Artist: Secret Salmon
title: Sex Daddy
keywords: experimental avant-garde dada free improvisation noise outsider Adelaide
With the sensual touch of a hardened softy the sexy neighbors have lurked you into their web of erotic fantasies. Their invitation to come over had worked and now your heart has been beating with a certain tension from a sight of squeaky matrasses, abandoned wallpapers with yellow stained sunflowers, a few half empty boxes of serial killer’s cereal on the table. Somehow the tension is like a paralyzing fear that feels yet of a kind that is seducing with a fierce essence of interest. We can hear the neighbor tapping his slong on his short pants, we can hear the walls squeak guitar sounds that want to tell us the many stories that they have witnessed here. Yet our feet walk in straight into the scene and somehow with keyboard strokes these neighbors trigger the endorphins of mysterious pleasure upon our mind and crotch chakra points. With great precision the neighbors are dancing with their wooden clogs around us on the cheap floor, they pull weird faces and somehow hypnotize us with their ways of doing. Somehow they manage to pull out our pubic hairs and place them in their nose, they pretend to be cat like animals & somehow they trigger us to feel and act the same… The magic trance breaks as the male neighbor starts to sing an out of the blue song, clarifying that he had been satisfied with this erotic encounter.
When we move to the second adventure we are blessed to meet ‘Sex Daddy’, a illustrious figure with silent shaved testicles, sausages and one with people around him that pretend to be its offspring that ask him the questionable question ‘Sex, Daddy?’ The whole scenery is lush, dirty and liquorish; you can hear the perversity roaming around the room that the Daddy is in… But something is off.. It’s not daddy who is in control, it’s some force, a deity, a demon.. One that wants’s to torment Daddy with interdimensional sex with or without its approval. It’s a good day, daddy, for a thrilling mind f*ck.
For our next adventure we have been invited (with a truck load full of other brainless sheep) to join a Illuminati Party. It’s like a mix of royalty, upperclass nonsense where manners have been not allowed within the club rules. The higher ranking club members have a dodgy time with the sheeps, while so called wise men mumble things from old dusty books. The theme of squeaky rusty bed frames and dirty matrasses returns & that’s all right.
Last but not least we are all invited to spend a couple of minutes in The David Lynch Lunch Hour. Hear we can watch and observe the David munch chewy blobs, slimy products and industry backdoor secrets. The vibrations of some demonic foods are in stark contrast with the wizard of Ozz wizardry of wonders that happens in the back for the big artist (and our) entertainment. In the end, it feels like we are in for a party, one in which dwarfs will dance, abstract creatures drum untouchable rhythms and imaginative squirts of melodies. If we have to bring all these adventures into one, we can tell you that they plug into the mind like horny surreal scenes that is as bizarre as bizarre could be. So why not hop in and make yourself comfortable?