New Single, Album & Video - BIKINI DEATH RACE
BIKINI DEATH RACE
The guy with the panda mask had always dreamed of having a female fronted electroclash band, but the dream was put on hold for some years because he was busy with other projects. He also thought best to nail how to programme electronic music before launching an electroclash career. Once all was in place, the guy with the panda mask had a chance encounter with the girl with the cat mask (when she walked in on him in a public toilet with a faulty lock). In Rome for the first time and fresh from the Yorkshire countryside, the girl could do nothing but give credit to the creative rantings of the first Italian panda she had ever met. And so it was that in September 2016, the two masked musicians started to write songs for an album that could only be entitled ‘Party Animals’.
‘Party Animals’ is like a big bubble of soap, created by the band for them to hide in and protect themselves from those moments when life gets to be too much. Choosing idiocy as psychotherapy and Dadaism as their philosophy on life, the songs on the album symbolize an exorcism for Bikini Death Race: a driving out of senselessness through senselessness!
Bikini Death Race are inspired by The Ramones, Le Tigre, Kap Bambino, Crystal Castles, Tuxedo Moon, Ladytron, Depeche Mode, Cock Sparrer and… Ace of Base!
1. Bikini Death Race – www.bikinideathrace.com - THE RACE
‘The Bikini Death Race’ – is an extreme car rally from London to Bikini Island in the Pacific to raise awareness and funds for ‘Bikinians’ – a population devastated by US nuclear testing in the 1950s
Competitors must race in a beaten up car (preferably from a scrapyard), with a maximum 1 litre engine and must wear bikinis at all times.
The journey is a treacherous 15,000km passing through famous nuclear testing sites (and North Korea).
“Party Animals” – what is it all about?
There’s Alice in Wonderland putting survival techniques to the test in a parallel reality where crimes against fashion rule the day.
There’s those awful situations when, in any given moment someone enthusiastically says ‘hi’ to you and you have no fucking idea who they are.
There’s the rituals of social media; profile pics with tits out and Goth make-up.
There’s ambiguous poses, striped tights, pecks out, frankfurter thighs, holidays at the seaside and yearly skiing breaks. Everyone smiling, everyone dead inside.
There’s love stories that ended disastrously, people with no ass, graceful swallowings and a dwarf awaiting you at home, full of love, only you’re too drunk to have sex.
There’s what you have to endure just to get a kiss from someone you fancy.
There’s the classic suburban American high school party, tainted with your own memories of dirty adolescent raves.
There’s having to listen to people who talk incessantly about nothing; the torture of the office 9 to 5 and a re-evaluation of hate.
And do you know what? I’m really not sorry at all.
Even if I broke a bottle over my ‘artist’ friend’s head. The one who once lived in Bali, wrote a book and made a shitty film.
And finally, there’s this time machine that I invented. It’s parked out back… the only problem is I never have time to use it.