rejoice! this is a celebration: of the obsolete. of the broken. of detritus. of things discarded. but found and rehomed and nurtured back to life. of junk remade, recontextualised, reformed. an electric parade of that which was dead brought back to life. s’fucking zombie tech spewing out machine noise and west country creole. not so much ttx trance and reawakening as a lurid green injection of herbert west’s re-animator juice.
listened to poundland for a whole morning before realising it hadn’t burned properly from the cd. some of which i’m tempted to post. harsh stuttering glitch. android funk. like when you stick on a label-less 7” and you don’t know what speed the fucking thing plays but goddammit it don’t matter coz whichever way you look or listen it still sounds like sound. and hell it’s recognisable as something. hear what you want.
political in it’s own wyrd way. punk like, y’know, crass ain’t. no sloganeering. no 4/4 harrumphing. do it yrself taken to it’s logical conclusion. it’s not even a matter of picking up an instrument and just playing. hell no it’s building your own bloody instruments. it’s not found sounds but finding your own bloody sounds. there’s a difference. that sense of reclamation of what others have casually tossed away and making it something. lo-tech insurrection indeed. this is the real real austerity measures. broken music for a broken britain. tongue ensconced in cheek i’m sure. but not far from the truth. hacker farm, the junkshop choir they’ve built, are wired slightly wrong and oh so fucking right.
so, explained somewhat, defined part ways, in the negative, defined by what it’s not, then what is it? according to lastfm i am listening to german funk band the poets of rhythm, who released albums in the guise of various artist compilations when, in fact, all tracks were by the poets of rhythm using aliases. which is just about as peculiarly fitting a mistake as you can get. what is it? well there’s a lineage, yeah? schaeffer to throbbing gristle to zoviet france. via duchamp and lacan and ballard. through john carpenter soundtracks and man or astro-man? sci-fi-isms with the drums and geetars hacked out. or at least this wordspews invented one. isn’t that the point? isn’t it?
it’s the wicker man score made by robots. a nexus of henry williamson and tetsuo the iron man. john wyndham’s metal corpse rotting in limestone. it’s cairns built from duff old transistor radios, standing stones of ancient speaker stacks, fossilised wires snaking through grass and muck and sedimentary rock. and we’re all amateur archaeologists and ham geologists, rural fluxters, betamax magicians and short wave radio goons. following mystic texts and ley lines, digging through the personal mandalas and yeovilian signs and sigils (brantano’s just a shoe shop right…). explorers. discoverers.
sorry lost my bearings for a minute there… wandering… just that psychogeographic drift: poundsbury, hardington marsh, goars knap, babylon hill. places that might as well be creations, lalalands for anyone not in the know. holy places and fantasy worlds for outsiders. debord’s dérive scored reductionally with assembled noises. ambient like street voices and colloquial chatter. ambient like machine hum and klank. the sounds of what makes this, making this.
shit’s listenable too, if you listen. walking that difficult tightrope twixt the avant and savant, between noise and melody, between the forthright and the abstract. harmony, rhythm, metre, all scratching through with bloodied fingernails.
like old johnny rotten almost howled, i wanna destroy… then rebuild. like lacan nearly mumbled, the less you understand, the better you listen… and the more you should learn. riffing on semi-futurisms and man rayish musical collage. making something from nothing. tradition, aesthetics, meh. it’s a fuck you to consumerist culture. a reiteration of post-industrial whatever. learn. make. reclaim. live. yeah that pisser’s art said duchamp, cocking a snook. yeah well this bucket’s music. how’d you like them apples? scrumpy-d probably…