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Mondo Decay

by Nun Gun

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  • Mondo Decay Book, Tape and Digital Download (Edition of 500)
    Cassette + Digital Album

    Limited to 500 copies
    pages 144
    size: 20x 29,7 cm
    Book of photographs by Brad Feuerhelm with accompanying texts by Ryan Mahan, Michael Salu, and Travis of ONO.

    Begins shipping from Italy by 1st March.

    Includes unlimited streaming of Mondo Decay via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.

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Time melted The formulation of days grew meaningless The distinction between day and night This spectre, its edges frain This spectre, like a heavy cloud This spectre, its edges frain This spectre, unseen Time melted Time melted The formulation of days grew meaningless The distinction between day and night Time melted
(The collapse of everything) Digital dictatorship Stealth Empire Fear of the unknown Ambient Abuse The collapse of everything Game over Instability Unpredictability Enhanced reality Harass, coerce, cajole The manipulative settings of control Digital dictatorship Ambient abuse Abuse by proxy Considerable charm Neuroplasticity hijacks your mind The collapse of everything Game over Retreat, cajole, coerce Threaten, stalk, Contempt, convince, harass Manipulate his targets Malicious rumours Smear campaigns Provoking the victim Colluding, suffocation Neuroplasticity hijacks your mind Slavery still exists The collapse of everything Information medicine Digital dictatorship Stealth Empire Fear of the unknown Ambient Abuse The collapse of everything Game over
Beef Diet 03:21
“So enter the gates of Hell, to live in there. And indeed, so really evil is the home of the proud.” Utopia! 1482! Wait For Me In The Gold Mine. 1832. O! John Henry: WAIT! Smallpox Creeping WAIT! Malarial Fossils Wait For Me On Blackwell Island. Baka-Baka 40,000,000 Slave Patrols Suffocate One Nuclear Herod The Great Gun Out-Run Empire. Gun Out-Run Doric & Ionic Utopia. Baka-Baka Progress Sleepwalking Through Rolling Whiteout. Progress Congealed In Piracy Symmetry Anonymity. Kneel 1,000 Years & Wait For The Boiling Point 2856°C / 5173°F Graveyards Heal By Defying Gravity. Arteries Fade Blocked By Necroparalyses. WAIT! Overfed Carbon Steel Wheels Within Wheels Utopia Dozing Off. Slow Death: Holy Roman Ideal! WAIT! Intoxicated In Filigreed Subsoil WAIT! This Metabolic Trust: God! God! Wait For Me In The Gold Mine. Adam Smith Undersea! Murder Religion Art Science Treason Thieves Trade And Seal Arms Deals In Dark Flooding Fires My Everlasting Bourgeoisie Divorcee. Slowly Chernobyl Embraces Me. Tariff Trade Black Body Babes Protectionist Greed Wait For Me. Below The Slow Promenade Dystopian Thyroid Soiled Art. Soiled Temple. Crippled Profiteers Soldier Ministry Fraud Bloodhounds Pirates Cowboys Wait For Utopia In The Gold Mine.
(In Portuguese) At breakfast chop the tips of her fingers the fat hiding underneath her skin melts with the heat crispy bits of flesh slick on your lips (English) she’s been hearing you chew her bones cracking under your teeth mouth hiding behind your hand you savor this guilt (In Portuguese) At lunch slice the tender flesh in her thighs pretend that forgiveness will sprout from her belly unannounced (In English) your need is an endless string the imprint of your thumb still so striking settled in cavities uninhabited and unreachable (In Portuguese) At dinner she bites your tongue laps the warm blood in a convulsive thirst then steps aside beyond these margins
Oh, they only kneel to confess Grasping all of God’s breath Unsatisfied by the fate They’ll succumb to our ways She said mercy’s a chore In catacombs of regret Caravan to the gates My baby’s losing her faith Sinking, one by one Keeping, with the way of the gun Mourning, come and gone Worried, of a dying man’s son Word of my enlightenment meant repentance in the valley of the cruel Say it to my face Hanging gardens in the grace of the moon Pleasantries and pardons Gimme gimme, I’m the bearer of the news Come on baby burdened by the stranger in the corner of the room Oh, they only kneel to confess Grasping all of God’s breath (Oh you’d better ask somebody) Unsatisfied by the fate They’ll succumb to our ways (Oh you’d better ask somebody) She said mercy’s a chore In catacombs of regret (Oh you’d better ask somebody) Caravan to the gates My baby’s losing her faith (Oh you’d better ask somebody)
The aesthetics of hunger Contain the most noble forms of violence Peace Only when the colonial form is silenced Different type of battle rap Where cats you know they're coming strapped For cash with gats to take the land these motherfuckers stolen back They got beef in the streets We build the slaughterhouse St Just at the podium till all the pig heads rollin' out That means dead heat, a dead beat, our streets The people are the weapons forged to bring death to the bourgeoisie Felony raps, poison blankets in the trap This plague is the new coke rap Now it's time for the rabid bite back Quiet dogs yap hard chasin lures round the track Cuz plague slang is the new coke rap It’s time to give every poisoned blanket back They claim we selling crack, but they be doing that Motherfucker this ain’t back in the day And you do hear me though Hey yo, gat scars, rap bars, cop cars burnin’ Let’s claim that whole future space to which we’ve been yearnin’ Claim king with guillotines swing is what we’re bringin A discourse on colonialism ya’ll A nation regenerates itself only on heaps of corpses The last shall be first and the first last The vessel of revolution can only arrive upon seas of blood The last shall be first and the first last In these shadows from whence a new dawn will break It is you who are the zombies At the end of capitalism, there is Hitler
Rebels by circumstance We are the natives’ sons Daughters of the Earth’s damned The ghosts of Omar Mukhtar Who still face the hangman’s rope And the gunman’s scope But as the wind howls and the day breaks We wait for the darkness with a blade
Who now no longer had the gift Where always before in this condition I had at least a face to wear Where my face had once been, now there was many of them Enumerable really Like sand lining the bottom of the sea In total darkness Aware only of itself and yet alive Eyes for miles and minds behind them Each one mined, each fucked A hole, a geode Stuffed with the brine of no further future, no dream Anything else that I imagined happened as if it actually happened And then I was just here again with one new head Seven of each, of all new centuries inside it, fully extinguished No more real than my own ass Which right now was somewhere far beneath me Getting drilled with human weapons, the nodes of our history Knives, guns, ropes, saws, canons, teeth, fire Devoid of fear Each intent behind which as much my own as any others Tied together, buzzing Incubating, wrapped I survived the next 1000 wars alone The battle ground was my deleted body The munitions were the lives inside each day I could no longer Crushed and boned The soldiers were any semblance of emotions I had lived through The blood that spilled was not blood or even flame But sound, hilarious infectious ravenous music Older than the edge of any planet Each note, uttered so loud it had already ended before it was Less time having passed than there had been before it Held contextless Every inch of every night The frame around what I was Not now tighter and tighter Smaller and smaller Its darkness thicker than my blood And at the same time more alive than anything I had ever witnessed Flowing through me Growing


