Review: Leave it to me to come up with a cunning plan to sell Benny's wholesome soul to the devilish underworld of music. I asked Aardvarck and Steven to call him up: "Heya Benny, why don't ya come to our Rednose Distrikt Night?", as if they were inviting him to a party. At the time, The Rednose Distrikt nights at Amsterdam's Bittersweet club were "a very inspiring night out" as the rational critic's opinion read but more like a near death experience, for a real Rednose soldier like Benny turned out to be. Anyway, that night I took Benny along. He whistled a song of his upcoming third Benny Sings album when he entered the Rednose Distrikt and immediately forgot everything his parents taught him. There they were, Aardvarck and Steven de Peven as reliable as my great-grandfather's soldier comrades in the trenches, kicking the shit out of their laptops to the point of spilling guts, happy slapping granny, spray-puking vodka-lime, fisting a freaking' frump. To cut a long self-obsessed biography short, Rednose Distrikt fed Benny a heap of itchy beats and sickly groovy sounds. Benny fell to the floor, his head turned 360 degrees, steam came out of his ears, bubbles out of his nose and he looked like he was about to give birth to Rosemary's Baby. Then Aardvarck gave Steven the sign. They dragged him on stage yelling like a bad actor in a 'Nam war movie: "Sing Benny Sing. Sing or die!"
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