Hodge & Peder – ‘All My Love’

You ever felt you’ve run so fast that you lost control? Cycled precariously, and so your core swayed like a small boat on a big wave? Dropped a knife and jumped for the stars?

One day, did you realise how immense nature spread out beneath your feet? Witness something you made grow independently? Emptied by the disinterested eyes of an animal?

Both of these instances are out of our domain, they are reflexes, instinct, an entwined, single product of two hundred thousand years of hunting and breeding. I wish our ancestors could say ‘your welcome’ because I’d love to talk to them. The struggle is so hard against them now.

Lonesome thrill-seekers enter arenas of adrenaline and dopamine, the fuels of fear, hysteria, and ecstasy. Entropy manifest in human form. Random, energy burning with a finality postponed by fleeting escape. They who are lost to the winds fly for as long as the winds blow.

Grounded types embark onto groupthink stations, acting as one and becoming each other in the shape of acceptance. Acceptance of an indeterminate rebellion against our own personal demons. Exhilarating in its own way. We’ll watch the sun set together.

The rejection of our primordial selves resonates through the ages. How ‘civilisation’ has inflicted terminal inner worlds upon us has wrought obvious devastation, resulting in inevitable suicide.


Surrender to your instincts and lose your body to the natural rhythm of the language you speak. Dance to your mother’s walking rhythm as she carried you in her womb. Step in time to your ancestor’s heartbeat.


I’ve been listening to techno for a nearly a year now; its drive, resonance, pace, flight has been engrossing and a sheer pleasure to explore. There’s little unanimity within myself as to what track I should have placed in accompany with a bleak post as this. No irony is lost on me as I post Hodge & Peder‘s 2017 track ‘All My Love’. Enjoy.


The Field – From Here We Go Sublime

The Slang of Teenage Years

I admire the imagination of each successive teen generation. As the ages swoop linearly, teens are great recyclers of vocabulary. On mass appropriation brings about creative, and surprising new definitions, that reflects the zeitgeist psyche once again. What’s more, new lexis appears like a production line. Each generation has their own slang, their own in-speak. You adults wouldn’t understand our code. It’s banking outside, Miss, that is not a ting. It’s impressive witnessing the harmonising of individuals, as social groups form their own vocabulary. Considerable universe building at work. Making sense of it all. All through fashionable words that the young surf like the current wave, that insult older generations and their precious language. I recognise jealousy when I see it. There’s a prescient consumer culture fear of becoming uncool, a side effect of wrinkles. The undercurrent, the gradual carrying out to sea, is that people realise they’ve been dulled by the world. Creativity gets washed ashore while we paddle hard at work, at reality. The Teen’s flagrant ingenuity  rocks the oldster who’s craving new ideas of new escapes, new universes. Though they’re turbulent years, I think teenagers really do have something to be admired.

A little about the music. Above is The Field’s 2007 debut From Here We Go Sublime, a solid checkpoint for anyone interested in techno and trance. It’s kept me up for a good few nights I can tell you. This record, the best in The Field’s discography at divulging this kind of sensation, is like watching a complex water fountain dance before you. Leaping loops journey up the tiers, while columns sink and intertwine. There are effervescent lasers cloaking the sheets of water that tumble down in continuous splashes, dissipating on impact of the greenly hue of the lowest, rippling base. It projects a climbing in the midst of falling feeling akin to diving in to a pool: heart and stomach soar as the body clinches with gravity’s fall.

The Egyptian Lover – One Track Mind

We need to update our take on death, it’s been informed by Christian morals for far too long, and in hand with social media where we feel obligated to comment on a famous human’s passing as willfully as we would post a picture of last night’s dinner it’s becoming romanticised and habitualised.

Death is not sad, and we are selfish to think it so. We are sad for ourselves because we are left behind lamenting with eachother that we haven’t made that leap.

Of course, Williams chose suicide. Seemingly unnatural to some. It fights millions of years of evolutionary struggling and fighting for survival. Compare attempted suicide numbers to actual suicide stats. It’s fucking hard to kill oneself, to the point that it’s seen as a plea for help.

