There is no oasis in sight. What to do? Walk on. Slowly, perhaps, but steadily. Unswervingly. Ten years after the invention of "New Weird America" (D. Keenan) and the "return of the collective" (D. Diedrichsen), Datashock, who are now in their eleventh year, are still exploring "the space of nomadic sounds" and looking for old sources of fresh sounds, unfazed by contemporary musical mirages.
The sun may still be burning down mercilessly in late capitalism, blinding our eyes and making our limbs heavy, but this horde from Saarland keeps on treading, doing their thing. They are incomparable, indescribable, incorruptible. Their eyes fixated on the eternally dwindling horizon, their antennae tuning in to the never-ending cosmos, they are moving forwards and upwards, leaving behind the remains of scenester to their left, and to their right the mummified bodies of the lost souls who followed false prophets on the wrong path to paradise. The beauty of the desert is deceiving, and to stand one's ground in it is no small feat, but the dirty dozen from the "Saarvannah" is undeterred: they are aware of the dangers lurking behind the next dune and they are determined to continue their journey. Whereto? To the mecca of magic melodies, the shrines of mind-expanding sounds, to the sanctuary of musical friendship, and the Dionysian temples of love and excess!