Le Prince Harry (BE)

Le Prince Harry
In Toxcity, under the constant threat of radioactive rain, mustachioed children play in gravel bins among cigarette butts and still-warm syringes.

In the deserted streets, devoid of any vaguely civilized life, there resounds a strange, epileptic, discordant music that makes the veins throb like a 20-kilometer trail, irresistible like a flat beer on a Monday morning.

Deep in a moldy cellar, two Mongolian dipsomaniacs torture analog synths, smash a drum machine and harass a bass against a backdrop of incongruous shouts.

A toothless audience of marginalized people without income, with rolled-back eyes or dilated pupils, sweating liters of toxins, slips rather than dances between pools of bloody vomit and rats.

210 bpm. The relentless electronic rhythm leaves no moment of respite. The distorted bass and synth lines evoke perverse visions of courtship displays, the riffs slice like a razor through an eyeball, and the lingering vocals ceaselessly announce the imminence of the end of times.

It's captivating; listening to one more track is like preparing to dance on the ruins of this world and living this day as if it were the day after the last.