Akitsa Grands tyrans

[Hospital Productions; 2015]

Rating: 3/5

Styles: torrid lament, malcontent ritual
Others: Peste Noire, Mütiilation, RIP Meta E. Morrissey

Walking into a dimly-lit mint-green room, I see Grams on the bed, unresponsive and eyes half-cocked. A constant breeze from the air conditioner unit to her right blows a yellow gown across frail arms, legs, and torso, parts of it sticking to dry blood from various places she was itching earlier. It smells like the applesauce she squeezed out of a hand-held packet that splattered across the vacant side of the mattress next to her. She looks like her son when he’d fall asleep in a chair, head back and mouth agape, as she meets with the ultimate of all Grands tyrans: Death.

Entering the kitchen after work, there was milk and ice tea spilled, mixed, and drying on the counter top, pooling around Grams’s 98-year-old, lifeless forehead. The word-jumble floating and bloating a little further away. Hair on her head stiffening and static-retracting from the window, some of it bunching together, stale from the milk. Her arm and leg and facial skin droop and look worn, like squishing a thin layer of straight-armed elbow wrinkles. There’s a thick line of spit that stretches downward from lip to lap. In her hand are both of her clip-on earrings, as she never pierced her ears, and in the other, a sharpened pencil. Broken glass is scattered around the floor, as she peacefully remains, taken by Death.

After receiving a phone call from the NYPD, I find out that Grams had apparently been wandering the streets, was picked up by a motorcyclist, and was taken under the Throg’s Neck bridge. She was found on a crudely crafted trash-alter, sacrificed, entrails apparently eaten. Akitsa is strewn across the bridge’s fortification; tire markings were burnt into the pavement surrounding Grams’s remains. Her fingernails pink, as she painted them on Monday; red lipstick, the blue eye-shadow and drawn-on eyebrows; her visage remained untouched and appeared content. She’s on her back, still, neck bent at a right-angle, her irises tucked peacefully behind her eyelids. The smell of Death is pungent, as if it lingers steps away.

Police cruisers race down Beacon Hill toward the Beverly Manor, creating a parking lot of government vehicles upon arrival. The FBI is there. Although the house is not on fire, smoke and/or steam is pluming from tiny basement windows by the vegetable garden. There’s a hole in the shared driveway. A tuft of hair is taken from this hole — along with a smattering of Grams’s sloppy remains — zipped and sloshing within a black, six-foot bag. Overhearing the swarm of people around the Beverly Manor, it’s apparent that Grams had been cooking up a plan to rob the new Wells Fargo bank up the road for weeks. She had stolen close to $500k and was control-demolishing her exit when she dropped the remote, blowing herself to soup. This is how Death honorably tastes the bored ambition of Grams.


During lunch today with Samuel Diamond, I told him I was reviewing the new Hospital Productions tape Grands tyrans by Akitsa. He asked if it was OK, and I replied, “There’s some really grimy, soul-tattering vocals, but half are sorta just sung, almost reflective of peace, which is weird for a black metal ripper. But the spoken word track is Vox Populi’d -out. Most of it feels like I’m experiencing evil. Instruments are completely gutted and spilled on the floor. And they spared listeners of synthetic orchestration. But really I’m just going to write about finding Grams dead.” He responded with something about killing my karma and the dark delving mindset of practicing grievance — w/e. Upon responding, “Exactly, thank you!,” my phone rang, and it came up as an international number from Montréal.

“Clifford, this is Meta. Grams. Canada has finally claimed me. They’re telling me we’re in a Montréal basement. Clifford? There are a lot of men moving around, and I think they’re dressed in suits, but it’s too dark. And I’m tired. They walked me down so many stairs. One of them was getting fresh I think, too. *indistinct mumbles* I don’t know what to do next, Clifford. They’re not very helpful answering questions. You’re not here, so I’m having trouble understanding them. They talk too fast. There was mention your brother would be here. I spoke with him over the phone before. So I met the driver on the corner of Main and Port. I fell sleep as usual and now…” *choking sounds*

Links: Akitsa - Hospital Productions

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