In days like these, a horrid stench punctures my nostrils – not the smell of the napalm, as it would be vividly self-evident, but the odour of autocracy silently inseminated by white-collar fucks in their top-tier automobiles. I see them walking by, every peak hour in Canary Wharf, so confidently tight in their suits as if they were wearing transparent harnesses of nepotism. It is a global movement, easily spotted in every financial district from London to Frankfurt, condemning the outsiders to vicious circles of poverty, struggle and crime.

Europe is once again a belligerent territory. The war now takes place at a spurious meta-territory similar to the one Don DeLillo described in “Cosmopolis”. Numbers are the new nuclear. Nations are being stamped, pulverised, obliterated, convicted to a never-ending cycle of suffering. Casualties do not bleed, but they twitch in fear, paranoia and distress. Shell-shocked by finance, taught to loathe the poorer, taught to accept authority as legitimate and divine.

Silence has a price. The strength to keep fighting can only be found in minds alike. I’ve just arrived at my flat after a nauseating working day and start listening to “Tragedy” by Disclose. It is so fucking empowering, chaotic, noisy, fuzzy-impregnated, violent, urgent and immediate. With all this d-beat, you start to look at your kitchen knife, while you cut another slice of bread, as if in it lies an endless sea of opportunities. Maybe some throats could be taught a rusty lesson, couldn’t they?

And one can apocalypse-dream with this fucking great record in the background.

Disclose is wrong shit. But to these people I want to say: “Can you keep d-beat for over 10 years? I like Discharge more than you!!”

R.I.P. Kawakmi.