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Lilith has been a devout Billie Eilish fan for some years now, so it seemed fitting that this should be Lilith’s first major concert. The show was phenomenal: the production itself was breathtaking, and Billie Eilish is a fantastic performer who really, truly knows how to connect with her audience. Lilith was ENTRANCED.
The whole experience really opened my eyes to who Gen Z is: a generation formed in the throes of horrific violence, born without innocence but steeped in compassion. They are profoundly dark, but without the cynicism of their Gen X predecessors. These kids are unimaginably powerful – forged in fire – and possessed of an empathy, open-mindedness, and tolerance that the rest of us can only begin to imagine. They are the gothest generation – a legion of dark stars – and they will likely save us all.
They will be the best of us.
A perfume for the creepy kids, the iconoclasts, the revolutionaries: blackcurrant, cistus, blackened sugar, and oud.
We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.
Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The “Treues Liebes Herz” of Strauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.
The took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.
Then, turning to my love, I said,
“The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.”
But she–she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.
Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
The dead are dancing with the dead, the dust is whirling with the dust: angelâ€™s trumpet, violet, white sandalwood, oude, copaiba balsam, angelica, white tea, olibanum, and oakmoss.
Fierce, warm and animalic.
A sad instance of giving way to superstitious fears occurred on Friday last week at Newport. It would appear, from what our reporter has gathered, that a shadow has been cast on an oak fence which runs by the side of a large windmill, representing a death’s head and cross-bones. This shadow was only to be seen occasionally, and a report was current that the mill was haunted, some dreadful crime having been committed within its precincts. On Friday night Robert Pugh and James Owen, two working men, were so alarmed at the appearance of the ghastly shadow that, after a few moments of suspense, they both fled precipitately from the spot. The effect on Pugh was of a most serious nature. His mind has become affected, and the chances are that he will never recover his reason.
– Illustrated Police News, 17 February 1877
A quiver of boot leather, a forbidding shadow of patchouli, poppy tar, and oud against a backdrop of worn oak panels.