An airplane takes off, sampled/resampled each time his closet door opens. Tiny pins, millions of them, vibrating in an eternal flush of wing, acoustic repetition electric sensation, the catharsis of take-off rendered, packaged only in the sense that the scraped bare antelope in you ricochets with a scraped thump off walls, rather than plummeting into a velvet long(est) vacuum. The skin of our sound is peeled in melancholy layers, raw panic contained within melancholy the way our sampled flight is contained within these four walls.
We begin to gain control, learn sustainment within panicked containment, sustenance within sound skin scraped bare. We learn to deliver our pain, moderate our thirst, filter our panic through electric hair-raised spoonfuls of human meat, of dulled-grief repeat collision, of melancholy series of deflected trajectory.
Dave Smolen (electronics), The Rotunda, Philadelphia, 5/14/08
Stuttered series of stabbed entries, or at least violent indentations-- digital blood vessels broken in big dots on taut, skin-like, tent-like surfaces, surfaces dipped and pulled like Lyotard's extended human expanse, draped over violent rhythm. So many points of contact/entry that the surface gets refreshes, re-constituted in ripples of violence as wave texture. Entry that is sometimes just a stab, sometimes a movement that opens out, sustains, layering patches of different levels, forming provisional new surfaces. New levels extend simultaneously above and below our point of multiplication, sound extension as a perpetuating, self-making prosthesis series.
Lionshead (Julius Masri (drums), Ben Remsen (guitar)), The Rotunda, Philadelphia, 5/14/08
Drums like thunder in timed waves that crest backwards. Guitar like snails and crickets in long uneven grass, montaged in matching crests. Backwards filmic in the south of France. Thunder following the direction of little girls skipping through the grass, but thick due to the wind changing direction and contradicting itself.
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