“Peyote Poem”, así se llama la nueva colección de SIXPACK FRANCE para esta primavera/verano 2010


In the desert, at night, it is cold.
During the day, it’s bright sunny.

Desert is scary. And attractive.
Music from geographical mermaid, many Ulysses went there, to never come back, caught in mirages.
Desert is an ordeal. If you ever come back from it, you are completely transformed.
Universal myth, den of mystiques since ancient Egypt, the way Saint Anthony did it in his cave in the Thebaid.
Hollywood mythology, desert is the frontier, not the Far West for cowboys but the Wild Wild West for gold diggers.
An experience with no guarantee to come back.
You go there soul searching, without necessarily finding answers.

Set off like Jim Morrison before making The Doors, the Oliver Stone’s way, or like young hippies in Zabriskie Point by Michelangelo Antonioni, this is the solar face.
The lunar face: the Charles Manson Family’s ranch in Death Valley, or the Hell’s Angels dens like in Mad Max, far from the standard world.
Experiences and meditations for some of them, a sanctuary far from the civilized world for others.

Mystique and violence, a haven or a corpse.
Sand immensity free of human trace, the country of lost order and reversed values. Adoptive country for all counter-cultures.
Knowledge from the abyss. The hotbed of the occult.
Two guides for us in this immensity: Kenneth Anger and Alejandro Jodorowski.
Two beacons in the dark of night, for a trip to hell. Two enlightened people towards the Light.

At the heart of darkness, stars speak to us. When lost, it is necessary to decipher hidden letters, concealed numbers and figures of dropped science.
Satan and Kabbalah, Lucifer and the tarot.
Maelstrom full of confusion, jumble of misunderstood symbols for a novice and warnings that only insiders crack.
A heaven of signs and codes from a road beyond Good and Evil, taken with eagerness by National Forest, PMFKA, La Boca, Gasius, Bus and Sanghon Kim.
The kingdom of a world without any rules, set on other frequencies, like the Super Soul radio frequency accompanying Kowalski in his road movie to death.
Vanishing Point.

Vanity, everything is vanity, you only get it in the desert. Reduced to the essence, nothing superfluous can resist to it. The body and its skeleton,
far from the pleasures of life, Sixpack kept looking and finally found itself. The pith and marrow.

Print is dead.
A shriek like a Neil Young’s riff in the night.

And Cody Hudson at the height of it.