bassbeyondreason
Chtonic Fatigue Syndrome
And here's the other one, which I feverishly vomited out for a uni assignment:
Hardcore Eclecticism: A Manifesto
Since all cultural time collapsed around the Millenial pivot and the dead weight of histories are piled deep round the door like so much Etruscan-tortured slush, since all subcultural friction subsided to an unprincipled “yeah mate I like Nirvana too” peace, since the disgust/delight dialecticalattice wore down and disintegrated across a newbuild dreamhome carpet of well-appointed/well-upholstered algorithmic vibetech nod-along then: WHAT IS TO BE DONE?
We can’t close the box or get back in the well or get back to the garden and put up the fence. No golden age of purity can be invented or regained, no autarkist wank fantasy of turnip gruel behind castle walls. Mr C knew why they called it THE END. Evolutionary cul-de-sac wallbangers hold sway though, across the festival-industrial-complex the business end of techno, endlessly shaving away at the bone and fucking increasingly pale and sickly cattle hoping to recreate the Aurochs. If you wanna make a centaur you gotta fuck a lotta horses but some of these lads have been sniffing round the paddock far too long.
Conversely though you have the smooth-bollocked dilletantotalitarianism of your Kieran Hebden/Dan Snaith/Floating Points axis: too many surnames not enough setbacks for the Dekmantel nephews or Euan Blair getting sucked off at Secret Garden Party. The festival-industrial complex will squeeze all the varieties of toothpaste it can into that cornmeal trough and the bloat comes and you get that foie gras feeling. Satisfaction at any cost. A levelling, agrobusinesses, endless wheat fields overripe with dessicated husks for any hydrogenation fantasies you might slop forth. You’ll find your own fructose level in time but the thin cotton shirts will wear thinner and thinner and even pastels fade.
Once more I am begging the queue: WHAT IS TO BE DONE? A humble offering then. HARDCORE ECLECTICISM. HOOLIGAN PLUNDERPHONICS. PULP METAMODERNISM. Call it as you will you know it when you hear it. Trax not as melting oxo cube in taste-made boullebaise but as radioactive amulets thrown down in the dust of an unsealed tomb. Dialectical frictions and hyperpolyrhythmic pressure cookin’ up your brain. Ardkore knew the score but it’s not those days anymore and that’s not gonna cut it. Neuromancer dub into the future you know is going to be shit but the travel sickness might shake forth a momentumtary thrill.
Either original vinyl for true acid-mod making it hard on yourself or, if things must be digital, as digital as possible: nothing that can be done with vinyl will be done without vinyl. Deartisanalise digital mixing: the sync button’s there so pile up as many Russians pushing their luck weird bandcamp digs as you can and let’s dissolve. Original vinyl: if you can’t afford it dig for something you can. Honest John’s will not save you in the coming (redacted). As the desperate vulture-encircled denouement of the petrochemical era hoves into view, we will get high off the fumes and (redacted). Make you sure you come incorrect with a mouth full of ball bearings, you’ll know why when it happens.
