BLACK METAL / WHITE SLAVERY
CHAPTER ONE - PLAGUE RITES
Repetitive declarations of "Sieg Heil!" resonated through the forests as our train sped through the budding German landscape. My senses so acute I could hear the horde through the thick glass enclosure as the other passengers carried on unaware, occupied with their trite conversations and pulp fodder. My heightened physical vibrations did not pass unnoticed on this eight hour journey from Berlin to the city of Strasbourg, France. Glares and whispers could not escape my attention as the red-lipped gash across from me smirked every so often in between her vacant stares. A dose of the standard German brew and several cigarettes quickly alleviated this feeling of impending doom. I returned to an amicable conversation with Christoph, who was obviously starting to wonder if I would be able to get through our performances this evening, my demeanor visibly askew.
Seeing that the following day would bring the annual celebration of the resurrection of the Bastard Nazarene, the French promoters made sure to book an all around sinister line-up for their event. It would be my first time playing live in Strasbourg and had worked obsessively on my set for the previous weeks whilst fighting off a cold I contracted after abusing my sinuses at one of the many Berlin underground parties. The creeping feeling of tangible evil loomed over the proceeding sound check once we arrived at The Molodoi. My social skills dissolved as the crew's faces twisted with demonic nods of acknowledgment. Upon set up, I realized that I had brought the wrong discs to load my Akai sampler, a critical first-time mistake in a still fresh music career. Standing on a barren stage hours before my supposed show was to start, I snapped in the awareness of my failure. Three marching circles widdershins before I landed a furious blow upon Christophs jaw. Disconnection of the sound system was the only way out of this increasingly malignant situation. If I could not play, no one would. A warm hand reached out to mine as I tore the cables from the bass bins. His eyes so clear.
"Rachael, I take you outside - you need some air," he purred in his French accent.
Following him up the hill, a view to the cars racing down the highway, the soundman extended his arm to mine and told me to scream. His knowing gaze melted my building self hatred, like a guru he stood strong and silent waiting for my guttural release. Again and again I howled, sending my rage to the incessant insect vehicles before me. Shrieks transmitting more rage and pain than I knew I had trapped within myself.
"Hecate! Hecate! Hecate!" voices chanted from below us.
"Do not listen to them, Rachael, ignore them," he said, guiding me through this catharsis.
I had to pass my fans on the way back into the club. They must have thought I was warming up for the evening's performance. Little did they know I was experiencing a living nightmare. Hunger was starting to scratch at my insides. The offering of food did not help since I was convinced they would either drug me or outright poison me. Rats came scurrying from the walls as darkness fell upon my psyche. No words were uttered, I just stood and stared and smoked cigarette after cigarette. Extinguished my own breathe in a pile of ash. Strasbourg's history of burning over 2,000 jews back in 1349 reflected this plague like situation, a possible memory of pest ridden times past, of poison in the wells. A fair skinned maiden with long black and red hair attired in a t-shirt depicting Satan led me to the neighboring bar. Over beers and the only small talk I could manage in this situation she inquired as to what drugs I was on. Everyone was firmly convinced I was spun out on some type of psychedelic. Under the waning moon we sat, her visage coming in waves as if a vision in a scrying mirror.
Virgin Mary, mother of sluts.
Refusing to answer her questions and ready to end the interrogation I took the Swiss Army knife from my pocket, preparing the tool for for my liberation. I seized one side of my white g-string, slitting the fabric. And again to the right. Quickly snagging the panties publicly on the patio I pulled them from my pants and set fire to them as I laughed wickedly. Looking back, I should have just saved this for an actual performance, the sight of a burning G-string says much more than a scorched bra.
After this escapade she immediately brought me back to the venue, where Christoph stood conversing in French about what to do with me. A hurried conversation and quick exchange brought us back to the train station where we would board bound for Switzerland. On the eve of Easter, we arrived on the last train in Basel, where Christoph's brother picked us up and drove us into the dark hills of Nunningen unaware of what had led us there so suddenly. I kept my trap tightly shut on the drive, smoking and listening to the rolling Swiss dialect as we found ourselves at the house of their deceased father. Rolling the last of my stashed (legal) marijuana, I inhaled the massive spliff, trying to shut out the events of the past hours. Sleep washed over me in time, no matter the endless chattering of far off Witch covens cursing my name.
