VISION CREATION NEWSUN

Carbonised by the neutral gravity of Diemos and seasoned with a smijin of adult video idol Oikawa Nao's inner thigh sweat and housed in the sweetest box imaginable The Boredoms pull off a master-stroking stroke of genuine genius. That this was realeased at the business end of the 90s and that the Mighty Bore hail from Osaka and not the Rhine can not prevent this becoming an all-time Krautrock classic. In fact, nothing could stop this juggernaut.

From the off one instinctively knows when one is right (and without the meerest sniff of Croft's Sherry) and as the EYE starts a frenzied 'vision...creation...new...sun...' attaining new levels of spirituality along the 10 second duration we are headed into a tsunami of tribal drums, deep phasing to make Dieter Dierks stroke his balls with glee, electronics lovingly assembled in Taiwan, and enough technique and outright sense of what is holy and righteous that they don't miss a single stroke until it is all over some 60 minutes later. Along the way we get everything thrown at us (filthy, undeserving peasants that we are) but, as we are being bitch- slapped by the onslaught of goodness it is hard to recognise just what it is that is being served to our untrained bruised mind.

I caught Faust, Nine Days Wonder, Hawkwind, Stockhausen, Kraftwerk, Pataphonie and Achim Reichel admist the tribal techno melee on the first few listens and it would come as no surprise at all to learn that they had commissioned an electronics guru to filter all that they love into a particle generator and spunked it out at the other end to produce music as perfect as this. No need to know the track titles as they are all symbols and THAT is all we need to know.

And they are even better live. Last time I saw them in Tokyo they had a 30 strong schoolgirl choir (in uniform) which EYE orchestrated as their three drummers centered around an hypnotic hour long pattern. Thrice.

Buy the original 2cd Japan only box set if you can. You get a T-shirt, many stickers, a double cd with new material, and if that ain't enough...the box sings music when you hold it to a light-source.

I had always held the lyrics to The Human League's 'Black Hit Of Space' as some kind of expectation that I would never experience. Actually, these words always gave me a hard-on. It's subsided somewhat upon hearing this.

Been out all night, I needed a bite I thought I'd put a record on I reached for the one with the ultra-modern label And wondered where the light had gone It had a futuristic cover Lifted straight from Buck Rogers The record was so black it had to be a con The autochanger switched as I filled my sandwich And futuristic sounds warbled off and on

Chorus : The Black Hit Of Space It's the one without a face It's the one that doesn't fit You can only see the flip The Black Hit Of Space Sucking in the human race How can it stay at the top When it's swallowed all the shops?

As the song climbed the charts The others disappeared 'Til there was nothing but it left to buy It got to number one Then into minus figures Though nobody could understand why

(Chorus)

I couldn't stand this bland sound any more so I walked towards my deck to turn it off. All I could see was the B-side of the disc which had assumed a doughnut shape with the label on the outside rim. I reached for the arm

which was less than one micron long but weighed more than Saturn and time stood still. I knew I had to escape but every time I tried to flee, the record was in front of me.

The Black Hit Of Space Get James Burke on the case It's the hit that's never gone Time stops when you put it...