Review: Primitive Knot ‘Sub Temple Ov The Mirror Cosmos’

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Initially this piece was meant for a publication, promises were made and broken, trust was eroded and once again I was the Lone Gunman staring out of dark windows smoking a roll up watching the ebb and flow of filth from the window. So here it is in my Black Iron Prison project and it will find a good home here. A place where the music can breathe a little despite the hands of the Demiurge around it’s throat. The Primitive Knot will never lie fallow and I will pass unhindered. That is the nature of this thing. We sit and listen perched on the edge of a Hotel bed while she washes herself, the gun at your lips and eyes firmly shut open.

I know the tangle of people here is a thing, I’m used to the madness of it but there is a cadence and a rhythm to this. Everybody marching in step, most dressed in that black. I say that black, it’s the black with the stains on it, the dog hairs and the food stains. The stain of lifestyle probably too. But this music is a stitch not unlike the stitch of the demiurge. That stitch goes through Jerusalem and comes out at Mecca, goes in at Brussels and comes out at London and that stitch binds the world to the orders of the demiurge and we see it in every headshot video every bombing run and every rant. This music is antidote to that.

Primitive Knot were born in 2014 and I think about that year and it’s all dust, all shapes. You wonder what kind of zeitgeist brought that screaming silver and vanta black beast into the world. What madness they have. I’m sitting in the drivers seat of a friends 1982 4 litre Jaguar something, I don’t know. But this morning I downloaded Primitive Knots new offering ‘Sub Temple Ov The Mirror Cosmos’ and put it on the angst-tech, the ‘DIE-POD’ and plug that thing into the beast sound system and it’s all about beasts now and I roll a little one out and pull down that window as the shoppers scatter under the 300w speakers of death he has put in the boot and I’m laughing straight away as the first track boosts the brainwaves and batters the thick glass of the Jag. Pull back the seat and slide it back and it’s the thick movement of well pressed steel, thick seat love. Boom town space rituals on half power. I can’t afford to let Primitive Knot make a mess of his cream maybe tan leather. I’ve got my sunglasses on see. I can’t exactly see because there are black clouds here, over the Black Jag, over the tinted black glass. I see her too reclining on the leather seats, and she’s leather too and it squeaks as she moves and grooves to the music but I see her and the door through her but she isn’t a ghost, she’s just the most.

Track lists? I’m reviewing the whole idea of it, the complete thing and that’s ok too. I suspect the sound system will drain the battery and a police car drives past slowly and stares inside the Jag at me tapping my nicotine stained finger against the steering wheel. Fudge making. Space fudge really as a staccato beat under that stiff hand of Jack Reid the guitarist. Why is he stiff handed? It requires it. There is no need for flounce and bounce. This is not some intricate balloon of an album, it has things to say on ‘Stigmata of the Descending Hierarchy’. So they roll with that and it booms and looms under the dashboard with a heavy relentless pressure. Vocals are subliminal and unattached in a radio voice that would come from THAT space station where they cower under the awful idea that something indeed looms outside in that alien landscape. In that landscape nothing was designed except by a mind so broken it has lost a grip on it’s own madness and the rhythm is coarse and strong. I have to get out of the car. Of course. It’s a tomb at the moment. Nobody can hear you dream in space and she walks back towards the car in those heels and walks past then is gone around the volume of ‘Interstellar Pulse erotique’ and here, the sound is vast. We mend the warp drive engines with sigils and there is no waiting in space for this band of magicians, just the ache of wanting to go home and I play ‘Stigmata’ again, because she is there when that plays and she’s slowly zipping and popping in the seat. Sexual sound systems, love on the leather, hot sex in the black jag.

He (I) moves his (my) hand through his (my) Black hair and he (I) wonders. He looks at his hands scarred by Fire and War, the muscles in his arms Iron made from casting weapons at enemy, castigating the fallen, arms that are guilty of Crimes. In the afternoon light his hands, in the bass of the tracks, they are not innocent hands. Others would look to their Gods for some sense of order and justice but not me. And not them either. The track is again subliminal bare electronic pressure pulses and loud it disturbs the Rasta man in the car next to mine and he isn’t happy, but I am and I smile at him. Cosmic violence here now? But all lives belong to the Demiurge, everything is silent as space between the notes and Primitive Knot murmur and move their hands over the engines and offer subtle incantations to it. To breathe and to cast themselves deeper into the deeps.

What is the point of Primitive Knot? Their music burns holes. Taps words on a wand, it wanders blind paths. We find a sick rhythm and a point in the song to seize and manipulate, cast meaning on it, maybe write a collection of lies we can weave ourselves and believe. From the Abyss another song ‘In the Desert We are Found’ it’s another secret word, a delicate pose. A special fire to kindle and tend, we coat our songs in innocence always, like a shellac to burn off and the song chips and files away at the barren wastes of our day to day doings. The song is shaking the windows of the Jag and I want to get back in and encompass myself in it, deep within it, but it’s not the time, I’m only writing about it. On the car park a woman shouts something at me but her words are taken away by the winds. Don’t annihilated souls love to cheer and bray?

