Suboko

My first escaped temporarily from the noisy straightjacket of a romanian analcore sect lost in eastern france for 15 years, my second put his dubplates nicked off Detroit's dancehalls and his witchcraft books away in the back of his backstreet lab, my third exceptionnally stepped away from the blue notes, only keeping pinot noir wine and the unfailing good temper off his multiple be-bop orchestras. Suboko slowly assembled an offroad vehicle from multiple percussions, resonant or not, rusty steel, recycled items, spinning decks, disruptive electronics and old holiday tapes.
With an electroencephalogram dipped in unlikely soviet z-movies, from calabrese cowboys' ridiculous settling of scores or fake polytoxicomaniac roadmovies set in the suburbs, suboko improvises strange sonic patterns tumbling down tunnels at maximum speed, stepping forward in quicksands or missing hairpin bends, suddenly changing direction and hovering above frozen lakes. During its last stay in a recording facility, the trio used bits and pieces of long improvisations, offering a collection of sequence shots which take them away from their usual onstage behaviour in order to sneak into an air conditioning system emitting contemporary music fumes disrupted by industrial winds. Between extended apnoea and uncoordinated release, between numb horizontality and indiscriminate bombardment, Suboko is wilfully trying to have their equipment resonate like a wasteland where everything and anything can happen.