates me when I am feeling worn down by a nomadic and sometimes unstable life. To a fair degree, I am able to know exactly who the records are reaching, and more than that I am able to directly THANK the people who are supporting the project, keeping me alive and active! These people, whether they are at all similar to myself or not, deserve my gratitude. Just because I've chosen to spend all my time, energy, and money making and doing these things does not equate anyone owing me anything. Any attitude that contradicts that important point is one I do not want to be affiliated with. So let the press front like they can "make" or "break" and project like this.

They might have the leverage to eclipse an artist's credibility in the minds of collectors and those living vicariously, but to OUR demographic they have no potency and are no threat.

lyrics

In the dance club I saw wolves bear teeth. Drunken and rapist.
All 1970's retro overload, fashion overtones that alienate me. Womens' hands touch you all over.
Every step you take a hand runs down your body somewhere. Anonymous Aryan orgy.
Trying so hard; everyone forcing forcing forcing; painfully squeezing the conformity heart;
clenching out all its blood over their child minds; sexual and blunt.
A girl says "spread the news, I’ll spread the legs." Camera phones and I-pods galore.
Washing over flesh with bleach and hard cleansers.
Taking sandpaper to scrotums and high-pressure hoses to vaginas;
all waxed and ready for semi-child pornographic fantasies; hipster slick grime.
But course it's unspoken; nobody dressed so clean could be so polluted right?
Cigarettes held, big smiles whine, phones out and on, texting while gabbing lies.
A few lies hear and there and throw down.
Guts swoll with liquor. Dicks soft and flaccid. Pussies dry and resistant.
But thru the drunk haze it remains the aim held out over the edge
waiting to choke on oily ejaculates and colognes 30 years down the line.
Shotgun suicide in midlife crisis. Youth wasted on desperation.
Empty and brightly lit. Aryan orgy hipster fucks.

"There are very many reasons why most people prefer to live in the age just behind them. To live right on the shooting line, right on the frontier of change and so on is terrifying." (Professor Marshall McLuhan)

credits

from Resisting The Viral Self LP​/​CD (2007​-​2009), released March 29, 2009
Jim Swill: words, voice.
Steven Cano: hardware electronics.
Robert Inhuman: edits.

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