Vultureffect (shards)

Jorge Enrique Lage
04.01.2021
5 minutes reading

Waves

The Earth was dead and they decided to form a band: electric guitars, bass and drums, keyboard and corrosive wave synthesizer. they were called acid rain. They became famous. They traveled the world with their music, until one day they were told: “That's music for the mentally retarded”.

So they decided to dissolve the group and form a new group: themselves. Earth was still dead. they were called acid rain. They traveled much more than before and their fame multiplied as much as their music. But they were told, "That's music for postmodern scarecrows."

So they decided to dissolve the group and form a new group: themselves. Fame again, again acid rain on all t-shirts and all mouths. They almost traveled hoping to find someone who didn't know their music. And they found someone who told them: "That's music for the deaf from another planet."

So they finally decided to play their instruments, especially the corrosive wave synthesizer. Anyway, Earth was already dead.

Design: Mayo Bous / AM:PM Magazine.

Greenlandic

Long line of people waiting their turn for the musician to sign a copy of his latest album, I need more guitars, a recording that brings to mind the word rock, perhaps because rock has done us the favor of disappearing and we feel that with the remains, with the pieces, we can continue making music.

My turn comes, the artist suddenly recognizes me and before I can ask him why he needs more guitars, he tells me with high milligrams of apathy in his eyes: “I need more hours at night”. I don't know what to think, so I shrug my shoulders and say, "Then go to Greenland." He smiles, shakes my hand and thanks me and before he leaves he asks me to stay and sign the records for him. Everything has happened very fast, suddenly the guy is gone and I start scribbling the records that are put in front of me.

I write other lyrics between the lyrics of the songs.

I recombine, link, mix, invent little stories and smile sheepishly for my fans.

I tell none of them that the rocker has done us the favor of disappearing and that with his remains, with his pieces, I am writing.

Design: Mayo Bous / AM:PM Magazine.

Kurt Cobain

She shows him a nightgown, black and lace, and asks him to put it on. He puts it on. Then she paints his eyes with eyeliner and combs his bloody blonde locks. "Like in the Gus Van Sant movie," he says. Soft music begins to play. She asks him to dance. He does not say anything. She approaches him. "Just relax," she says, and reaches out her arms to him. Very slowly. "Now I'm going to touch you, okay?" He flinches at the contact. "If you want, close your eyes." He closes them. She feels spilled brains. He allows her to wrap her arms around his neck, abandoning himself little by little to the proximity of the other body. The scene may seem stupid and contagious. When she has completely adhered to him, embracing him, his hands begin an indecisive movement towards her waist. So she tells him he doesn't have to. "Really," he repeats crying, "you don't have to do it." But he already did, remember?

Design: Mayo Bous / AM:PM Magazine.

Punk

The vulture asks me why the attraction to girls with guitars, when they are most likely dumb blondes through and through.

"It's because the guitar is electric," I reply. As a matter of design, the girls are also electric. They come corded. You can connect them to anything else.

Design: Mayo Bous / AM:PM Magazine.

mtv

In a hotel room. I turn on the TV, grab the remote, and put the barrel in my mouth. I close my eyes. Shooting. I feel the rumble in there. I open my eyes and see my brains on the walls. I close my eyes again and shoot myself again and again, trying to splash everything: the carpet, the furniture, the curtains. Sometimes my hand trembles and sometimes the trigger of the remote control jams and in there a dry hammer resounds and then the open eyes, the sweat, the blood, the gaze fixed on the television screen. (Nobody said it's easy).