Oïmiakon - Comptoir Des Vanités LP

The (very) short introduction may have mislead the mystic-craving listeners into believing this record to be a weird tribal ceremony. But OÏMIAKON, as soon as the second piece, glides shamelessly towards a weird glitchy backroom dark electro, which could easily prove as dangerous as Aphex Twin’s Window Licker for a skater. Jog, dance, flee or try to keep the beat at your own risk. You’ve been warned.

Then the ambiance takes a darker turn, barely one minute later, deeper in an underground rave where dancing proves even harder, wet bodies rubbing, awkward desire melting on the sticky dance floor, for five minutes this time. Is the music off-beat or LSD kicking in ? The rhythm is easier to track, but harder to dance to.

Need a break from the dancefloor, water my face, good idea. Sound cuts. I fall. the room seems like moving on its own. A Man helps me, eyes like saucers, and I feel his hard-on slapping gently my cheek. The muffled loud sound almost covers his lusty “Suck my cock ?”. The massive ten-minutes long “Viande de race”, bastard child of Plastik Man, Farmers Manual, and the hidden Warp catalogue. Are these glitchy sounds, way too rythmic to be accidental, in my head, caused by the wet ambiance on the shitty sound system, or deliberate ?

If the A side was structured to turn every senses to the max, the message of the B side is clear : either leave right now or live the trip to the fullest. After listening to the long” Viande de Race” from the bathroom of a Zeigenbock Kopf concert, OÏMIAKON doesn’t use gloves anymore and punches for real, bare knuckles, until the orgasmic last track, just like an “encore”, an explosion closing a Panasonic live based on frustration.

Vincent Cassel fleeing from the Rectum and from Gaspard Noé, no more norms, just pure pleasure, from the ears to the crotch, a single line labyrinth, the best kind according to Borges…but the emergency exits are blood-red…
Has Elvis actually left the building ?

– Toma Uberwenig