Excruciating. Sadistic. Manic.
Yet wholly sound. Wholly still. And utterly remote.
D. Bushon’s reverberant audio visual performances, hereto after known enigmatically as F A T H R ^, send sub-harmonic murmurs aching through icy, clammy concrete floors and blast screeching frequencies of blindingly white noise at grime-encrusted tiles, climbing up the sickly green walls in ear-devouring horror. Performing singularly as often as he is with accompaniment, F A T H R ^ expulses these oddly wonderful crude waves of sonic shock with little more than a guitar, some knives and an ominous artifice of amplifiers. Let not this be your opportunity to predict his next performance, as each is opposite from its predecessor and each audience as important as the last.
Call it bullshit or genius, F A T H R ^’s end goal is simply to force you, compel you to react as genuinely as the performance affects you.
F A T H R ^ is unsettling. Unnatural. Un-organic. Yet completely sincere and without a shred of organization. Shrouded in the pinnacle of modern technological advancements, F A T H R ^ is no captain of industry, no dilatant. F A T H R ^ is a deconstructionist of modernist methods of madness, placed in the darkest of clubs, the most sterile of art galleries. There is splendor here. But it is by no means traditional. It is fuck. It is punish. It is drone. It is black. It is love. It is hate.
-----By Jonathan Tvrdik
