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Fecha de lanzamiento: 6 de marzo de 2000

Grabado en The Thin Line, el estudio personal de Alan entre julio de 1998 y junio de 1999, producido por él mismo y asistido por Hepzibah Sessa y producción adicional y diseño sonoro de Paul Kendall. Liquid es el quinto álbum de estudio de Recoil.

La música continúa principalmente en el mismo estilo del álbum anterior Unsound Methods, aunque este fue considerado un álbum conceptual alrededor de una experiencia cercana a la muerte en 1994, cuando Alan y su pareja Hepzibah estuvieron a punto de morir por un accidente aéreo que ocurrió a unos pocos metros de donde se encontraban en una carretera de Escocia. Un aeroplano Tornado Bomber se estrelló en una colina frente a ellos y sus dos ocupantes fallecieron.

El concepto del álbum, especialmente el track final “Black Box” (Caja Negra) se centró alrededor de los últimos momentos de vida del piloto.

Una vez más Recoil se rodeó de un variado grupo de vocalistas: la internacionalmente aclamada y compañera de sello discográfico en Mute, Diamanda Galás, el Golden Gate Jubilee Quartet, y las declamadoras neoyorquinas Nicole Blackman y Samantha Coerbell. Alan incluso pidió a fans que escribieran para Recoil en sus idiomas nativos, siendo la elegida Rosa Torrás, quien escribió la letra del track Vertigen en su idioma natal, el catalán. Dean Garcia de la banda Curve tocó el bajo y Steven Monty en la batería. Guitarras de Ian Dury y Merlin Rhys-Jones de Blockheads, y Hepzibah Sessa (ex Miranda Sex Garden) en el violín y coros.

Como nota curiosa, Nine Inch Nails utilizó este álbum como música de pre-show durante su gira Fragility Tour en 2000.

Black Box Pt. 1

The weather was absolutely perfect on this morning, so we could see everything very clearly.
You knew that there had been a terrible eruption but you couldn’t see any machinery, you just see this collapsing ice.
When we got closer, the pilot said there was something on the radar that he hadn’t seen the day before.
Then we saw for the first time what had happened in the crater.
We saw nothing but black ice, covered with ash and then water with floating ice blocks and ash at the bottom.
We only got a very brief glimpse but you really felt you were seeing something nobody had seen before.
I got really afraid. My heart missed a beat. I felt this had already happened but I was about to see it again….


I want to know how it will end.
I want to be sure of what it will cost.
I want to strangle the stars for all they promised me.
I want you to call me on your drug phone.
I want to keep you alive so there is always the possibility of murder later.
I want to be there when you learn the cost of desire.
I want you to understand that my malevolence is just a way to win.
I want the name of the ruiner.
I want matches in case I have to suddenly burn.
I want you to know that being kind is overrated.
I want to write my secret across your sky.
I want to watch you lose control.
I want to watch you lose.
I want to know exactly what it’s going to take.
I want to see you insert yourself into glory.
I want your touches to scar me so I’ll know where you’ve been.
I want you to watch when I go down in flames.
I want a list of atrocities done in your name.
I want to reach my hand into the dark and feel what reaches back.
I want to remember when my nightmares were clearer.
I want to be there when your hot black rage rips wide open.
I want to taste my own kind.
I want to be wrapped in cold wet sheets to see if it’s different on this side.
I want you to come on strong.
I want to leave you out in the cold.
I want the exact same thing but different.
I want some soft drugs…some soft, soft drugs.
I want to throw you.
I want you to know I know.
I want to know if you read me.
I want to swing with my eyes shut and see what I hit.
I want to know just how much you hate me so I can predict what you’ll do.
I want you to know the wounds are self-inflicted.
I want a controlling interest.
I want to be somewhere beautiful when I die.
I want to be your secret hater.
I want to stop destroying you but I can’t.
And I want and I want and I want and I will always be hungry.
And I want and I want and I want.


Well stop, great God, stop there and listen, listen to the story ‘bout Jezebel.
Her sins were so wicked Jehovah got angry, her soul went leapin’ and jumpin’ into Hell.
Way back yonder in the olden days, John told Jezebel to borrow her ways, said her evil deeds had ruined the land and repent for the kingdom of God was at hand.
She got mad at John ‘cause he told her ‘bout the gospel, told her servants to boil him in oil.
Well they tell me God looked from the windows of the heavens, spoke one word and the oil wouldn’t boil.
He raised his hand, creation trembled, stamped his feet and time stood still, raised his voice, looked down and thundered “John! Go do my will.”
You got to go to judgment, stand trial.
Then they tell me John moved through the power of the gospel, told Jezebel her time was nigh.
On the book of life, her days were ended, her time run out and she had to die.
Well they tell me God walked his footsteps thunderin’, he moved his head and his eyes flashed fire, clapped his hands and death come jumpin’, Jehovah was angry, somebody had to die.
You got to go to judgment, stand trial.
Then Death come knockin’ on Jezebel’s door and said “Come on woman ain’t you ready to go? Of your evil deeds God’s done got tired, you got to go to judgment, stand trial.”
Then Death come leapin’ she jumped into Hell, great God Almighty I heard them tell.
Nine days she lay in Jerusalem’s streets, her flesh was too filthy for the dogs to eat.
You got to go to judgment, stand trial.
“Jezebel, mind God’s talking, says he’s tired of your evil ways. You got to go to judgment, stand trial.”

