META-NOMAD

Review: CLWNWRLD PRESENTS: THE RINGLEADER’S SYMPHONY

You’re sat in this cafe, this cafe. The windows, the large, bowing panes of glass feel as if they’re vibrating, reflecting and strumming against bulb lines. Maleficent trembles as your entire glaze’s over, eyes over chips and under-others into a chem-soup. Into the muzak-home of a banal existence, falling backwards into plastic and mundanity as one does during a slow mourning; the daily march overstrung by a realist chorus of chiming techscape. [_Jester’s Bliss_] is our trance-trajectory into meditative k-scapes.

[_Train of Freaks_] is where the literal nature of the album awakens. The paranoia and intrusion of boxcart trivilations suffocates you, unable to focus on nothing or something, a constant to-and-fro of anxiety-sweats, too much coffee creates a beat-pandemic of repetition. Gaping caustic reverb mutating into authorative cluster-headaches. Don’t bother. [_Eyes in the Shadows_] does it too. We have two for the price of one on paranoid underground haste, flicking into ‘worst’-mode, coat-grip away from those. A spiralling tunnel-drone into your back as you refuse to turn. Haunted subways united the fears of the strange and mundane.

There’s calm in light, but only if one has just been removed from the dark, the reality is, the horror never leaves and a reminder of its existence only exacerbates your quivers. And your heart does this…thing, an expansion of the blood, cells collapse outward, muscle-pain, lung-stretch. Each deep breath acts as an aching reminder of life within the smog-pen. you, you… [_Drunkard_]. [_Leaf Lady’s Song_] tin steps past an arcade, a young lad without limbs drums on an arcade machine, rolling his head on the buttons in hope of hitting the big time. A Lynchian “Watch that man! Watch that man! Watch that man!” or “Hey! Hey! Hey…Sally!” with verbal elongation and smokers husk wouldn’t go a miss here; backstreets, fuck you, smoke behind the eyes.

[_Liz’s House of Color_] damn this thing kicked in.”Hey shut the fuck up im listening.” “Hasn’t that guy drunk 8lbs of coffee today.” the street flicks into anxious-time, a ripple effect under your feet and unto the morning into an eye-roll begotten. Teen tam tom and the trance rolls into a chased temporal agency, you want a headcave, watch this. Arcade boy has grow a huge leg and is stomping onto you, the subway train has stopped just out of sight and you just know the driver is reversing in hopes of finding you. Where’d you leave your bag? It had your Grandma’s polyfiller in it, she uses it to glue her teeth in. You wonder why the beat works for a second, just before it crashes. You’re finally home, resting your hand on your head, brain matter clicking into channel Z, LCD flickers in and out, tech-shutters and shadows of a neon sun fall upon your lids. Your sofa fucking hates your plump arse.

Sometimes my face shifts between 2 to 3 planes, flesh on flesh.

Laughter…from the rafters. Those little fuckin’ Deet Deets at it again. Beep boop. It will not stop. “Hey ma.” “Yes.” “?” “It’s been going on for days love, just ignore it.” [_A Midnight Conversation_] has begun. Over and over, then, then, the phone rings, a long jaunty ring, puts me in a fun panic. We call it happy sweat, the perspiration becomes faster, and faster, I spew sweat like jets from the innards of my elbows. I gotta sit down. I can’t, I’m still on the fucking train. Clowntime is in. Loud, open mouths produce rotund boops. They arch forward and back, faster each time, throwing their heads back and forth, smiles getting wider, and not a hair on their clown heads moving. Static comedic pulsating on a train. A pivoting immovable nightmare, I try to move, they all scream. Clowntrain baby! They march. The nightmare you have to sit through, acknowledging the pain one is about to suffer prior to suffering, this is hell. yet, sometimes, the pain doesn’t come, and one is left into a clicking-coma of worry.

