{"id":9181,"date":"2021-11-29T00:00:06","date_gmt":"2021-11-29T05:00:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/?p=9181"},"modified":"2022-03-14T12:30:39","modified_gmt":"2022-03-14T16:30:39","slug":"ruido-y-furia-carnage-anatomia-implicita","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/magazineampm.com\/en\/ruido-y-furia-carnage-anatomia-implicita\/","title":{"rendered":"Carnage \/ Implied Anatomy"},"content":{"rendered":"

It was May 2021 when I learned of the existence of <\/span>carnival<\/span><\/i>, an album by Nick Cave and Warren Ellis composed in the previous months of confinement.<\/span><\/p>\n

The last I had heard of Nick Cave with Warren Ellis had been the soundtrack for <\/span>War Machine<\/span><\/i>, in 2020. What bestiality \u2014I thought\u2014, what would films be without that unequivocal demon that announces that something is about to happen: an apparition, a cry; an escape, at best. I was reminded very quickly of the time when Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds was a monstrous mountain of altered colors. And, like everything monstrous, it aroused that feeling that only songs composed by enormous souls arouse. Now in <\/span>carnival<\/span><\/i>, those monsters appeared \u201crolling through the mountains like a train\u201d, with \u201ctears the size of an elephant\u201d. They were the same monsters, but they were different, or they had grown bigger.<\/span><\/p>\n

The disc, strangely, seemed corporeal to me, with anatomy, spinal cord, pain, shots of substances. It seemed dissectable to me. A dissectable musical body. A body capable of falling on another and physically impacting it.<\/span><\/p>\n

You have to sacrifice yourself. You have to listen to it with your whole body and let yourself fall.<\/span><\/p>\n

The chest<\/b><\/p>\n

carnival<\/span><\/i> It is not the classic album that depresses you because the lyrics are sad or because the minor notes settle in the middle of the rib cage and oppress the modest daily joys.<\/span><\/p>\n

what it does <\/span>carnival<\/span><\/i> on the chest is to leave an extremely subtle notice, an I'm here.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Let's say he makes a short stay with everything and his tachycardia and his little diastolic syndromes (which I don't know if it exists, although I assume it doesn't).<\/span><\/p>\n

carnival<\/span><\/i> It's not a cardiovascular record, even if the chest finds out.<\/span><\/p>\n

The eyes<\/b><\/p>\n

It's a circular disc, like a REM phase. You have to close your eyes, and they close instinctively.<\/span><\/p>\n

How not to close them to see better, to see inside?<\/span><\/p>\n

Balcony Man<\/span><\/i> it's a sale. I think it's the first blindfold on the album (or the first one I covered my eyes with).<\/span><\/p>\n

"I am the man on the balcony, \/ I am 200 pounds of packed ice."<\/span><\/p>\n

And the ice burns above the eyelids, and the eyes close in pain.<\/span><\/p>\n

"I'm a 200-pound octopus \/ under a sheet."<\/span><\/p>\n

And the eyes are closed in sadness.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

(Something clogs the lacrimal gland and doesn't let the crying come out. Something between the eyeball and the eyelid is blocked. Then the eyes open. Then the ice burns again. Then the eyes open and close. Then the eyes are a chorus in <\/span>loop<\/span><\/i>).<\/span><\/p>\n

Hands<\/b><\/p>\n

In all these months of confinement I have heard little music that has made me rest my hands on the edge of the table, move my fingers as if that edge were a piano, or any other instrument. It happened to me from the first song I put on: <\/span>Lavender Fields<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

A voice said I am traveling terribly alone.<\/span><\/p>\n

And the hands, terribly alone, walked along the edge of the table, pressing the invisible black keys that only existed inside the song.<\/span><\/p>\n

The feet<\/b><\/p>\n

Nope.<\/span><\/p>\n

prefrontal cortex<\/b><\/p>\n

I arrived at <\/span>old-time<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

"Wherever you are, darling, \/ I'm not that far behind\u2026"<\/span><\/p>\n

And I felt behind everything. I felt like I was in a huge line, full of people who were looking for something that I also wanted. I stopped at the word "honey", at the verb <\/span>carere<\/span><\/i>, in the shortcomings (and in the certainty that affection comes from them).<\/span><\/p>\n

I felt behind the etymology of a word as alien to me as the verb "to have", like everything impersonal. There can't be a love, I said to myself, and I avoided by all means uttering a word, sending the messages that a girl with nineteenth-century mania would send. I wanted to send a letter, yes. Put "honey" 90 times. I held back. I held back some cravings. I think I have achieved it.<\/span><\/p>\n