Body Maintenance have a unique way of releasing albums at precise moments of psychopolitical upheaval. I think this as I drink stolen beer in Treasury Gardens while the cold goes septic in my bones, and I begin to weep with a violence rarely known over the isolation of my skin. I am able to state openly the presence of my active mental crisis only when it is strangers who must watch the saliva fall from my snarled teeth. I am reminded of The Mob’s six-minute dirge No Doves Fly Here locked in a toxoplasmic waltz with Echo of the Bunnymen. The band’s discography is like a black forest cake. Sure a chocolate cake covered in fancy shit is good, but add a second and then third one? Mate. They continue to richen their sound until it’s almost saturated, (bitter)sweetness kicking you in the cavities you poke your little tongue around while drinking $3.99 shiraz in your windowless hovel. Goth is difficult because it necessitates an authentic and unapprehensive emotionality that appears like a garlic cross to the cock-first vampires bandying up and down in this “cunt-ry”, but placing aside the snide sex-metaphors does leave you staring at The Boundaries, longing for the day you will sleep (far from here). It is facile to say that I am sad and they are sad and so we may be sad together. Rather it is that I am sad-and they are sad-and yet for a fleeting moment in the sonic playground we anarchise our relations into an antecedent leftist play-experiment, dreaming of a world where we are more.