Richard Ruin
Visual / Healing & EasyListening / Chinese pop
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Music to shave your legs by.
Berlin, Berlin
Germany
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49990
Last Login:
1/7/2010
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Please visit:
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« Who is Richard Ruin ? »
by Manuel Aubert a.k.a. BlackBird Merle Leonce Bone
Richard Ruin is this cork-oak, with evergreen foliage, thick, enwrapping and getting bare at the same time. It’s scented growing with the silky and purple taffeta of the declining shadows, of the substantial nectar, fin de siècle vintage millésimé for opium addict redbugs. Let us not get it wrong. It’s poisoning for Ripping Majesty, with the breastplate unstitched but still looking glamorous and fatale. And taking poignantly his breath again, bullying us, reveal this perilous human who already swelled feelings so confusingly until it grows in us.
Flanked with his bladder-like Demoniaques, gathering of wonderful phlegmatic guys coming out of underground seminal combos (Die Haut, Swans, Bad Seeds, The Screaming Meat, Iggy Pop, Melotronik, Bee and Flower, Einsturzende Neubauten, Fatal Shore, Hommes Sauvages, Bad Little Dynamos, Angels of Light…), anti-all-stars fireworks experts/ iron workers, transfused / defectors, who made, unmade and will make the rich hours of Kreuezberg and elsewhere, used to fire.
Flesh is what it is about here, creased by the tyrannical silence of the feelings and the frustrated loves, put to an end right from the beginning, in those bruised syphilitic times of the Northern Depression. Beautiful strangeness of the brothel love, whispered lyrically, en catimini d’alcôve, and intimately on the sly, beautiful strangeness of exaltations and indecency. The absinthe, lasting leftover of an ancient Ex’n’Pop, has finally covered Mr Ruin’s throat, laying his androgynous arabesques (those, couch grasses, pavôts and poppies, off white, that grow only in the electricity meters in asbestos and opiumic factories) to reveal that absolute beautiful voice, ce grain de voix smoked by neons in peep-shows.
Rough waste of pizzicato, on a knife edge, for decadent zymbalum tremolo, tutor of snare-drums poached between two hunts, predation, here again, of guitars distorted with gravel on obsessive piano cords, lightly touched and thinned out ubiquity of a Lady Modiano, flights of cords and leathers and coppers by dint of hiccups and tears. Fado skinned, close fitting at the waist, by the heart, chant of complaint full of abandonment. Simply hopelessly beautiful.
Richard Ruin is this unaffected carrier of song-writing masterpieces, by microgrooves, he collects, after having divide clear the spot of our obscure troubles, in his glass, stemmed, of Martini Bianco, our blood, our silences, our disenchantments, our Adam’s apple. A ruin, he turns himself into, by Lilith by Eve, once martyr then pimp, painted by Gustave Moreau, Houdini, wall-eyed.
Love, with him, is a complex game of the collision of two blind souls who end up finding their marks, cuddle between two stones, two clods and, by the same virtues of a dandelion shoot, dazed in its cotton compost, finally appearing, on the surface, en accointance, among moss, lichen and mushrooms to end up tarring on the spot, when it is too late.
Here it’s the gums, there it’s the scalp, elsewhere the end of the fingers of a pianist’s hand, wings membranes, melancholic angels, neurasthenic, folded, and breathing, loosing its wax, is shaky, the breath, by saccades, declining, the small crosiers of spiral sounds curl and uncurl, ladies and gentlemen : here comes the strange and mysterious Richard Ruin and His Démoniaques, in his Cour des Miracles, a rosebud in his pocket, the proud weaver of Mardi-Gras and the bad boy.
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