Religious Equipment by Quiet Husband

‘Religious Equipment' drills deep into the gritty depths of industrial techno and noise, pulling no punches with a set of tracks named after opiate blockers or substitute drugs like Methadone and Subutex, which serve as sonic stand-ins for suppressed urges, blurring the line between resistance and surrender. Fresh from his live assault at Berlin’s Atonal Festival, Richie Culver’s debut full-length album under his Quiet Husband alias draws on the brutal, repetitive rhythms of techno, while spoken word passages — including one featuring his mother — cut through the chaos with a deeply personal narrative. From the gates of hell to the empty solace of noise, ‘Religious Equipment’ paints a harrowing portrait of addiction and substitution, where noise becomes a proxy for silence, and intensity replaces numbness.

Accompanying the release is a text by curators Charles Teyssou and Pierre-Alexandre Mateos, which reads as an art piece in itself, mirroring the tracks' exploration of coping mechanisms through fragmented moments of self-reflection, despair, fleeting euphoria, and the endless substitution of one void for another:

It's still early. I cherish these moments with myself. The light is low, I 'm with my book, my map and my can of Coca Cola. It's a moment of pure intimacy, when we listen to ourselves under a microscope. My anxiety turns to delight. It's like the emptiness of a prison administration. The drab corridors of the operating theatre. Public transport season tickets. The taste of the rosemary-flavored aperitif cookies distributed on intra-European flights. I am a lost man… I want to hang myself to the pinacle, in the halo of death, where the self forms its empire. I am a lost man. My solitude is heavy in the nakedness of absence. Tear is linked to intoxication.

Hey. Read Message. How's it going, bro? Two people and I'm yours. Give me a specific time. So I can get organized. Zig Zag Hypergrid. Attack the sun. 0.8. Our existence is an exasperated attempt to complete being. 0.8.

To escape the cruel joy that emerges as soon as the evidence of my misery appears. I'm in a cul de sac, a night of torment where all possibilities are exhausted, where the impossible is rampant. Faced with the impossible, the exorbitant, unmistakable void. My desire is democratic. It wins by default. Drifting as a revolution of everyday life. I have no desire for money or property, or large new cars, or overexpensive homes. I am repugnate by sport, red district, root beers, ultravisible uban spectacle, crass appetite and buying on credit. Let your eyes plunge into the fixed stare of the satyr. I have been in my room for many long nights. My friend called it a desert of desolation.

Would you know accelerate? Beyond the prompt turbo car? I need your bag. Learn then how to substitutes. Dexterity for speed. There is nothing more profound, more mysterious, more pregnant, more insidious, more dazzling than a spoon squared by a single flame. Fibers, pathways, circuits, humming with junctions, messages and messengers Synaptic connexion with neurons, millions, trillions. I could see a new world with my middle eye, a world I had missed before. I caught images behind images, the walls behind the sky, the sky behind the infinites. Its liquid infrastructure... information rushing, it is a revelation.

There are happiness in slavery. Flashing blue and pink light in electric orgasm. The sexual frenzies of factory. I am reloading the same page. I am rampant slut, a golem from the darkroom. I said I have 24 even if I am 43. I pretend I am serbian slut. An Italian aristocrat. A gangstacore booty. But I am just a lost man. Human organism was driven by the avoidance of unpleasure or pain. A primary masochism. Its legal to torture and murder people with entertainment. I am ready to be escort. I can’t afford my lifestyle anymore. An unlocked door in the prison of identity. It leads into the jail yards. My brain is the product of telegenetic engineering. An hybrid collapse created by meta-viruses. A prostituted holes flood by cum-pictures and sounds. I am feeling miserable even with this strange serenity, this cool challenge to the world, this smiling and beautiful death in life, or life in accepted death. Oblivion. My fuel banish melancholy, begets confidence, convert fear into boldness, make the silent eloquent and dastard brave. Easy the way that’s leads to Avernus, Easy the way… Boredom is waiting for Madam Death.

الصَوْت الخام غَيْر المُعالج للبَرَابِرَة قُطّاع الطُرُق والمُهَمَّشين والمُتَشَرِّدين والهَمَج، إلّا أن قُلُوبُهُم رَقِيقَة

𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙚𝙨, 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙛𝙞𝙩𝙨, 𝙨𝙖𝙫𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩.

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