Saturday, June 27, 2009


Time Life = Heidi Diehl n G. Lucas "Non-Horse" Crane. Meudiademorte. ("Shit-faced since 2003").

Cassette-label has been Pollackised: black cum scribble; the iceing art of Head-Chef Xavier Van Snyde. I reh-reh-recognise the art style: it's ***** ********.

Ohmmmmminous krautmische deepspace droneverk; bowed vacuumsong. "Zeit" era TD Vs. early Bothers of the Occult Sisterhood. We travel the spaceways on atom-thick sheets of blood-coloured light, traversing a photonegative montage of collapsing stars. Oneironauts r.e.m.-travellin' back to nine-teen-seven-tee-one only to find themselves in an alien zoo-installation curated by Howard Manilla. Soundtrack to a Druillet wetdream.

Slow folds of tomorrow. Windows in the air. Visonfields unfurl like flags or a series of flatscreen migraines. A waterfall of molecules, protein-chains visible n wrigglin' like compost-worms. Superliminal plainsong, a call to prayers as the Eve of Eyeflicker Dusk falls over Qhasm Q. Lunar Occulus, a trick of the light.

The sky is dark red now. Our converted beach-buggy bounces over a sunken sea of moonrock, dodging the shadowcats; Nikki grinning in the bucket-seat as the Spectre takes hold, a Peabody Hancock voweljam on the radio, something from Shapemaker II, I think.

Birds become static and vice versa. Popul Vuh stretched into thin pasta-like strands of sound. A squeeekt becomes a tape of Gemini VI re-entering the ionosphere. A cone on fire, a sonargram. An epithet of gravel geetar growl. A vehicle of some sort (anag.).

(*I*'m writing this in bright sunshine, but it's midnight in my mind.)

Random clicks n clunks. A tribe of didgeridoo-voiced ghostmen re-infect the radio-dial. A washing-machine in the shape of a mouth, clothes all tangled up in its teeth. They're climbing out of their holes now - spindle-limbed half-men drawn by Ralph Reese, scuttling towards us on aluminium flange-scooters, their splayed, olive-green, frog-like feet kicking up dust w/ every floppy-foot'd kick.

Throat-opera in 3-D. Geddy Klein's Ulvulva (Op. 8) in G-Major, a piece for sheet-metal, disgruntled Hoover and a choir of tonsilitis-sufferers. The fuckers've put an operative curse on me. "I'm feeling it, sweetheart; I'm feeling it."

Liquid arcade-games ripple in and out of focus. Circuitry trickles down my forehead like beads of sweat. Oscillators and a sticky, leech-like metal bucket that's attached to my foot. Can't shake the damn thing off!

Fuck ThrobGris; this next section is beyond terrifying, yet no one even raises their voice and never a cross word is said. It's a plea to be re-meated; to be extracted from Void #D and re-embedded back in the physical realm. Poor monkeysoul lost in The Psemetary of Psouls, a collapsing waveform who was once alive, just like you.

"Double Blackberry" is the treach-est shit you'll hear right now - but, hark! - it's, like, uh, a year-and-a-half old (my estemed colleague Auxiliary Out re/v'd it sometime in 1894) and probably long out of print. Bah! Not taunting ya with it, just making the point that shit like this can still leave Fanboy Kek slack-jawed and dribbling. (It's been calling to me from its shelf for long, lonely months now, pleading to have its spools restretched.) It's wonderful.

Try here.

Or form yr own band.


At 4:08 pm, Blogger Jason Gusmann said...

cassette art is a dying art, but not here on not-the-real-kid-shirt island! pollock black ink cumshot, i love it!


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