Parisian, calf’s head!…Parisian, ape’s head!
Among all the territories stolen by Jacobin France that we think about, we are most interested by those that are Occitan, i.e. from Occitània or Patria Linguæ Occitanæ, the land of the Occitan language. Why this favouritism? Because the speakers of Occitan, perfect modern heretics in a mono-linguistic French Freemasonic Republic held up by the Parisian bourgeoisie, are the greatest linguistic minority in Europe…And also especially because Occitan, although now a clandestine tongue that has undergone relentless persecution for centuries by Popes, Kings and the Republic, was originally the language of warrior musicians/poets who in the manner of punks recounted their vida in their writings. Who were they? The troubadours. Yes, poets AND warriors, two formally united aspects which are now separate, that we struggle to reconcile with our Mesnien lives. This schism can be discerned through observing the bloodless, scrawny and runtish appearance of our most acerbic writers/pamphleteers/polemicists in the style of Will Self or Chris Addison. They are truly highbrow, but not the kind you would bring along to guerrilla games in the ghettos, or a street prowl. If you want to make war with them by your side, your enemies for sure will tan your hide. No, with the troubadours we’re dealing with cocky knights, not sausage jockeys…
So, I said it was a union of body and nib. Their nibs in the bodies of domnas [ladies], this was in a time when literary and musical sensibilities, erudition, nobility of blood and soul were always accorded with virility, physical prowess and carnal pleasure. ‘C’est le trou-baba / C’est le troubadour / Qui baise la nuit et qui baise le jour / C’est le trou-baba / C’est le troubadour / Qui baise la nuit, le jour / Le troubadour! [It’s the trou-baba/It’s the troubadour/Who fucks all the night and fucks all the day/ It’s the trou-baba/It’s the troubadour/Who fucks all the night, all the day/It’s the troubadour!]’ recalls a bawdy song full of popular wisdom. They were the very first cracker rappers, proud tappers of ass and cuirass while blowing their own horns! And they were no strangers to wanton provocation, like the big Provençal cheese MC Raimbaut d’Aurenga, who said ‘[I am] the best troubadour since Adam, if anyone doubts this, he ought to challenge me with spear and shield’. Others, such as Bertran de Born, were masters of sirventès, these polemic poems of battle that were satirical, imprecatory, and directly addressed to the enemy, and these earned him a good reputation as a shit-stirrer! And òc [Occitan: Yes], the word ‘racaille’ [scum] is the Frenchified version of the Occitan word ‘racalha’ (from the verb ‘racar’, to vomit)!
Before becoming the precursor to all this gallant court poetry, later called the ‘courtly love’ (fin’amor in Occitan) genre, the debauched nobleman William IX (Guilhèm de Peitieus (1070 – 1127)), the first known vernacular troubadour/poet in the history of European literature, would batter the wogs from 1101 to 1102 in the first crusade launched by the Frankish knight Godfrey of Bouillon, and revive Greek paganism in the midst of the Middle Ages through his insanely erotic verses. The poems written by ‘one of the greatest swindler of ladies’ hearts and excellent knight-at-arms’ recounted his vida [i.e. life], notably talking about war and his libidinous exploits. In ‘Ben vuelh que sapchon li pluzor’ if we listen to him, it’s he who has the most ‘impressive presence’!:
Qu’ieu ai a nom ‘maistre certa’ / For I bear the name of ‘infallible master’:
Ja m’amig’anueg no m’aura / never will my mistress have me for one night
Que no-m vuelh’aver l’endema! / and not wish to have me the next day!
Qu’ieu suy d’aquest mestier, so-m va, / Because in this trade I am (and I freely say it)
Tan ensenhatz / so expert
Que be-n sai gazanhar mon pa / that I can earn my living
En totz mercatz / in every market.
In the canso ‘Companho, farai un vers qu’er covinen’, William asks in particular which mistress/mare he should ride: the shy Agnes or the hot-to-trot Arsen? He also alludes to his latent bisexuality, not hesitating to talk of love between lads in an era when the Church had not totally clamped down on all instincts yet (this ‘unfaithful dog’ had also written ‘Farai un vers de dreit nien’, a poem about ‘pure nothingness’!) At the Battle of Cutanda, during the re-taking of the Kingdom of Valencia (from 1120 – 1123), an episode in the ‘Reconquista’, William bore a shield on which was apparently painted the body of his adulterous biatch, the appropriately named ‘la Dangerosa’.
Peire Vidal, who chased pussy over hill and dale and even to the edges of the East, also participated in the First Crusade, that horndog bastard. Jaufre Rudel became a crusader (in the Second Crusade) with the hope of tapping a princess, sistah Tripoli, and died in her arms in ‘The Holy Land’ (he made a crossing for her, not with her…you get the difference bro?). In the Fourth Crusade Raimbaut de Vaqueiras was all up on his high horse…His vida records that ‘he was risen up by spirit, arms and poetry’ etc…
I say this at the moment when the most frequently bandied insult in BM, moreover often emanating from cherries, is ‘gay’, to describe all that is not knuckle-dragging and overflowing with testosterone (even having a girl in a group…for them that’s ‘gay’! Unless she has a hairy back or can burp longer than them…) However, if our Joe 666-packs in Black Metal, our modern warriors (!), are still called Bertrand or William, at the Weights Room my mates have for names Mourad and Djelloul, and at the Thai Boxing Club, Moussa, Boubacar and Abdullah.
And would they measure up to the art of the troubadours, our white alpha males of extreme metal? Alas not at all…all talk and no trousers. They try to philosophise with their three neurons…they write ‘papa’ with three ‘Ps’ in the imperialist Yankee gibberish they pick up in ‘World of Warcraft’ (a style of game that allows them to practise the only physical activity that they know: handling their (own) joysticks)…They act like toughs with their BLASPHEMY costumes, but beneath their army pants they wear fine lingerie….They are covered head to toe in cartridges…but where the hell are the guns?
L’Atrabilaire, ‘Parigot tête de veau!….Parigot tête de bonobo!’ [Parisian, calf’s head!...Parisian, ape’s head!] in the magazine La mesnie Herlequin #1, forthcoming.
Translation by Martin & L’Atrabilaire.