Samantha Nuller's little place on the web

Well, here's my little report I did for the 2001 ONH Music Awards...

WHAT A TERRIBLE NIGHT, enjoy :

When Melba Ray of the label Discottes first asked me to write an account of the 2001 ONH Music Awards, my first impulsion was to tell the old pig to fuck off. In a certain way, it meant working for Gigabrother, and it is no secret that I do not share the views of that lot and do not wish to participate in any of their filthy propaganda. I've never been one for collaboration. But then again, I don't think that the many talented and admirable artists who happen to be, much to their own bewilderment, connected in some way or other to this infamous website, deserve to be ignored and cast out. On the contrary, I've always thought that complete Glasnost and no censorship were the best weapons against all forms of fascism. Moreover, I'm a journalist at heart, and isn't it the journalist's role and duty to stand right in the middle of battle? In the fields of the Oberholstenstein battle? In the wastelands of Jokkmokk? In the ... whatever! Well, in a few words, it is in the name of Truth, pure and naked Truth, that I eventually accepted to be there and write a few impressions, as an unbiased outsider, about the ceremony and its aftermath.

Also, who could refuse a freebie to the most important music event of the season and still call themselves sane, hey??? Come on??!!!!

I must admit I was terribly impressed when I first saw the ONH quarters, even overwhelmed by the imposing size of the building. Of course, I had seen many pictures of it, like anyone else. But it is nothing compared to actually being there, standing like a dwarf at the foot of this huge concrete block, inscribed with the organisation's logo, halfway between an army headquarters and a temple of some secret society - which, as a matter of fact, it is. Even the well-known legend about the poor chaps who built it, enduring thousands and thousands of unspeakable tortures, didn't manage to cool my fascination, I swear. Especially after the mad drive which had brought me there. The actual whereabouts of the ONH quarters being held secret to the profane, Ray had arranged a limousine to pick me up. It was actually a black 190 Mercedes, with smoked windows you couldn't see through from outside and inside alike, at least from the back seats, which were separated from the driver's by yet another smoked window-pane. Of the mysterious chauffeur, who drove so fast I actually came very close to a heart-attack (I'm half sure we did run down a couple of children or more on our way), I only saw the cruel, hard eyes which gleamed in the dark with something infernal about them. Those eyes chilled me to my very bones and I was still recovering from it when the car dashed away, leaving me in front of the main stairs. A soldier ran towards me and hurried me up the steps and inside the main gate, as a ballet of black automobiles came and went, delivering their loads of VIP. A bunch of people were arguing very loudly with the guards at the top of the stairs. Apparently they wanted to get in but the others would not let them. I recognised the ex- Giga band Sushi Crew. Damn, I knew they were in trouble with their old friends, but I had no idea it was that serious!

The soldier looked very stern and severe in his official Camp uniform. Not exactly a hoot, I told myself. He eyed me somewhat coldly from behind his silver-brimmed glasses, and introduced himself as Soldat Ktylo, first secretary of the Camp Offices and in charge of the night's ceremony. Everything inside was grand and impressive: the endless corridors, the windows which towered to the ceiling, the scarce, imposing furniture, even the heating system. When we got to the main hall, I gaped. It had the proportions of a stadium. The walls were hung with simple yet elegant white tapestries printed with the ONH logos, and thousands of black Nylon seats ran down to the main stage, above which the sentence "He who demands peace requires victory" was engraved in a grey marble frontispiece. The hall swarmed with hundreds of people, all dressed up for the occasion, busy greeting one another. Ktylo sat me next to another chap called Bruty, a soldier who was supposed to be my guide during the ceremony. Then a martial voice asked everyone to sit down and the lights went out.

The ceremony was short, neatly and efficiently conducted by the master of ceremony, a somewhat bizarre and mesmerising kind of middle-aged guy in bow tie who, Bruty informed me, was no less than the famous and controversial writer Fulber Youlou. I had read Steak Shop, his best seller, with voracity, but it was the first time I actually saw him, his appearance in literary shows being quite rare. Not that I am the type of bird who watches those kind of crappy shows either, mind you.

