O.O.Orifice

PTP Records

2024

O.O.Orifice' is the fourth solo album by Vienna-based Iranian sound artist and composer Rojin Sharafi. This work explores the space of "in-between" — the distance of "before" and "after" as it pertains to a life-altering event - the moment that creates a cut. This cut, this fracture, this wound is something that reopens now and then. It calls to you, asking to be heard, smelled, and felt.

When your ear was pierced,
When your chest was pierced,
When your heart was pierced,
When your throat was pierced,
When your head was pierced,
When your hand was pierced,
When your nose was pierced—

The cut creates a new space. An in-between space that disrupts the unity of order. A space with an origin all to its own—not inside, not outside; neither full nor empty. It is nameless until you discover it and give it a name. It creates coordinates that challenge your perception, and this is what this work strives to do.

'O.O.Orifice' follows a common thread, allowing for different stories to be told with a focus on the cut. Analog synthesizers, microtonal acoustic and digital instruments, scattering rhythms and poetry converge to form a narrative about love and attraction, psychoanalysis, internalized shame, language and its complexities, loss of home, and rejection.

Each track has characters that shape its subplot through color and texture, with events and atmospheres that either complete the story or alter its initial direction. And what ties all these stories together is orifice—the space in between, the gateway, an opening that is both pain and, simultaneously, a channel flowing into depth—the part beyond the pain.

Each cut left a mark on your body, on my body, and screams not to be forgotten. 

  • Pro duplicated to clear transparent cassette shell with imprinted graphics
    full color J-card. Housed in clear norelco case with imprinted graphics.

  • Cover art by Hessam Samavatian

  • Additional Art & Cassette Design by Winona Hudec

O.O.Orifice (2024) by Rojin Sharafi

We followed the jeep. It’s twilight. The last pink and orange pigments of the sky are melting into the blackness of silence. Crickets are tearing through the darkness. Their mating calls inevitably amplify the silence between us. We breathe in the dust rising from the back of the car. Olive trees are more beautiful in the red soil, and so are we when we get lost. We get lost because the road is blocked, the map is wrong. Because in our imagination, we escaped from each other, because we are looking for the address of a cave on a hill. Because everywhere is filled with newly planted olive trees in the red soil. And this is our only sign.


With unspoken words, we asked the local man: where is the friend’s house. He said: He has work, he’s going, he’ll come back, we should wait for him, he’ll show us. We guessed.
I open the window, hoping the warm May night breeze will evaporate the unshed tears in my eyes. The darkness envelops us, its embrace inevitable, and the show can begin on the black stage of the theater.

In the dark forest, amidst the wet leaves, I search for my tongue. Familiar, so I can lick it, understand it. I push aside the soil, pull out the earthy tongue, its bristles covered in dirt. It needs to be washed. With water other than tears, dew, drain water. {Because dead water brings bad luck} A few steps away, a turquoise river glistens. I run towards it and hold the tongue in the river’s water. Ah, it slips from my hand, goes into the river, swims like a goldfish, escapes, doesn’t stay, goes, doesn’t come back. The sound of my footsteps on the wet stones is dubbed. I look left and right. My movements are stiffer than usual. I am careful not to trip on the stones. As a child, I used to misread the words stumble, grumble, and mumble in the text and sing over the stones of the Taleghan River. The river is dubbed, I follow the sound, I reach the cave. You are lying in the cave, naked, on the psychoanalytic couch, staring upwards. I sit on the swing on the other side of the room, put on my glasses, and stare at you. ‘Bring to words whatever is inside you.’ You start, and I swing. With each movement, I get closer and farther from you. Watching your pain is hard, very hard. Your flowing tears become a wild, turbulent, needy river.

It’s my turn. I lie down and recount my dream. The famous one. It ends with my mother and my umbilical cord. You ask questions, shame flows like a warm river. You ask questions. I feel pain, my chest is pierced, the hole grows larger with each word. And in this absolute weightlessness, you ask how I feel.

“Hole, Ahh, Heavy, Hard, Harnessed, Hole, Harmful, Hilarious, Hole, Headstrong, Hole, Harmonious, Hole, Headstrong, Hurtful, Hole, Horrifying, Hole, Hole, Hole, Hole, Humorous, Hole, Hole, Humble, Hole, Harsh, Hole.
Hole, what am I to do with this void? Shall I mend its edges, release its grasp, widen its expanse, surrender to its depths, or savor its essence? I tasted it – the weight, a momentary numbness coursing through my entire being. My feet tingled, an intoxication spreading through me, the poison of its cavity. Hole, is it a path of connection or a connection in itself? Perhaps it forges its own path, existing and not, suspended and definite, shrouded in darkness or condensed into a singular point. Vapor, a delicate dance between light and smoke – a blend I hold dear. The composition of this scene, intertwined with earth, the soil of the stage. I've yet to taste it; what flavor does it hold? Does a hole possess a taste? Can one consume its essence? I ingest everything I cherish. Is the hole merely air? It exists in the in-between. I cherish that intermediary space: the outside, being within the external, and your exterior.
The hole embodies freedom. It has the capacity to envelop, to cradle you within its confines, yet allowing you to remain on the outskirts. Can a hole consume you whole? Fulfill your entirety?
A wound, too, is a form of aperture. As your skin transforms into a void, the outermost layer dissipates, revealing the inner strata – water, fluid, flesh. Colliding with a sea-facing wooden pier, these layers unfurled, a deluge of blood flowing forth. I recall the visage of a young girl, her eyes betraying trepidation, inquiring about the ordeal. I feared my teeth were shattered, my jaw shattered. Yet, all I sensed was the gentle caress of blood, tranquilly descending. With my right hand, I sought to discern the origin of this stream. My jaw remained unbroken; my teeth compacted to a mere point. A profound wound emerged just beneath my nose. In subsequent days, I found solace in tracing my fingers over the scar when it still bore a subtle elevation – a testament to that period. A reminder of that cavity, unrequited love, the sensation of numbness, the desire to be desired, fatigue, immersion in pain and pleasure – an endless, shadowy loop. A few years later, the line vanished, and the loop neared its end.”

“Our session is over; see you next week. “