= Heidi Diehl
n G. Lucas "Non-Horse" Crane
("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.
Or form yr own band.