March 10, 2014
A delicate aura surrounds. It is as if to put into words would shatter the fragile spell and a bleak nihilistic super-reality would once again overwhelm. Noise pervasive, sardonic Scandinavian enraged individual conveys the post-scarcity angst of his achieved-humanity entourage. When perfect contentment is the default, the woes of an inarticulate generation may be communicated by an unwitting vessel. The noise is loud enough, the beats are enough to make me sway but in Satan's name I will not dance.
What has happened among my brothers? Some tragedy of which I was mercifully left uninformed, or a celebration of elusive purpose. Private ticket moneys paid to a private person, an unadvertised attic show at an unlabelled venue. Those within likewise unlabelled. I feel underdressed. Oranssi for my funeral and Eye Of Solitude for my wedding. With x-ray glasses I see the future tragedy contained in the bliss of our joyful celebration, with an analysts fingers i pierce the concealing meta-layers of emotional security. An opaque dirge where only demonic DJ twins go without collars. The most free willingly enslaved themselves to a nonsentient commanding timekeeper, they have reduced themselves to function as the conduits for the indiscriminate wrath of a disquiet machine. No groove, again you may sway but you cannot dance.
A wedding, a reception and a funeral, viewed through glass and interaction strictly forbidden. Such a posh venue for such bleak realizations. Normally the noise must at least momentarily diminish for the facade the event manager constructs with legions of unseen, unwitting collaborators to become visible. Here in the Black Heart of Camden you are thrown into the conflict where the vibrations can only enhance. This is a medium long since come full circle where the destruction of the sacred is itself a pervasive trope to be forgotten in the search for untapped expressions of aural ecstasy.
No encore. In London the paying fan who wants more goes unsatisfied in favour of the paying fan who wants to get out before the tube stops running. Always a tourist. Hard to operate otherwise in these conditions. Punk about the plebs for the posh. Avant-garde for the elite of the fringe. Folk songs of the downtrodden for those with their open mouths gasping for air just above. The aftermath of working class cullings who can't envision the revolution but know what it sounds like.
The size of a sizable sound diminished by the confines of the performance platform. The curtains build an illusion of infinite space that cannot be maintained against a gyrating drummer's flailing groove. A Lynchian theatre spectacle spliced with subsurface flashes of the true malfeasance of humanity's day to day operations. The DJs do not distract, they captivate. A reflective, introspective performance where the songs are about nothing and the songs are about you. Dancing still not permitted. In this heat and these confines it is probably impossible. The black heart pumps liquid hell. To be affluent enough to maintain a presence here if only for fleeting moments.