I look down at my hands and see Primitive Knot have split the skin at the wrists and the blood flows freely into the dirty tarmac and a little on the black Jag. I draw Sigils in the paint with mine own blood and pull my hood further down over my face so the Brothers, the Knot will not stop their own manipulations. Sire the greedy words and adjust their meaning as ‘Helixes of UnLight’ terrifies the ramblers and the bumblers, I pull the magic from the music and plough back through times that have passed. My sin a greater thing than this bands but….I see others, and they call to me…and the Knot is the instigator of halting and of finality, the thread of the demiurge stops at the knot and that my friends is the power of it.

‘Sub Temple ov the Mirror Cosmos’ is a tricky thing. I was first introduced to the band by a girl named Wiggly and she crammed a disc into my hand with a kiss and a promise then was gone off into the cosmos. Of course I have to weave some sort of narrative, it’s a record review and I’m thinking about Hawkwind and 1972’s seminal masterpiece ‘Space Ritual’ and also the work of Robert Calvert ‘Lucky Leif’ maybe I can grab ‘Can’ and ‘Neu’ too but it’s all so twee grabbing onto these bands of the past and indeed who listens to Hawkwind now apart from those men lost in the spaces where the engines have died and they just drift? There are gaps within this album that the songs that precede them have drilled from solid influence. It’s as solid as this Jaguar, and as I put my head on the roof I can feel the power of them and yes it’s subliminal much of it. But it has Manchester there right underneath every pulsating track. We know Manchester, we know it’s thick musical tendrils that absorb the blackest of clouds above and spit them out in colourful streams of musical madness. But this is different. The Primitive Knot is a filter. They weave and give birth to songs that would be too horrific for the ears of the uninitiated. Filtered yes. Manchester is a filter. Primitive Knot is a filter too.

I caught them live in that place. It was as black as perhaps the hearts of those uninitiated who stood and spoke loudly as the music crept into us. Reading the endless arguments on this subject between the thankless bastards of ‘those who shout during songs’. It’s interesting that this band are coming from opposite angles, and seem to arrive at similar places. The real work of this albums transformative effects may be very difficult but if anything, I’d say that is the common ground of the new thing, the synthesis of psychogeography and psychoaction.

She bopped around the dance floor by herself as I watched her push out that little arse for effect as Primitive Knot made the stage a ritual space. Bop Bop Bop heels sliding across the floor. Zzzzzip. Those titties she pushed out as the hooded forms of the band did jive their thing. Bop Bop Bop. Sip that triple whisky. Shut my eyes. Lick A Shot. Her white tight thing glowing under the black light. There was an old dude dancing, he had a shit beard and some flare for talking shit and he breathed on her. She put her hand on his neck and ground her sex on him. But I was gone, the transformation was complete and the Jag outside was heated and slick. A space vehicle, an Orgone Accumulator of tremendous effect.

The Primitive Knot are so fire-breathing, so energetic, so cunning, so real, and it’s having results so amazing that it just makes me endeared to the whole idea of a twisted Temple Ov The Mirror Cosmos – I’m ready to die for the music, at this point. And I’m already ready to die for the pantomime, it’s the same feeling I have for the pantomime, because Primitive Knot is us, you’re Primitive Knot, you are the ritual, right down to your fucking Vans shoes when you don’t even skate. I resisted, later on in the Travelodge trying in the blackness of my sleep to shove every thought away as chaff in the wind. But the sound of the ritualising of Primitive Knot was purposeful. Thus wind is born, and solidified as a monad of the reality they build and I was caught. A thought is all it took and the hook was pulled deep and I could not shake free.

https://primitiveknot.bandcamp.com/album/sub-temple-ov-the-mirror-cosmos

https://primitiveknot.bandcamp.com/

https://www.facebook.com/primitiveknot/

The Primitive Knot

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Dancing days are here again darling. All the passing phases have raised their game and are scintillating in their reaction to it all. The rays through the limbs of the trees, the bucolic landscape, the flopping snow white clouds on the blue, so blue. She listened.

Google is the Demiurge.

