Singing competitions for fascists, “Toxic Masculinity” in the kitchen, global warming – the world we live in has a foul stench. Not to mention ***. Cherry bombs, my weapons of defense. Coin-operated escalators: going up for aggression and down for a sentence. Soap&Skin is as pink as the glorious colonialist – and paedophile – journalist. The good taste of evil according to the law, defenceless, if you are ugly and masculine, wrapped up in an emotional storm.

Anja Plaschg aka Soap&Skin is like an alien revelation, a rebel poet, a Callas** cyber punk. “From Gas To Solid/You Are My Friend” is a postcard of complicity and profane beauty. She breaks the monotony of the closed box, windowless bathroom, crucifix and Ikea lamps. . Soap&Skin paves over strict calcareous formation of the model normal family. Accessories: 70 m2 of gospel, a garage, bruises, an eternal mortgage on harassment.

Soap&Skin embodies the blasphemous and lunar experience of our ancestral mothers, creators in seven, eight, nine, twelve fucking days of just as many fucking miracles. She flows like a geyser. Set between Medea, Francis Famer and Ellen Ripley. She’ll rock, squeeze and hurt you, suffocate you with a pretty song, drain you with her lament. There’s noise. The metallic intersection of the creature that alters the natural. Soap&Skin could be one of Naomi Alderman’s electric girls, power flowing from her collarbone. A shock that knocks you to your knees, keeps us safe. The centre of my discomfort. Alien She.