It would be tedious to recount the whole ceremony, with its cortege of nominees and winners. Suffice to mention the most important consecrations of the evening. The winner for Best Propaganda was of course HDG, for his release on Austrian label "HauRuck!" As usual, Moonchild Eric was nowhere to be seen, and no one was here to pick up his prize. So Yulu left it on a small table in a corner of the stage. One of the most coveted Award, that for Most Ear-Splitting Album of the Year, went to "Dolores Calator interpretiert Hardclan". Soldat Gow Ni Sang, as dutiful successor of the late Guonisant in all Hardclan affairs, gave the winners their prize. The "Castafiore of the Metal Age", as the press calls her, stepped on stage. She was delightfully clad in a long, tight iron-like toilette, a pneumatic crown set on her mighty head, and rested delicately on the arms of the two S&M muscle boys of Eidesformel BJ who walked on either side of her. She muttered a few words of gratitude and offered us a small demonstration of her sublime talent, which deafened us all and sent a guff of wind swirl behind the tapestries and under women's dresses. I clung to my seat. Bruty's silly false hair flew away. The two posthumous Awards for Most Original Death (better known as "Sekens Murdock Prize") and Dearest Departed of the Year went respectively to Mike, whose clone received the prize, and to this poor old sod Soldat Lamasse. I was baffled to hear cries in the audience and to see that the Colonelle Louella Kwiss herself came to say a few words about my ex pretended lover. Of course, Best All-Time Artist went to my beloved Taciturne for the third year in a row. I am so convinced at times that I am him that I stood up to receive the prize, but Bruty guessed right, gripped my wrist and slapped me on both cheeks (in French this one's called "donner cinq et quatre", one frontside slap with all five fingers and one backside without the thumb) with an assorted kick in the legs. I sat down under the cheers of everybody around us and Theodor Liebhart left the stage with the G-shaped cup. At the end of the ceremony, the "selected few" were invited to go to the ensuing cocktail, while soldiers escorted the others out. By that time HDG's prize had disappeared from the small table, as if by magic, and from the vestibule I saw the 190 black Mercedes dashing off into the night.

We then proceeded to the cocktail rooms, which were located underground. Soldat Bruty, holding my hand, led me through a labyrinth of corridors to a spacious elevator which swiftly took us down to level -7. We arrived in a large room with low ceiling, drowned in waves of stroboscopic lights, so that at first I saw nothing and just felt people brushing past me. Then my eyes adjusted and I discovered I'd been swirled into a torrent of VIPs, who were chatting, drinking and dancing all around me. I couldn't believe my eyes: stars and stars and only stars, everywhere I looked. Do you know what it feels like to find yourself in a party, with only the faces of the people on your favourite CDs all around you? My heart started thumping faster and faster but fortunately, a glass of Champagne full to the brim had magically appeared in my hand and I gulped it down to straighten myself.

I began to scrutinise the people around us. Next to the bar on which gorgeous vegan delicacies were displayed, a pair of girls whose faces were so abstract it was impossible to even fathom their age were drowning two huge cups of soja lait fraise. They were clad in lollypop coloured Barbie dresses, all frills and ribbons, and I immediately knew them to be Bernadette and Francine of Mandarine Duck. They were engaged in an animated conversation with a tall, reasonable looking middle-aged man with little rectangle glasses and silvery hair, the intellectual type: Peter Wallenkühr, said Bruty. A few yards from them along the wall, a bunch of five stout men boasting magnificent beards and drinking vodka were playing cards, seated around what I identified as a mouldering wooden coffin. They were bubbling in a foreign language I couldn't make out. Bruty dutifully informed they were the Karlovsky brothers from Czech band Kostnice, who never go anywhere without the holy remains of their great-grandfather. I was by now pretty well used to the lights and I realised that ancient stones were still apparent down there, proving the ONH quarters had indeed been erected on one of the oldest temples of the Order. The naked walls were adorned with awesome canvases. The styles were very diverse but I immediately recognised two formidable portraits, of Dolores Calator and Sebastian Gagh respectively, which I knew to be the work of the official ONH painter Soldat Rtistik. As a good soldier, Bruty did not fail to draw my attention on other works by the even greater artist General Küh, but honestly I did not pay them much credit. I'm not a brainless bimbo but music's rather more my type of thing, 'know what I mean...

I then discovered there was not one room but a succession of different rooms of uneven, bizarre geometrical shapes. I decided to explore them and soon arrived in what appeared to be the biggest one. While in the others people had been mainly drinking and chatting, here they were definitely getting in the mood for dance. In a glass cage right in the middle of the dance floor stood the DJ, drowned in a jungle of machines, screens and cables. Fresh and sweet, hardly more than a teenager, this sweet, sweet DJ Hirschkäfersuppenwürfel... I knew he was playing that night and it had been another strong argument to make me come. I mean, he was still young and maybe I could save him from all those dangerous people. He had the elegance and the aristocratic... err... Aryan airs of his mother, mega star Anna, and though Liebhart was officially his father, there had been rumours granting paternity to Taciturne. Which, given the age difference between the two, would have made him a bloody precocious lover. The very thought of it made me all wet (pardon my sincerity, this is honest and straightforward account) and instinctively the DJ slut woke up within me. I checked my make up in the reflecting glass, adjusted my skirt slightly and put on my best smile. No man had ever resisted the dress I was wearing that night, a tight-fitting black latex gear which harmoniously underlined my thin if womanly figure, plus platform boots with pink stripped pantyhose and hairpins to match.

