“I am the one, Orgasmatron, the outstretched grasping hand
My image is of agony, my servants rape the land
Obsequious and arrogant, clandestine and vain
Two thousand years of misery, of torture in my name
Hypocrisy made paramount, paranoia the law
My name is called religion, sadistic, sacred whore.”
Motorhead, Orgasmatron (1986).
[Re-Posted from The Old Site on 04-06-2008, I remembered it with fondness.]
Lest you might think I’m soft. Popular culture is mostly ridiculed, mainly because it is popular. If embraced, it is rarely really embraced but rather ‘indulged in’. Such are the backward ways of those in-the-know, those that are true followers of the spirit of churches (& that nowadays often profess to be atheistic).
It is vain and arrogant to believe truth is restricted to some privileged ways of expression. It is obsequious to submit to what has been established as ‘true’ standard of what is establishing itself. The implication that one needs agony, that the feeling of pain is a necessary condition for achieving quality, is one of the most counter-productive views one can have of human life.
It is a truly sadistic view which leads to people who make excuses for themselves, when inflicting pain, by reference to some form of sacred agony. This is hypocrisy made paramount: to claim to be a true representative of a positive force, and to use that claim to justify to yourself why you have the right to be a negative force.
That’s our Orgasmatron. We should not be fooled by the endurance of traditional religions in believing that religion is still our main Orgasmatron. Religion is on its way out but the Orgasmatron is still there. It has changed its colours, but not its essence. It is there condemning decadence, rewarding merit and promoting misery and self-torture to those not in the class of people who have ‘made it’ (after being ‘made’), the class of ‘made men’ whether in economy or art or charity.
The Orgasmatron is ultimately about conforming to the past, to tradition, to whomever came out on top out of the last struggle. Conforming not because it gives a necessary basis for understanding each other but conforming because it’s a way to make everybody else guilty for the own misery.
“Work hard, die old. Fuck talent as what matters is what others have and the value of what I bring lies in the fact others can’t bring it. So, fuck ’em, and let me be fucked for profit!”
My name is called merit, sadistic, sacred whore.
Let’s not have it. Let’s not play the sycophant and revel in our pain. Enough with achievement. Time to play.
[Whilst originally writing this I was listening to Augustus Pablo, “Dub, Reggae & Roots From The Melodica King”, Ocho (2000).]