Breath Control

Who wouldn’t want a good girl, a soft hand, a gentle woman for a gentleman?
He said, “It’s been fine so far but after a while I want more than a soft style. I want some slashes to go with those long eyelashes.”
And so the bedroom became the black room but a year later he wanted something more, something I wasn’t quite prepared for.
He said, “Every woman has an itch and every nice girl secretly wants to switch. I like how the skins look on your white hands. I’d like you to deliver one of my demands.”
He said, “Every woman has an itch and every nice girl wants to switch.”
He led me in and lit the room with a hundred candles and said “God never gives you more than you can handle.”
I sat astride his chest, “It’s just a thrill,” he said, as he relaxed on the dark, dark bed, “it’s just breath control.”
He whispered “Hold me here” and I did and his head fell back.
He whispered “Press harder” and I did and his eyes rolled back.
It’s just breath control. Just breath control.
I saw him go pale.
I saw him seize up, I felt something creep up like a taste for this.
Like a reward. A kind of love, a kind of lustmord.
It was a minute then three then five then ten, he wasn’t coming up again.
I held on for twelve.
I saw him seize and thrash and twist and when he was still, I lifted away my wrists and looked at my hands and tried to understand.
“It’s just a thrill” I said as he relaxed on the dark, dark bed.
I sat aside his chest, “It’s just a thrill,” he said, “just a thrill. It’s just breath control.”
When it was over, I slipped off the skins and drowned them in the river where we used to swim and a year later in a shop, I was stopped by a man.
He said, “I know you’re looking for something that’s hard to find and I think I have what you have in mind.”
And he led me to a glass case and looked deep into my face…. “It’s just control.”

Last Call for Liquid Courage

Sip still, gotta be enough.
Wide palms slap skin, let the hitting begin!
A done deal.
Discarded piles of dignity.
Another anonymous evening of Absolut Flesh.
And tonight, it’s got to be enough. It’s got to be enough.
Sip another swig, let the night fill you.
Stranger pour into you.
Peel back what binds you, make you strong!
And it’s ok, mostly.
Today is tonight and tonight’s enough.
Swallow still some sips, Hootchie mamma you is! Him hot for poker bid.
Stuck his two cents in you.
Done did make bid for next time but….there’s always a but at the end of nights like this.
It’s got to be enough.
Hip, hand, thigh, back, calf, arm, ass, cheek, teeth, knee, heel, neck, elbow, ear, tongue, shoulder.
You thinking it is 4am. Baby damn!
What I gotta buy is all for a little pseudoaffectionado.
A purry dreamic plead.
Wanna lick it up?
Quiz over every curve you got.
Furry tongue making brown liquid slot.
Enough tonight.
You finally had enough.
You had enough.
Had enough?

Strange Hours

Strange Hours I’m gonna walk on up to heaven, I’m sure you’ll see me there.
Might be the last dead man to make it.
Hell yes, I know that I’ll get there.
I will be wearing clothes of fire but I’m sure you’ll see me there.
I’m gonna crawl on up to heaven.
I may be trailing you in ashes but you know that I’ll be there.
I will find you there.
“He kept strange hours, locked himself away in his room before being seen shouting at the window.
And, he had murdered his fiance – he sacrificed her for the purity of all mankind.”


