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A Roman Scandal
Lost in a Scandal b/w Heaven Twenty-Seven
Paintcan Chandelierier Records

An epiphany of sorts occured on the eve of last millenium's party, the third and final party of the eternal wasted night, lights all melting and road lines like candied games, with us gobbling it all up like pills and tummy thrills from too much champagne and other liquids. It was three A.M., and all the kids were still twisting and synthetically grinding 'gainst each other, or else chopping the night away, with eyes all white and ears all tweaked, everyone isolated into threes, ducking into bathrooms for mirror evaluations or into the kitchen for that altar of counter space, and every cornered turned was like a light and a line blown out, with the sniffles in a holy trinity chorus (or rush) of tingling nostrils too, and all just because there were three zeroes in our name now, with no going back, but only forward, into the void. The vibes of the party were so razor-edged, quivering, inciting a mass sinew interlocking, all for a taste of hot friction to keep the wind and imagined snow at bay. And in the midst of such a dark-glossed frenzy wells up the first thumps of Blue Monday, and EVERYONE, friend and fiend alike (all drugs considered), slurs and swivels as one, the uncut energy of New Order's drum algorithms infusing with every nerve ending, sparking volts into the fist-sized core of every fucked head, making our bodies twitch with glory and pain as we merged, real kuzbu-like, into a new cellular consciousness. Couples connected, with hands cold-sweating into each other's heated gloves, converging on that obscure beauty in the body next to them, all bedecked in black jeans and animalistic print-tops, with the lyrics of "how does it feel?" spurring us to shadow-fuck deeper and deeper into the dark red room at the end of the night.

And that's what the three citizens of A Roman Scandal are all about, carpe diem carnality and dark denim, with blood-red shirts and sunglasses at night, shovel loads of coke or cappuccino. Moonlighting from his Moonesque duties in ...And you will know us by the Trail of Dead, Jason Reece resurrects Ian Curtis' throat, and the worms that once resided there in Joy Division's rotten and nutrient-rich corpse now sink down south to writhe anew at all the hottest parties. Joining him are former OMD 20/20 members Tyler and Alex, who churn out backing walls of beats, bass, and noise necessary for Reece to fling himself against, over and over again, in and out. The only thing missing is the psychedelic light show and slides (focus on the bleary, jagged columns instead), but even without the black light, this is a suffiecient soundtrack for a one night stand, Austin-strand style.

Label contact: Paintcan Chandelierier, 5105 Beverly Skyline, Austin, TX 78731, USA

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