Just as I thought "Let's have fun and fight for peace and liberty for all", I saw Melba Ray coming my way with his unmistakable Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses and gross jewellery. Always the perfect pimp. I saw he was keeping company with a bunch of very young brats who'd already had too much to drink for their age. "Hey, my clever little Goth Piggy! he said. Nice dress, girlie. Come'n meet the new Perplex Barquettes! Aren't they fantastic? I never did better than that, even with the Beatles! Seen the Mike clone yet? Fuckin' good, hey? It's all amazing, I'm delighted, I'm mesmerised, I'm... Perplexed, ha, ha!" and off he went, as soon as he had appeared, with his nursery of future stars trailing noisily behind him. Before I could even set my eyes back on baby DJ, another acquaintance of mine came around. It was Fritzenbach, the eminent police inspector investigating the different murder cases related to the ONH over the past few years. I had met him as he worked on Taciturne's suicide. "Hi sweet-heart, he blurped with whisky heavy on his breath, giving me his sly Cher Lukum look. How's life, babe? I'm just passing, you know what it's like, too much work. Keep dying like flies 'round here." Then, in a lower voice: " I summoned the help of the Karlovsky fellows. Damn good with corpses, they are. Found out there were three bones too many in Anna's skeleton. As if life wasn't complicated enough... Ok, I'm off... Oh, nice dress! Take care they don't keep you for the Xmas roast!"

When I finally managed to get back to the dance floor, I found things had gone considerably hotter. People grooved dangerously on a lethal Taciturne track. Aloïs Junior was performing a swift demonstration of Holland Gabber steps while Eisenberg was desperately trying to follow him, lifting his right arm in rhythm as Hirschkäfersuppenwürfel switched imperceptibly to a White Vegan classic. A few meters ahead of them, Adjudante I. Friess was having some fun with the three Lords of Phutnture, clad as always in army greens and gas masks. Friess herself wore her uniform half unbuttoned, which implied she'd already indulged quite a bit of drink, but she still had her military cap drawn over her eyes and the high black boots which perfected her "Ilsa She-wolf of the SS" look. Though I suspected she wouldn't keep them on for much longer, judging from how her three companions started undressing her, as her leather crop whipped savagely at their camouflaged buttocks in admirable rhythm. I chose to avert my eyes before they sank in a shameful orgy on the slippery floor of that now overcrowded room.

But as I hurried towards the door, a strange couple stood in my way: a tall, dishevelled blonde creature in a short tattered doll dress and high hills whose eyes betrayed strong addiction to illegal drugs, and a small dwarfish bald man in tree piece suit and tail coat. The man obviously helped the girl stand right, and was just high enough to peer in her cleavage each time she threatened to lose balance. Her blurry eyes tried to focus on me through a cloud of smudged eyeliner and as she spoke, ashes from the cigarette but tugged in the corner of her red mouth fell on the bald man's head. I thought she looked familiar and indeed she introduced herself as Best Beef Whore, the drummer of famous all-girls band Shee Peegs. As I objected that everyone knew Beef Whore was dead, she said: "You shouldn't believe everything THEY say, you know. THEY keep inventing new dead, as if THEY didn't have enough with the real ones. Don't I look pretty alive to you?" She shook her boobs with sudden frenzy as if to illustrate her latest words. Her use of the pronoun "they" disturbed me, all the more as it was obvious none of the mysterious leaders of either the Camp or the Order would attend the party. As usual they were hiding somewhere in the shadow, the only officers there being Friess and Kwiss. I suddenly suspected that the others must have been standing everywhere around us behind stained glass, spying through Sebastian Gagh's eyes on the orgy that was slowly but surely getting on its way as the music went louder and louder, thumping dreadfully. The woman introduced her companion as White Vegan's lawyer. "Poor Franky couldn't come, she said. He toyed a bit with a couple of punks when he was on probation and they put him back in jail. Great dress, by the way. I feel in you the true soul of a potential Shee Peeg! Wanna join?" I sensed danger as a sparkle of excitement shot from her eyes and chose to go my way.