Aquell matí em vaig llevar, no recordo on ni tan sols el temps que fa, i tot havia canviat.
Però jo no ho sabia, encara, i més m’hagués valgut no saber-ho mai.
El meu món era petit, però suficient, abans.
Deixà de ser-ho.
La meva vida, un cel particular, incertesa, dolça soledat; ‘ més tard, cau soterrat, previsibilitat maleïda, asfixiant aïllament.
Mai res no m’havia fet tanta falta.
Ni la sang que per les venes em corre no necessitava amb la mateixa urgència.
Mentre el dolor creixia, de sobte, aquell soroll estrepitós, insuportable.
Cridant, plorant, vaig córrer.
Era incapaç de sentir els meus crits, de segur esgarrifosos.
De sobte, l’abisme s’obrí sota els meus peus.
Morir, volia. Recuperar el meu cau, la meva estimada soledat, els meus llimbs, la meva preuada illa.
I vaig caure. Queia, sentint-me cada vegada més prop d’aquell horror, del meu propi dolor, del més terrorífic despertar dels meus sentits, tot just acabat de descobrir.
Ja no recordo quan va ser que vaig despertar aquell fatídic matí, aleshores salvador.
No recordo quan fa que estic caient, que caic, veient la fi més propera cada vegada però amb la incertesa de si mai arribarà.
Ara el dolor sembla no tenir límits.
El dolor i la por són tot el que sento.
Tinc por de caure per sempre.


Supreme talks about his baby’s mother like a whore. Sweet 16 she is, with future uncertain, love incomplete.
Soapy days for Jr. and she. At 3, Supreme comes to give his boy a pat and a pound, put his hoodie on the couch, his Timberlands up on the chair so his bitch can bring him a beer.
So, this is the Nuclear family? Mommy, baby… and Daddy makes a mess of his baby’s mother’s hair as they fuck ’til her mother comes in from work.
She’s playing house, he’s playing man and Jr. is the only one who accepts he’s just a child. Wild nights she had with a swish of her stuff, knocked up to a waddle, a baby carriage bustle and still gets her play.
But her dream is true romance…well sorta, everyday from 3 to 6.
Supreme leaves out before Mommy comes kick his lazy narrow behind back onto the street.
He’s not a corner boy. The bodega in the 40’s is midblock where bullets flock, no names engraved and he may be next. Shielded by the patron saint of the brothers.
Being there is all there is. Living lovely without turning the corner, reaching for a swig brings sweat to his brow and shit to his mouth, dispelling knowledge on the stuffs, the pleasing things the baby’s mother do, dousing the sidewalk with wretch of a boy/man, breaking Friday night to seek man/hood in a paper bag.
Says, “Fatherhood is real cool and the kid looks like me so she better not let nothing happen to him or I’ma kill the bitch.”
Sudden twitch to the roll of the wheel, trained steel stained blue puts punk on the wall for some trumped up call from precinct 101. Monday at 3, the baby’s mother waits, Jr. in her arms, patiently at the door, doesn’t know what she misses.
Locked into the routine, a project queen. Supreme rode off into the sunset with a 3 to 6 all his own. Took a week for her to find out, a minute to promise devotion, her life on hold as Supreme calls checking on his boy (and the baby’s mother). Life on the outside ain’t even worth it. Shit. Who screwed whom? There’s not enough room in the pen for them both to stay locked into their little worlds they will. Leather gear, X skullie, Size 2 Docs. Man, Jr.’s the fliest shit in nursery care. Paid for by W.I.C., so who’s getting dicked? Who reigns Supreme?


So let’s be done with this.
You said “I want you, I don’t want another, I want a girl who knows how to suffer.”
Chalk down my hands, I need to work the bars dry.
So now you’re in the middle of someone terrible and you’re carrying a tiny crucible.
Every raw boy want relief.
You tough guys with the glass jaws, your pins, your backstage laws, your French positions, your stripper damage.
It’s more than you can hide, more than you can manage.
I’m done with the dark boys, through with the dark boys, done with the dark boys, I swear you’ll be the last one.
I’m done with the dark boys, through with the dark boys, done with the black cotton mafia.
You dream of a girl with silver skin, you dream of a girl cooled and thinned.
She’s gone a bit blue around the edges.
You want a girl who sucks her thumb when she comes, you’re just looking for a clean sleep.
She doesn’t want to see you, she wants to be seen by the cameras, the crews and the soft machines.
You want a girl who could suck the chrome.
You’re so rocked and wrapped in anguish, some little tragedy I’m slow to extinguish.
Watching the suitors stagger home, now I’m butcher, now you’re bone.
I’m done with the dark boys, through with the dark boys, done with the black cotton mafia.
I’m done with the dark boys, through with the dark boys, done with the dark boys, I swear you’ll be the last one.
It’s documented, tequila scented.
You want a girl who’s pale and bled, you want a girl who’s easily led.
Her slim hips, your tight grip, tell me it doesn’t hurt just a little bit boy.
Come in, copy, she doesn’t read you, she fed the hand that bit her, she doesn’t need you.
Your fill-in girls, your soft metal foxes, your white receipts, your big, black boxes.
Life doesn’t mean telling lies, it means enduring what you despise.
I’m done with the dark boys, through with the dark boys, done with the dark boys, I swear you’ll be the last one.
I’m done, I’m through.
I’m through.
I’m through.

Black Box Pt. 2


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