Das Neubautenjahr 2024: Böcklin, Toteninsel, Alte Nationalgalerie. Letzter Tag des Quartals, die Neubauten und ihr Berlin, die Kulmination des Prozesses des vergangenen Jahres, Höhepunkt und Ernüchterung, das Genie aufgelöst im Sprudelwasser der Zeit, die Oberflächen verkratzt, die Essenz verschüttet, glimmend, noch hell.
The whole universe is wobbly – Die Neubauten auf einer kleinen Bühne im Schrebergarten ihrer Arbeit. Blixa describing the orgiastic murder of gods.
Beachtown beachfront architecture: linear, narrow, a high-rise, a street, a cabaña, the sea. All incarnations approximating a mellow Miami, no matter how forlorn and small the town, the imagined grandeur of warm summer nights remains the same. It speaks of a kind of universal wave, an overall graceful motion of being, undulating in tune with some long-forgotten natural pattern, its anticipated unending dynamism approximated by clumsy architecture, ultimately fated to be covered in neon signage advertising the abstractions of industrialism. There is always one black building. Despite all this, the beachfront is never entirely devoid of appeal, it speaks to the fundamental urge of living at the edge of land, with the unending universe present as an escape that could be taken, but never is.
This one is a lesson in introspection, in diving deep into your self, in exploring your knowledge both mentally and physically. This process, wrapped into a coherent soundscape that Messer could only have procured from within: at once abrasive and funky, a dubby boom enveloping hooks and stories entirely constructed from characters and ideas that have populated Messer’s albums and Hendrik Otremba’s writing for years. It’s the record I would have wanted this band to make: start where No Future Dubs left you, now go deeper.