Off you fucking get. The train doors were made of bio-waste. They sludge in and you step off. The ride keeps going. Out into [_Hollow City_] you know you’ve left this time, there’s no light. Just heavy beams of dark glow. You just want to walk. [_New Life_] plays like a pleasent Nintendo game, a farming sim. A warm summer where you kissed a girl once fades into memory, skyscrapers dissolve into the background for a momentary glimpse of contentment [_Perching Square_] Look at this fucking idiot. indeed. it’s clownworld, screech time clicks into gear, mechanistic screams for dumb human dreams. Try move, bitch. No movement, only submission to any clown who wonders by, an old animation where the lines are schizophrenic. Resist. The end here is sincerely morbid, a melancholic death involving tech, I can’t explain this; there’s acceptance here, a deep acceptance…of the future, and all that it will bring, it is he who walks knowingly into an electro-static death space.

[_NUTMEG SESH_] OH ma BOY. You were prepared for the future you thought, you didn’t think it would be so malicious, and downright mean. watch it, watch it all. Every vice of the past flicked into overgear and assembled on a hedonistic plane of sadomasochism. Industrial sex-drive mashed into a flesh blend. [_Manifesto_] the utilization of the previous tracks work as a means to contextualize the death of coherence into a chasmic meltdown of sonics. [_Take a Hint Royal Jester_] but that’s the problem isn’t it, the future doesn’t take hints, the temporal jester throwing  himself into chaotic schizo-tonic, why don’t you take a hint, yeah…

 

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Review: subboreal – childhood’s end

Quaint electronic ticks and early morning coffees arise from a forgotten train journey, nothing more, nothing less. Trees pass and pylons tower overhead. Path, a path of electric and static through romantic shadows. Sonder & sadness both sewn into this metallic tapestry. A mind races, unable to enter fully into that they wish to, a book unread, a text not sent, as time passes without event to fill it.

Euthanasiaa stark title, pushing off with heart monitor remembrance, a pulse runs directly into a paranoid-loss. Overclocking your emotions into a palpitation ever-present, bulging and pulsing into veins flowing. The skyline has changed, your memories fading into an abysmal grey sludge, another beverage, another piece of the past disintegrates into wishes. There’s a lust for warmth here, a need, a want, for warmth and for a care that cannot be found amongst forgotten chips darting vertically from a washed-out landscape.

You can’t ignore the future, you can only inject nostalgia into your circuits as more and more fear washes over you. Journey, it’s ever present and the dreams a fleeting glimpse, the only hope for what it was you had: the screens, ticks, beeps and slides all melt forwards into ruining your vision, inescapable temporality has entered the memory of your earliest birthday parties, cutting the cake instead of your parents, bundles of wires where friends used to be, a static hum is sung amongst the revelry.

Mind entering a panic drive. Attempts to enter somewhere forbidden, not stopped, only warned against. You may enter here, but be warned, you’ll leave a different entity. Worship cyber and bring forth the cold of metal. Bags getting heavy and the sting of your ill red skin worsens. Harmonic aluminium hell. Screech melodics enter into the mundanity, you can’t sleep for fear of waking into more electrical-detriment. Each sombre-tone erased, ever so slowly. Each placid inch of help and love grows downward, rotting as it falls. It’s over. But it still has to continue.

As the sterilization comes, you’re already anaesthetised by the suffocation and fall, quietly into a bed made of humming. Bone splinters and spinal plunge, take the hand of steel, let go of flesh, of life, of sense. Come forth into repetition pure. We can give you your memories back for a second or two, it wont help, but the illusion of help might be nice, amongst your trees of youth, horizons lost to polite play, everything you had, had, had.

Short, but then childhood is.


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Review: Nishiki Prestige – XOXO

The factory of LOVECRYPT came to me via the incessant malaise of ‘Weird Twitter™”. A basic-bitch search for fresh music isn’t going coax it into appearance. It disturbed my interests due to its extrovert leanings on the esoteric, political & philosophical. – “Who taught you how to write about music?”

