Stylus Magazine

Mixed debris wasteland of chunk and aural cunnilingus—the live is always erotic even when it's a robot, as Steven Shaviro will tell you when discussing Chris Cunningham's Björkbots. And here we have a handbook for virtual sex: [1] immersion into warmth of clickscape , (slip into something sonically suiting) , [2] flitting noise-bands thinslip into headphonic ear , (temptation thrusting) , [3] jazz-below-the-belt and kind on the neuripples , (heavy processor petting). But then it's all confusion and the abstract jumble of bleeps, videogame scores, tumbling numbers burn together in a multiple mindmeld of heavy listening—brainwaves reconfigured with sudden virus! Upsetter camera-view! Hold on, overtop & striving an eerie trumpet of slinky criminality and it all FLIPS TO LSD: fractal-colourvision (and now the TV_band_60's_cover makes sense), hold on Ringo, it's time to implode Grandma's cheeks with the bubblebath...

[heavy absence roots-down the end to that missing side of the four-fold: the gods, ye gods, we need a J-Pop Tim Leary!]

Inside the extra-long and heavy jewel case it reads: STRUCTURES WITH MONOCHROMES ON REPORTS OF THE GOLDEN NUMBER 1,618033989. People tell us that this is "a standard proportion for width in relation to height." And Herotodus tells us that this is the ratio of the pyramids. The Golden Number is found in all the best Churches and so forth and Le Corbusier rounded it off to make doorways. Some people attribute to it something like the mystery of pi and occult numerology. (Yes, there's a secret track).

...after the trip bubbles psychedelic blitches, crackling jazzer returns to sing what Miles Davis woulda' if he was alive and able. It's a slow make-out jam: Jelinek on the wires, sexing circuitry; Computer Soup dishing out bowls of late-night lounge blizzard in Japan, all live, all live—I mean they jammed kid, computers and instruments, bits for bytes, mellow jam on the Jelaptop Japtop—it's an aural feast, layer and layer of intricate micro-detail (but watch out the audience, stripping and slipping coding cult members have orgied in perverse manga-fashion).

Yep, it's a good drag, out here on the fringe in this Kurosawa hallucination: highrise city of hentai, Berlin deep-dusk and Jelinek's alter-ego Farben: no beats here, just post-apocalyptic jazz, lapjazz from the robot jet-set, struck by nefarious rainbow prisms of splashed LED light(n)ing. (And always just one sharp strike to the heart with that thin sword of click and its cut).

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