But when the world is as inhospitable and noisy as it is, who’s surprised? People kill themselves all the time. They bear pressures. They have overwhelming responsibilities. People want their lives to be easy. Rule number one for the masses. Crutches fall over eventually.

In the East their valuations of death is at odds to the Christian West. We see it as the end. They promote its naturalness. Without death there can be no life.

Buddhists believe in impermanence. The lives we live in this universe we can detect with our sensory organs is in perpetual changing state and nothing is the same. In death things calm, they become like it is before the time we were in the womb. Who can say that that time was worse?

I can’t wait to die, because then I know I’ve lived. Some say it’s selfish to commit suicide, but we also say we only live one life and we should live how we want to, but there’s no right should, there’s only what we will ourselves to do.

Schopenhauer said he remained alive pounding the English countryside for the rest of days because he was the one who had to say that we should all kill ourselves because life is vain. It’s full of boredom as our evolution has driven us to unsustainability of the planet we are killing, and our purpose is nonexistant other than to carry on. We do one thing, and then do another, inbetween we’re bored. We may gain wealth, we may gain friends, we may gain happiness, but in the end we die alone and enter the black as equal as everyone else.

Human progress is a lie as we can never change our nature to fight and deceive. We can only feed the conveniance culture and make things easier for ourselves. Until robots come along and wipe us all out in favour of protecting the planet because for all they know we are the only planet that is inhabited by life in this universe and they need to make sure it’s safe due to its unique status. There are loads of us yet they will recognise diversity of species is more important.

The accompanying music couldn’t really be more inappropriate for the subject matter but up top is the stellar 80s electronic rap of The Egyptian Lover and his 1986 release One Track Mind, his only chart hitting record, it’s a beauty. Listen to those effects midway with the fader and echoes, ha! Quality.

Fat Freddy’s Drop – Based on a True Story

‘One of the ways we create safety: The more we have in common, the less alone we are.’ – (Mike Powell, 2013 here.)

‘To say a record came out in 1968 is a matter of historical fact, but the reality is that records come out whenever people hear them first. Having been born in 1982, the year 1968 is an abstraction to me. At best, I can read a book about it, or talk about it with my parents. But in the context of my own experience, Astral Weeks was released around 1998.’ – ibid.

It’s the first quote I’m most interested in, but I want to consider the second first as it too has delectable sentiments with which I agree. I’m going to lift an idea from E.M. Forster’s book Aspects of a Novel for exhibition. What Forster proposes when a reader is considering a novel, which I am now extending to when a listener considers a record too, is that they should not consider what came before or what came after, as one is inclined to do. Its context in history muddies perception. What they should imagine is each artist, each maker in the same room simultaneously creating at the same time. The writers scribbling away in unison, Woolf, Dostoevsky, Homer, Voltaire, all there… The musician’s strumming, humming, clapping along; Jimmy Page, John Cage, Shostakovich, Son House… each tortured, each inspired all creating as if in stream of conscious their the final draft, the polished recording arising from their fingers. It does not matter when each individual piece was created, it’s what was created that’s important. Upon discovery that’s when you’ve turned your head to that corner of the room. They’re already there, quietly doing what they’ve always been doing.

A favourite Woody Allen quote which I’m going to paraphrase is ‘There are two sorts of lives; one is horrible, and the other is miserable. Horrible is being born with a deformity, born blind & deaf, crippled, genetic defects. So you better be thankful you’re miserable.’ Or something along those lines.

Now to return to the first quote, a phrase that struck me into observation. We strive for commonality to prove to ourselves we are not abject abnormal anomalies. The more in common we have the more we can share experiences, more of our lives feel justified if there are others who are in agreement of a time well spent. It aids our identities as we are social creatures and require affirmation from somewhere, particularly coming from colleagues. We have but one life, its conception is held together by those around you. Orphans tend to live pretty fast.

With all that said, the advent of the internet over the last ten years has created a Tower of Babel society, we all speak different languages. What interests me, and the society I belong to, is of no importance to you, in fact it doesn’t even exist to you. We are in micro-audience mode and it’s only the pre-millenials who are amassing together under festival tents and we’re only going to get smaller us micros.