Awakened to a scream let loose from my own sweat drenched corpse, Christoph grabbed me and tried to calm me down. I related to him that "they"were watching me, inflicting this upon me. The illuminated elite and their failed plans to control my wanderings. Their sex deprived power hungerings striking to my central nervous system. My mother's boyfriend's stories of how the first and only woman made it into the Masons after crashing through a plate glass window she was perched at while listening in to their rituals. The music producer who worked with Bowie down the road was sending messages through the 8-track Weltron robot headed radio in the corner. I could hear their hexes, their anguish rooted in my fate. No acid trip could have been this horrific, and actually no acid trip I had ever taken was at all horrific. I had stepped into the Black Lodge, where Madeline Albright held seances cloaked in human flesh. Where Laura Palmer learned how to insert her first tampon. I knew then, as I would time and time again, that I must disappear. Away from this secluded Swiss village. Away from the curious eyes of my questioning fans. Memories flooded in, volcanic. A memento mori flashing as Joan of Arc burns heretical. My super 8 film of Alba snorting a gram of ketamine in one line while I arranged a voodoo altar in our Blackheath squat had disappeared somewhere in the attic there. I was convinced that Christoph had stolen it - to use against me. His release of my first solo EP as catalog number 32 was just another signifier of my initiation into the mysteries. My hard drive name was changed to Rachel from Rachael - the added "A" a clue to the forthcoming Gematria which would haunt my life for years to come. Images of sadistic sex rites congealed against a backdrop of esoterism. I saw my life laid out before me in strips of pornography, Satanism and terror.
The solitude of the next days brought me back to my usual state of being. Music. Marijuana. Eating well and indulging in pleasures of the flesh. The past weekend already seemed like a fleeting dream, lost before you can even find a pen to transcribe the fleeting nocturnal visitation. A bad dream was what it was, and must have been. I had no idea that this event in the twenty-third year of my life would have such an impacting resonance. 2000 had already brought with it an unfulfilled prophecy of total collapse, and with it my life followed. Photos of Christoph and I spending our New Years in Nunningen high on Hawaiian mushrooms came back double exposed. The images of us, shimmering from snow chilled Champagne and other intoxicants were layered over the last moments of his poet father's life, before he succumbed to the physical decay and final death of blatant alcoholism. These visual memories accompanied us back to Berlin, where I tried to explain my aborted attempt at playing live to my friends at home. How could I rationalize my non-drug induced paranoia and visions to my band mates and cohorts? It came out in an unintelligible mess of verbage and unnecessary details which would not make sense to anyone, and I usually have a hard enough time communicating to people precisely what I am thinking in most verbal exchanges.
"I don't know man, I think there is a Satanic conspiracy involving me," I muttered, "There are people who want me dead and others that want me to go on, I think it has to do with Austria."
"No, of course I do not know any Satanists in Austria, I only know Eiterherd. I have been chatting with him lately on the internet. He wants to put out a seven inch of mine on his new label, Porn Noir. He told me he wants to package it in my used panties. He is coming here soon, next week I think..." of course, the Germans hated to hear this coming from me, a half Austrian ex-Dominatrix music producer residing in Berlin.
The Strasbourg incident spawned what became the next strangest nine years of my life. Eiterherd arrived while Christoph, the last person to release his music, was away on business. Taking me immediately in the bathroom, up against the wall, he told me in his heavy Austrian accent how he never had stripped a girl of her Wanderhosen before. We laughed and fucked ourselves into drunkeness for days. Once again I tried to explain that there was some type of Austrian conspiracy involving Witchcraft and music but I was totally unclear as to what it was or what I had been through in the previous week. He was not well versed in any sort of Occult subject matter which made it even more difficult for him to comprehend. I explained it as a bad acid trip with out the acid and promised him I would be fine. We conjugated the spring in a fast blast of sex and public displays of euphoric bliss. My visions lost against the lengthening day light hours.