MalAradio Berlin: high frequency hate!
In one of Berlin’s squares where gentrification and repression are no longer a river in flood but rampant water, in the tide that destroys the shores of a historic neighborhood, lived and conquered with sweat, gasoline and barricades, the new puppets, the admirals of respectability and normalization, make their way sailing on shiny ships. At their passage the waters are stained with blood and protected by their domesticated thugs, they fill the overflowing flesh under their vests and swell the pockets of the real estate sharks. They build new islands made of large windows, lofts, luxury buildings, organic and minimal fake-craft stores, architectural monsters that house the offices of the newest start-up.
MalAradio is a vessel that sails in the opposite direction, shooting vitriolic sound waves, occupying an immaterial space: the sound, gunpowder of its cannons. From one of the few spaces that still resists in that square, malAradio spits its poison at full volume, rumbling in the streets, with the intent to choke on the salty breakfast to the yuppies born from normalization, who wallow, complicit, in this ocean of slime, shit and oppression.
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