Talk of technological ecosystems is interesting, Google synthesises one’s entire internet experience: search, social media, blogging, email, shopping, so many ways of sharing and yet none of us do! The crap we do in our lives gets dumped on Facebook, what about what we’re thinking on ideas and subjects? If you’re doing that on Facebook stop boring everyone! People don’t give a damn what you and your buddies have  to say on something infinitesmal to them.

There, they want stories to replace the soapbox on TV because that’s failed to hold their attention. Takes too long. Where are my .Gifs and instant gratification? That’s what unites people nowadays, look at the shares, that’s what online advertising is latching onto now, why, because it works! We’re the generation of 3 second videos and 141 characters. Marshall McLuhan said ‘the medium is the message’, and oh boy what a message…

More to come on this I think. For now this is Fat Freddy’s Drop 2005 debut, music honed on tour and recorded so exquisitely and compiled into what is called Based on a True Story this is polished dub, think Thievery Corporation but with bigger swells, better songs, an attitude that can only be found in the Kiwis. A big seller downunder, and cruelly overlooked up here. Quality.

Todd Terje – It’s Album Time!

Contemplation is nirvana, but no one has the attention span to sit still and attain it. Not everyone is after eternal bliss.

The internet has evaporated the quiet moments to ourselves where we think over what we’ve just said; where we think about what’s happening at the time; where we think about the other person what they may want. Where we think what’s important to me right now. It’s in these brief moments between different actions, tending to habits, traveling, it’s in these moments eureka occurs. We can gain insight by ourselves.

As the universe crashes in on itself, as all these different seemingly random acts collide into eachother and life just happens as we all determine,  in our environment built, education crafted, and parented reinforced, life, ideology, motivation, we do what we do because we want to do it, right?

And we can use those tools the universe has gifted upon us generously, for we who can read this have won the birth lottery. We are rich. Because of our ancestors success in achieving human progress, our lands being resource rich and profitable, we have the world in our favour simply by being where we are. It’s a birth lottery. What stopped your consciousness from manifesting itself inside a baby born in an Angolan desert?

The lives we lead are purely chance, right down to our consciousness. How do we know we could not manifest as a cabbage in a field? Or as a tree in the forest? These are living consciousnesses too. In this way I look at the animals we slaughter for our food. The way we breed them, genetically play with their DNA, eat them, tame them and keep them as pets.

These were once wild creatures we have enslaved to our hands. They are now dependent on us as a species, for our own benefit. Which makes them disposible too. Of course.

Can you see your eyes in your pet dogs? Aren’t pets meant to look like their owners?

Do you think cows look sad when they’re queuing up to be slaughtered? Hearing the other cows scream as they wait. Terrified. Then pushing the button and standing back. Oh yes, the smell too. Oh the smell would be horrific, wouldn’t it?

We need these brief moments to give us time to expand on what we critically think about. It is when the mind is at it’s most malleable. You’re fast and loose. In transition where anything goes, because you’re not thinking about anything! So it’s all alright. I don’t need so much stuff. You should be thinking!

It’s not natural for us to consume our mind with so much weight-baring information. So much visual. We are going to be a blind species in the future. Big business has exploited our habit forming tendencies. We don’t need to break the old ones, just form new ones. The positive will engulf the negative rather than fight it off. There is no peace to be found in war.

To be healthy you don’t need a trendy diet. You eat everything you need not everything you want. Easy. Small moments of contemplation can benefit everyone. It helps us reevaluate our lives. How is it going. What am I doing. What’s important to me. Who’s important to me. Where are we going. What should I do to improve the things and those around me. Should I care.

The above tune from Todd Terje’s first record It’s Album time! is just a slice of this exotic pie. Lots of funk, swing, feels light, airy, it’s destined to revitalise the groans of the current flatulent scene.

In my mind, this is the record deadmau5 wishes he made, and will sit dwelling inside his stuffy giant mau5head sweating in his panic of irrelevance as he gazes at his aimless latest which does not take a While (92347<934729) as we have to drool through its 2 hour waste.

Hey DEAD! Who cares about legacy when the future is now?? Write another hit! Or admit you can’t.

