March 6th, 2004
107853752825769560
Combatance, tacit, soldier theory
I’m currently listening to M.I.K.E. Asta Armada Night, a set that went on just one week ago today (courtesy of 160kbs Holland-based ets-global). I also caught the Appleseed trailer thanks to the daily /. Now I have thirty minutes or so of a set quite similar in some ways to Oakenfold@Space, but leaning a little more to the psytrance side. The Appleseed trailer loops in the background, and though it possesses an excellent score of Paul and Basement Jaxx, it does well with M.I.K.E.’s symphony.
This is my life, or at least what I hope it to be: cyberpunk anime, winamp visualisations and trance streams. Surrounded by dark technology in a dark room, my mind dreams up a thousand and one olive metal fantasies in a shining world light years beyond the camp science fiction of my father’s youth. Maybe that’s what’s different about today’s fantasy and that of fifty years ago: the elements placed in the stories are so much closer to reality, so much more possible. I don’t know if that means it’s less imaginative, or simply that the state of science these days has lifted us so much closer to the plane of natural mastery (or destruction).
Why do I feel so safe in electronic music? Is it because the mainstream doesn’t understand, but a thin group do? Is it a refuge from my self-manifested pressures in society? Or is it something more pure, and just the right time and pocket of history for me to thrive in? If it is a dish, agar, I want it to grow with me, or always extend beyond my farthest gazes, past the heat-blurred line on the horizon where I squint and almost see the end of the world.
It is a dark plateau under an eclipsed sun. At one point you’re alone, on a cracked clay wasteland, but the air is still, like the inside of a basement closet, and you can choose whether or not hear your heartbeat. Then if you choose, you’re on the way to a towering neon monolith, a honeycomb of blue plasma-infused creatures, dancing and rolling through a crowd that sustains and shares in nectar condensing in your throat.
A generation of lovers live in cities; children with the adornments of a culture. Wax through their hair, glitter on their cheeks, and stars in their eyes: down a mossy spiraled path nylon tendrils loop and curl. Silicon outlines form on car windows, and faces emerge with panoptic grins. The energy flows of its own will, snaking through vines like a scream, dissipating into tissue cells and ending like mist. Trends of today become memories of tomorrow, and every soul absorbs a chain of affectations to further bend and shape the heart.
