What do you get when elderly post-punk effluvia mix with the mannequin throbbings of an arthouse rave party? I’ll tell you what you get: you get what you have here; industrial psychedelic hermaphro-core perfumed by the skid marks left in Andy Warhol’s Factory-era bloomers. And the she-man behind the curtain in this case is a Quentin Crisp-type coxcomb with a head dangerously full of sorcery and Geritol and funny spellings: none other than Genesis P-Orridge, of COUM Transmissions, Throbbing Gristle, and TOPY infamy. Now, while I respect and admire many of Genesis’ magickal subversions and outrages from the past, Hell Is Invisible… has the somewhat turgid wobble of artsy self indulgence to my ears. Sorcerers—of the old school stripe, anyway—are naturally prone to doing things in a manner devilishly florid and over-wrought, and should granted some leniency. But not at my expense. Hell may be invisible, but as this record proves, it’s not inaudible. Which is not to say that this whole CD sucks, by any means. There are bits and pieces here and there that evoke things like Syd Barrett and Public Image and that I like. And Mr./Ms. P-Orridge’s spiritual lineage—which includes such crooked luminaries as William Burroughs, Aleister Crowley, Brion Gysin, and Austin O. Spare—makes Hell Is Invisible… at the very least deserving of a good round of listenings, if not outright adoration. After all, how else are all the boll weevils of chaos that Genesis has planted here ever going to get to burrow into your brain and do The Great Work? But even with its dark charms, this CD is, for me, a pimpled fuck-belly full of noize and noodles. The sort of concoction that sits in your gut like a lawn bag full of rotting wigs and inspires notions of a good shit and then a nice nap. But note: Chaos Magick nerds, Boyd Rice enthusiasts, and high-minded Situationists may feel otherwise.