I followed a narrow corridor to a dimly lit alcove, somewhat quieter than the other place. I soon realised the room was a photo gallery, a tribute to all the famous dead people of Gigabrother. There was an old shot of Egon Oppl mounting a deer, a priceless 3d poster of the original Perplex Barquettes on tour, Bowl and Neymar in their uniforms (or was it Böhl and Némard?), Soldat Guonisant in his prison cell before execution, Sekens Murdock and his friend Ted de More posing in Murdock's library (a curious omen), even a petty Polaroïd of Lamasse. And of course there was a sublime black and white picture of Anna in evening dress and black pearls, and - my heart jumped as I saw it - MY picture of Taciturne drowned in his gory bath. I nearly puked though when I saw the picture was credited to Lamasse. But as I blinked again at the Polaroïd, my anger vanished. And that tells you how drunk I was by then! Not drunk enough, though, not to notice the cold hand that was slowly feeling its way up my skirt as I stared at the pictures. I felt a brush of fabric against my legs, as of the fold of a dress, and thought for a minute that Best was back preying on me. But as I turned around I found myself face to face with a grey-haired old man in a black cassock: Père Turbet!! "Quiet, my child, don't fret. What about a bit of confessing, hey? Just me, you and our Lord. There is no sin that cannot be repaid. Our Lord is huge in his mercy!" I pushed him aside, not wishing to see how huge his Lord was, but as he started to fondle my behind enthusiastically I had to run away. "Don't be afraid of the great mysteries of Heaven, he shouted after me. Our Lord loves all his sheep... His pigs too, young nymph!" As I run to escape into the stroboscopic lights, I bumped into a severe looking woman, with tight blue jeans, Docks, cropped grey hair and a tight Shee Peeg tee-shirt: Bergensen, the girl behind the ultra feminist WAW organisation. She stopped me and pressed a huge scissors into my hand. "Don't fret before the task, Sister. Chop them all!!" she instructed me with awesome fury. And off she flew, jumping and chopping the air frantically with her own scissors.

The rest of the evening is somewhat blurred in my mind. I'd got quite drunk terribly soon, and though I did gulp down quite a few glasses, I am half sure they poured something into my drink. But what should I have expected from this disgusting neo-nazi scum? This fanatical and merciless bunch of perverts who, day after day, pollute the waves of free worldwide communication, attempting worldwide corruption with their nasty filthy nasty website?? I spent the night wandering from room to room, staggering from dance floor to dance floor, a harmless victim to their most horrid fantasies, in this hell of a place which I understood too late was the very pit of decadence. I remember seeing the Mandarine Ducks, dancing stark naked on the bar (should have known it wasn't straight lait fraise), each step bringing them closer to collapsing into grandpa Karlovsky's open grave, while the Kostnices and Youlou were crawling around on all fours after Gisela Niebelung, trying to tell her how great she'd look in goulash: "Traditional Czech dish ! Sehr gut!!!". I was almost run down by a crowd of people fleeing from the newly arrived Salvador Dur and partner Hildegarde Boue, whose poisonous if characteristic stink of fermented garbage made it impossible for anybody normal to stand more than five minutes in their vicinity without passing out and away. I receded in a dark corner to avoid them and remember spending a few hours looking at my shoes, wondering how it was that I could hear the Voices without ever seeing them. I remember seeing P-pooh arguing with a Goth girl in the distance, and feeling a strong but reassuring feeling of déjà-vu. At some point Ingrid Friess came to sit by my side, put the Award she'd received for Anancephalic Cretinists before her on the floor, then bent and puked in it with obvious relief. As I'd guessed earlier she didn't have much clothes left, and Cop Yeack Oley and Plüh Gien, the Eidesformel lads, were dancing in front of us wearing respectively her cap and her crop stuck in the ass. When I got up again, the woman in red who said she was Best Beef Whore rushed in the room holding a bottle of Jägermeister in one hand and squeezing a picture of her late friend Anna in the other. She bumped into me, tried to cling to my dress and finally dived into Old Karlovsky's arms, scattering bones all around...

God, what happened next? I remember lying on the floor, hands tied to a pillar with a couple of rosaries which dangled in my face, having some kind of cranky sex, at least to the best of my recollection, with a hooded figure which I first dreamt was Hirschkäfersuppenwürfel, though I'm not too sure about it... People were swirling around us, floating in space, and I caught sight of Dolores Calator gagged and tied to a chair nearby... Above my head loomed a huge portrait of Aloïs von Grünenwörth-Mömpelgard which seemed to stare cruelly down at me... And in the mysterious face shadowed by the hood I think I saw red eyes gleaming back at me, which reminded me of someone... or something... but what?

And then, nothing. I woke up the next morning huddled under a bridge, to find a seagull staring at me in wonder as the cold morning wind chilled me to the bones without taking away any of the druggy hangover...

Let this terrible story be a lesson for us all. May all those who will read it join me in my struggle for individual freedom, the end of artistic dictatorship and the destruction of Gigabrother! Hail!...

Oooops, sorry...