Dead is the New Alive

The girl is crazy. Emilie Autumn and her Bloody Crumpets (Aprella, Naughty Veronica, the Blessed Contessa and Captain Maggot) tear it up. LISTEN.

Her violin is mad too, whining like a woman behind bars, like the girl in the asylum. It’s the starlet climbing, not the ladder, but the walls. It’s Ophelia. It’s every locked up dolly bleating for release. It’s the real story behind the cage of courtesy that masks those dark intentions, the honeyed lyric or those musicked vows. Give in. Give in. Give in. Oh, the zombie mantra. Dead is the new alive!

Are we riding the same dark riff? Are we on the same page? Here’s another little bite-and-chew of my story:

“For the next week or so I spent plenty of time with Ryu. Christian’s fat check kept the carnival rolling, and I was determined to have a good time, to forget my father and the miserable childhood to which he’d condemned me, a childhood spent marooned in prison-like schools. Ryu and Tokyo complied. So did opportunity. Three days after I arrived I had my audition with Hiroshi Nakamura, in his famous dance studio, and I was accepted as one of his students. I’d gone to meet my idol, nervous and distraught, with all the enthusiasm of someone headed for execution. I left on a cloud of euphoria.”

From “The Pachinko Palace,” next up (in “Chapters” later this week) from between the DEAD LOVE covers.

—Erin Orison, DEAD LOVE/the Daily Slice