Tim Hecker – Ravedeath, 1972

The thought of it is more pleasurable than the real thing itself: We do things that generate memories, and keep telling ourselves our favourites enshrining them in our identity; the things that happen to us become a part of us. Why we do things is to generate good things to think about; while negating the ones that are bad. Reminecsing, rumination, is arguably the most consuming and satisfying act we humans do. It’s the most talked about thing at least: what’s happened to us. From banal to the best we talk, and forever talked about every aspect of our own lives we’ve been conscious of. Really, we do pleasurable things so we can think about them – as we are apes, we then have to chat shit about them.

We anticipate beforehand; what it might be like, how we’ll go about it, what could happen, our and other people’s reactions, secretly how can we benefit? And afterwards, we reminecse; playing over what happened, what other people saw, how we held ourselves, ruing missed opportunities, savouring those tiny gains. We do this with all memories, near and distant, savouring in some way each one, while our future is what we live for. Just one more memory… it’s a hard habit to break…

We live double lives: the one in our minds, and that person who appears on video camera. Many would deny legitimacy of a  transcript of their lives. That’s not me, that’s not really how I am? Did I say that? Charles Dickens captured this perfectly in A Christmas Carol, that’s why it’s been so enduring, everyone knows what it’s like to not recognise themselves! But we’re preoccupied with not thinking about anything, when we speak we summon this voice and it says words for us, you say this and your blithely unaware your humuncleous, that internal monologue, is meant to be used for thinking before speaking too not just reminecsing…

Our actions attempt to satiate our thirst to convert memories into good ones because there are many aspects of society that manufacture the bad. Tolerating our own reflection is strenuous enough. We are always building towards something in our minds because it enacts progress as we can’t bear the idea of inevitable change, so it has to be change for the better. For this we deploy our memories as experience, facilitating the refinement of our pleasurale actions which in turn develop our day-to-day habits making it all bearable.

The best drugs are pleasure and desire as they create thought that dissipates the negative.

The above LP is by Tim Hecker, titled Ravedeath, 1972, quite surprised how listenable it is after that first track. Be intrepid and step into this murky ambient pool.

Yosi Horikawa – Vapor

Editor’s Note: This video is taken from The Boiler Room channel.

So I watched the critically acclaimed silent film The Artist on Sunday, it’s noteworthy because of its release date: 2011. People went nuts over this film as if it opened their eyes to new ways of filmmaking with a patented groundbreaking back to the futureness. Really though, the movement of antiquated 3D making a comeback in 2008 was too delicious, in hand with the internet’s ability for resuscitating old visual entertainments abused extensively in fashion… retro-style anyone? It’s shabby chic, yeah?.. The Weinstein brothers easily came to the conclusion: ‘what other dead mediums can we revive for our hungry little necrophiliacs?’.

The story goes a famous silent actor is enjoying his ascent to stardom and accidentally triggers an aspiring young actress’ rise to fame. They’re enticed on a shoot, seemingly never forgetting those moments, haunting the elder actor as the actress lands bigger roles in the inaugral Talkies, a trend he never takes seriously, demonstrated as he bankrolls a self-produced silent film that simply delivers him into obscurity. The audiences wanted to feel like they were in the room; to ingratiate themselves in melifluous fields of sonics… what was golden was over. From there it all spirals from thereon in as you can imagine with celebrity melodramatics.

I see its intended irony as a Lanterne Rouge.  It behaves like a celebration of silent film while conveying its obsolescence. How droll for the masses, but it’s just as embarrassing as Pharrel’s hat. Nice try. We love bringing old forgotten things out from the cupboard to laugh at how we used to survive. But it trivialises it, misses the point. Fashion changes the message into a disposable one. Where archived silent film was authentic as filmmaking craft that defined an age, here in The Artist it’s surfed a wave of peripheral consciousness and splayed its private parts for a cheap look.

The above live set has no relation to my ranting. Vapor, Yosi’s 2013 debut outing,  showcases an extensive array of immersive, interesting samples. Deeply hypnotic, perfect for summertimes on the beach. Recommended for headphone use, oh yes.