Stylus Magazine

notes failing cohesiveness, or the year in review

[1] 12 drunk men approach you... they say: tell me the best things in music The apostles or the horsemen? One or the other, it amounts to the same.

[2] ...musik has become so objected, and pulsed – all on CD now, no vinyl in my mailbox, no gleeming blackness that spins against the red light 1200s, only discs, cds. They gather in little piles ... a few become coffee discs for my mugs of caffeine crack .. these ones I do not review . Their sounds are a lost cause and now only subjectum to the bean. Long live blackcrack.

[3] & long live the live jam. That last night at Mutek 2002, when the curtains were drawn on the high ceilings of the bank vault, when Ricardo Villalobos and Dandy Jack let the dark moment irrupt into the blackened and shrivelled heart of the scenester

[4] when Joshua Kit Clayton and Sue Costabile drew silence and shock through ironic personals in their polaris eyes . whither it be going? @ the 2002 New Forms Festival

[5] Félix Guattari in 1985 was enthused by the microrevolutionary possibilities of the rising acid house warehouse scene. It's gone now, isn't it and here we are left with Hedwig's version of electroclash. Revolution or convoluted ego masturbation?

[6] ware.house – ever realise that the musik is in the structure? Get the hell out of the clubs, slash those smiling trance producer posters, destroy those DJ Kicks compilations, lounge this or that, those high-flyin' promotional buziness lineups and all-attitude bullshit...yes I am saying that now is the time for punk electronnik ... Atari Teenage Riot was too early. The enemy was not the rave scene but all those who followed with the sonic gangrape, the corporate crusties and rockstars lookin' for new ego-loot. I call the Seven Storms in destruction ... destroy the programmers ... bring on the revolt ... and this means that yes even Mille Plateaux is up for a pisstake

[7] ...imagine a northern tundra stretching to horizons... blue black sky above into twilight clouds of grey... on edges of the periphery across distances, mountains ... in the plain no roads nothing just the horned speaker stack rising forty feet. Speakers in all directions, gesturing in question to the mounting charge. Raising the call. Sound peels across dirt-encrusted streams to the rising land. Echoes traverse foreign chambers, drawing rooms of darkness brought alight through the wind, sound travels in air. Tones, frequencies, fantastic stretched sine waves of resonance, encountering objects to aural fluidity. Blood from the earth. Gravity is levitated and strewn with a force. The wind rises as sound from the stack at the distant horizon as. This is a sonography and here I listened.

[8] & to the reviewers who think their critical words mean anything at all—to judge sound ... place it at the guillotine: if that were your head?

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