There is something eerie about a clear vinyl in a see through wallet with what looks like a Rorschach ink test smeared on the back (I seem to have a thing about Rorschach currently), but that pretty much sums up the content of Pour Le Plaisir’s Tin Machine EP – an unsettling joyride through a world populated entirely of your own imagination. Put simply: damn, this EP is strangely fantastic.
Without further ado, here is my own trip – told 2nd person – through the streets of Pour Le Plaisir’s Tin Machine Ep:
1. ‘Tin Machine’: Lights flash by – like cars piercing the night through your bedroom curtains – as you walk down the back alleys of a dystopian future. Uncertain of who is following, you decide to keep one hand firmly on the flick knife in your pocket. A door glows in the distance, you know this to be your destination, you know this to be where the threat lies.
2. ‘Movie’: The door opens easily to a staircase, it looks as if it hasn’t seen human life in years. A single light hangs from the ceiling slowly waving from the air you let populate the place. As you stalk down the stairs you begin to hear the remnants of a party slowly fading out, occasional flashes light up the way as if broken pieces of a rainbow, red, blue, yellow. You turn a corner and see bodies grinding on a dance floor ahead of you. Pull the knife to your side, take a deep breath, run.
3. ‘Girly Hole (Remix)’: The bodies do not part for you, they seem unaware of your intentions. One by one you force through them and straight to the DJ. Two men come from either side with baseball bats but their stupidity means they hit each other when you duck. A dancer lashes out at you with a kick but you grab her leg and drop her to the floor, in the corner of the room you notice your strung-out former partner, where their lips once held your kiss it now holds a tourniquet, tightening it. You race towards them, avoiding kicks and punches. You jump over the DJ’s booth – the mix doesn’t even skip – and grab the DJ, knife pressed to her throat and a single line of blood edging towards your hand. You spin her around, over the side and onto the dance floor and in one fluid motion cut the music out.
4. ‘C-T’: Finally things slow down, you return to the remains of your house now broken and populated by winter chill. An amalgamation of dust, soil and ash cling to the family photos left to hang from discarded beams and shattered furniture. A clock ticks somewhere in the distance, you know it used to be yours but you’re not so sure what possession even means anymore. You pull your hood over your head and leave.
Or, you know, make up your own story.