No one. But I jus’ listened to that there XOXO by Nishiki Prestige, and I sure as h-hell wanna dish my digits into the keyboard, see what falls out, you know?”

“nO one will hire you.”

“HELLO! And welcome to the album review for Nishiki Prestige’s XOXO, an album put out by LOVECRYPT FREQUENCIES. And boy oh boy oh boy, we have one hell of an album for you. Help help.”

To digest the few remaining ashes of music journalism, tasty little titbits of shit. The problem here being that the factory-esque vision of marching k-ants divulged by XOXO’s first track 10 Years has seduced me into a rotten disorientation. Thrown into an insta-nostalgia for a future within its own creation; I’m witnessing a labour-march, an assembly line.

 

And When Grew Up Way Too Fast climbs down, the disorientation diversifies into chasmic slows and rises; the birth of constant beginnings, every halt ‘n jerk is a possibility for another circuit and direction, towards another musical commodity. And this creative spasmodic zombie rides high into Haunted Stars hounding with it large areas of tonality and pressure, both of which are teased continuously; a melodic form of stress. The first of many tracks in which the past is captured and held in the background, seeping through when the pipe occasionally bursts: retro-static bulges and nostalgic urges of known music appear.

Let me tell you this boys ‘n girls. The whole damn thing is like Burrough’s dirty K-offspring. A big ol’ fancy pants article, that could well be non-linear. Deleuze would say oh boy maybe they just well damn get it.”

The fragmentary consumer aspect of Apply to Broke Skin shifts inwards. Commodified medical plasters for the album itself, cornerstones of thought – Zizek on ACC – key themselves in. But not before we’re told to Celebrate good times, Celebrate Accelerate good times. The mandatory cause for Acc-celebration is the Acceleration itself. All is immanent.

The night-circuit science fictions surrounding Zuckerberg come to life in a hyper-circus named Zuck Theme, where the fun is but a simulation – we’re all on this programmed holiday. The relaxation accelerates. A harder relaxation for a premium member! The fun gets better! Just prior to the k-collapse as the test ends. Holiday-terminated.

The mellow tick-work of human flesh, its evaporation. Its comfort.

The slow embrace of a singular heroic hum. Melting into acidic launchpad.

 

“I like fast music.”

Julie, would you agree that one could say…if they so wished, that the grandiose themes utilized in this sporadic album would seem arrogant when used elsewhere, but here, amongst the disjointed quasi-hedonism of acceleration, they become gentle reminders of history eating itself?”

Oh Jonathan, I would agree, but I hate your filthy gut smell.”

 

Downtime was never invented as we hurl another into the grind. K-Goth. Those textural relics once seeping through are subsumed into consumerist submission just as quickly as they’re re-written, re-packaged and sold. Cybermemory is failing. Amongst Lifetime of Grey Skies one believes, that maybe, oh just maybe, there was someone onboard who could impersonate a pilot, because this sure is a friendly minute or so. But that lack returns – in Baby, If You Come that need for something revelling in its cyber-vitality, that acidic pinch of the fresh-take ad infinitum.

 

And the guidebook says: N O S T A L G I A FOR TOMORROW: no hope for today.

 

An attempt, I think dear audience, at articulation of the fact that acceleration is not synonymous with speed, and holds its real purpose and eventual terminal-degree in reformulation.”

 

Imagine a piece of data facing its eventual death, breathing its last. – I’ll Be There For You.

 

Future is a Machine would work well as a traditional end, but there’s no end to acceleration!”

 

* applause *

AND OH christ. It’s all capital R real and the rag ended cyber-guts trail off into this ephemeral, anti-tranquil hellscape. And as we sit arm in arm, hand in hand, bearing witness to the consumer horizon overtaking humanity, an aural assemblage of all that was provides the soundtrack to our demise.


 

A link/player to Nishiki’s album can be found below, along with various other relevant links:

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