Unfortunately, he’s pretty dead already, this old daredevil of rock music. Time to transplant his organs. JOHN GAILO pick the raisins and shoot electricity through the tissue. There are the lungs, there are the eggs and two to one leg for Frankenstein to hit the dancefloor. A perfect slap for the ideologically bored audience.

JOHN GAILO tumbles in tight pants and white masks out of the genre box and sprays « pinkrock » on everything.

The hip swings to electrified guitars, while snotty angels sing thunders on skins, the head bangs to the bass line that dashes gracefully in the gaps of the bullied Bassdrum, with a massive kick into the backbone to the great glam-slam feat.