‘What?’ she says. Confused. I’m sure through the visual migraine that i’m having. Parts of her hand have disappeared under the twisting lights of the freaked out frontal lobe optical madness. Lights from the roadside, shops flashed and splurged their energy into the interior and it was Picasso figures in Sodium light. Harsh jaws and hardly buttoned blouses in the white triangles of the LED Antisocial lights the ASBO glow of those places we shouldn’t go. But it was all a joke wasn’t it baby? The fingernails and the laugh you had when everything was new? When you’re shoes weren’t scuffed and you talked about New York being broken. Impassive Birmingham skylines and words are just bitter world like memes and nuggets. See? Her finger on her bottom lip and the way she arches her eyebrow and that way she does everything. That same finger pressed the cold barrel from the top of my mouth and the taste of Morris oil was bitter and sour but she kissed me nonetheless and I was off with the whispers and warm hands in cold places. But I remember the anger and the knocking at the door by angry neighbours and the ‘Rites of Saturn’ by Primitive Knot was playing on the stereo and I had turned it up loud as I fucked her and it was on loop so it was endless velvet sky, turn toward the East and kneel baby. This is the fucking light, this is the rite and I’m sure one of the voices behind the door was her husband but I had her hair in my hand and she was gasping. Seven times in all she screamed in orgasm.

Google is the Demiurge. And you love it and that’s what it’s there for to channel and mold, to forge and bend. It did that to her of course. Latent she was and lost in the whole crazy world I had brought her into. At first she was confident in her own wisdom and strong. Was she not a Goddess? Brought? Dragged more like under the hard grasp of him locked away. Those days. In the cold, always cold, always a thin jacket for me and a thick coat for her because she knew then that everything was this things delight. All the crooked flags the Demiurge flew were smiled at by her as she giggled and let slip her breast in the back of the Taxi. She was a thing yes. But now? Near the end of this Eigen?

The Taxi Driver said something and I ignored him and just watched her gazing out of the window. She had dragged things through with her. The 23 path. The KLF madness. The Dillinger perspective. All of it in her hand and clasped tight as she ran through and fell into the circle at my feet. My thoughts were not pure Father. Never were, at first, and then I realised and it was too late. September 23 maybe.

‘Amazon too?’ She asked. Of course. We are choked by the administrations of the Demiurge. They tease us with the things we will never need and the void of the Demiurge grows and contains everything that has to do with me and her. It has proclaimed me and made me a light that burns through nights. Every night. Sprayed on subway walls the gap between the notes and a lull in the things she says in the days spent gazing at each other huddled in the duvet watching videos on her lap top while the cold got nearer and we would have to fuck to stay warm and we fucked so much how cold it was but we laughed and everything was good for a few moments. I really have forgotten how much I didn’t need you and for that moment we were again somewhere else warm and sunny but the breeze blew it away. Through the cracks in the window frames.

It’s all going to go to shit that day baby. Crashing skies, rolling strolling screams and the black burned hate of the Demiurge will sweep all before it. Lie under moons baby and rest your body, don’t stir. The magic hour baby coming soon. 1 minute to 12 Midnight on the 22nd of September 2017 I’ll meet you. Wear your black dress and the sex hot line and bring a can of tango with you. Orange flavour. Don’t cry. I can’t bear to hear that so close, You know it makes me horny and that’s just stupid, fucking at such an auspicious occasion. It’s so fucking predictable. So don’t do that.

The Taxi rocks us over rough Birmingham roads and we are rolling. Moving around being novel and dynamic, she had just had a lap dance off a hot student Nurse and I had watched at the bar as she got her twenty quid of love, and the Nurse was joyous and fun filled with a different groove. No more fat boys, no more old men with sad erections. But her. I squeezed down another laugh at the bar. It was very funny. Laugh? I could have cried but I shook holding them in as the Nurses tits came out on my girls face I erupted and fell from the stool. The bouncers were fast and I flew through the half dressed wildflowers and the shuffling feet of ladness out onto the street where I curled into a ball and laughed loud, so loud the Police stopped and I couldn’t answer their questions my choking giggled self, lost I was in that madness. But she came out of the doors and her face was as dark places, cold and sad. I started laughing again and she had pulled me up and supported me but they thought I was drunk and that was cool. If they knew the truth. Fucking hell. They would never understand no. No chance they would.

She was searching in her handbag for something. I crossed my legs as well as I could in the back of the car. Took on the artist pose and the back of my hand was on the flesh of her thigh and she was there, crossed over, and she was turning. Feeling everything and the spotlight on her for a moment. We all try darling, we are all one and yearned for. Soft and the whole thing never really hardened me off. I drove my knowledge baby, beyond everything, it was only skill. Not supposing to make you hold your head in your hands and weep saying ‘Every word’. But Demons darling are best cast out with baseball bat and a hammer, cut out with stanley knives and grunt kick bop.

Hold hands. Breath out and don’t breath back in. Look at yourself and look at me.

But she never does, Instead we are at a traffic light and her flesh is subtle and pink under the red light. But there’s an advertising hoarding right next to us and there in the light that shone upon it was an advert for Google and I wanted to cry a little but held it in. She knew and looked at me with wide amused eyes, sticking her tongue out, suggestive and licking something. All of a sudden fast-sex-animal and meme driven. Googled. Everything was ok before Terminator 2. When I got back to the flat I would fuck her and stranglefuck her to sleep then she would snore gently and I would Google that Motherfucker. T2. Yeah. This is the rite.