not exactly a band: sturclub rather is a loosely knit network of artists and musicians spread all over the globe, communicating in any imaginable way. some of them are old friends, some have never seen each other face to face. around a nucleus of faithful acolytes they gather together now and then to play (in the purest sense of the word "play"...) trying to explore new soundscapes and stretching and/or breaking up the limits of their own imagination (i.e.: how "free" is free form, when your instrumental abilities are limited and rehearsing is strictly prohibited...). no sheets, no scores, no tracklist, no conventional tuning. but: instant composition, spontaneous (psychotick) reaction, improvisation without any tonal, a-tonal or modal boundries: questioning and answering any material, space or emotion. energetic dabbling in permanently changing line-ups, surroundings, concepts and noms de guerre. hic salta: anything goes. thee unrepeatable here&now-a-happening, deeply rooted in decades of studying difficult, rarely heard music, more often than not leads to unpredictable and unplanned sound results: ambient living room droning mutates to punk mayhem, dis-cordant tones turn out to be not only part of but rather the actual plan, and the glorious, complete failure changes into a beautiful loop: lasting for ever (and ever: emily...)...
sturclub sometimes are:
comrades in noise:
re (word up) -mix:
no band of this name was ever heard of:
... Sure, Rumsfeld, they´re
just a bunch of boring old farts. Stubborn kinda fellers, that sturclub.
Old and in the way. One half underfed, the other half overweight, but stuff
´em in an elevator and then ´ll begin to levitate. They all
spent decades studying popular music in our training camps just to finally
find out that they fundamentally hate it. Now they take revenge. They search
and destroy and justify these massacres misusing the wise words of Sophokles,
who said: "Death is the final doctor for every illness." They deny the
necessitiy of harmonies and are on a crusade to erase all kinds of predictable
muzak from the surface of the earth. They´re still few, but the word
is spreading. If they succeed, we might lose control over all these millions
of bird brains sedated by MTV out there. Guess, they´re dangerous.
We ought a shoot them on right. – Well, Mr. Prez, right, but we already
have some trouble with blood sport. Why don´t we give ´em a
Grammy. That´ll flat kill ´em. – Wow, great, man, shock and
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