Nun Gun is the award-winning multimedia collaboration between visual artist Brad Feuerhelm, and musicians Lee Tesche and Ryan Mahan of the acclaimed band Algiers. Mondo Decay marks the outfit’s debut release, an audiovisual dialogue that pairs 144-pages of Feuerhelm’s malformed post-industrial gazing photography with an accompanying original soundtrack cassette produced by Tesche and Mahan.

Mondo Decay focuses the group’s critical practice on the genre of horror itself, most notably the troubling sights and sounds of 60s and 70s Italian Mondo, cannibal and zombie exploitation films by Gualtiero Jacopetti, Umberto Lenzi, and Lucio Fulci. Instead of the "savage" tropical climes as employed by the genre's directors, the exoticism found in original Mondo films has been subverted to look at the failings of capitalism in the West.

Musically, this examination finds Tesche and Mahan disassembling, slowing down, and reconstituting the aural hellscapes of Riz Ortolani, Roberto Donati, and Fabio Frizzi’s scores, creating an uncanny and unsettling chopped and screwed cacophony of dubbed out noise, doom-jazz, rap, and post-industrial-stained death disco.

In the process, the duo summon an array of experimental techniques borrowed from the likes of tape music vanguard Halim El-Dabh, Vladimir Ussachevsky and Delia Derbyshire; dub and bass culture innovators King Tubby and Scientist; and Houston dance music and rap pioneers Darryl Scott and DJ Screw, drawing a line of inquiry into the musical concept of decay. By embracing the same antiquated resources—various tape recorders, tape echoes, low-bit-rate samplers, and short wave radio equipment—Tesche and Mahan explore the deterioration and abstraction of Feuerhelm’s imagery through decaying frequencies, phrases, and recording mediums.

Contributions from the Pop Group’s Mark Stewart; Chicago no-wave industrial gospel godfathers ONO; Cleveland, Ohio’s genre and gender non-conforming Black Culture amalgam Mourning [A] BLKstar; renowned authors Blake Butler, Sohail Daulatzai and Michael Salu; Brazil-born, Berlin-based visual artist Luiza Prado; and musician/designer Farbod Kokabi, give voice to the sound of future-oriented de-colonial subjectivity and help to further realize the anxiety-fueled, pandemic-induced isolationism roaming throughout the album's cinematic 48-minutes.

Mondo Decay, purports to flip the lens on what is exotic now and what life feels like under the extended lockdown and oppressive moment.


released February 19, 2021

Lee Tesche: Saxophone, Electric Guitar, Acoustic Guitar, Lap Steel, Bass, Percussion and Motors, Bowed and String Instruments, Sampler, Drum Programming, Tape Manipulation, Field Recording, Radio and Electronics, Synthesizer, Voice, Mixing and Production

Ryan Mahan: Synthesizer, Piano, Drum Programming, Voice

Brad Feuerhelm: Drums on A1, A3, A4, A5

Mastered by Matt Ricchini


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Algiers Atlanta, Georgia

Algiers is a band of musicians born in Atlanta, Georgia, the rotten hub of the Ol’ American South, where W.E.B. Dubois once saw a riot goin’ on, and where the hell and highwater swirls ‘round to the knees.


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