Elusive Rust DJ Shag Coffin

An irresponsible uncorking of corrosive entertainment vessels.

Skittering low fidelity voices emanate from a moribund television tube, looped until completely pulverized and laid bare before us as a funky dissonant rhythm gallops along like a backfiring noxious jalopy … engine oil drips from a plinky piano roll, grinding about like a primitive torture device and setting off a skronky mechanical rock and roll chain reaction … an excessively siblant percussion ensemble resonates into a burning friction, melting metal and rubber into an odd souvenir … this is all counterbalanced by an increasingly dense digital processing of vaguely natural sounds … voices of possessed children and layered strings usher in a theatrical turn, and with it, a synthesized hunched-over bubble dance … determined fingers tickle the dirty keys of an ungrounded cheap organ amidst the loud reverberating snap of poorly tensilized tape … electronic pulses punctuate the bass rumble, percolating into a peaceful oblivion … this strangely sudden austerity is broken up with screechy bowed instruments, caveman drumming and amplifier feedback … a puttering groove putters itself out, exposing patchy vines of amplified marimba keys … our souls in tension amidst the woody ambiance of shifting habitats.

The plot sickens.

As the switch is pulled the speakers hum ... randomized, precisely timed pieces of noise and music blast from cheap, tiny devices ... an electronic ritual confuses barriers of sea and sky ... the surf carries our hollow bones to a decaying march with the utterances of children and thunder ... a neoclassical industrial dirge ... more confused voices layered and echoed over an incessant pulse and the clicking and buzzing of tones on warbly magnetic tape ... sunshine peeks out of the clouds but the static remains ... we welcome the clacking of organic but mechanical sounds and windup lullabies, saturated jazz and fuzzy guitars ... a short-lived respite from the undertow of the polluted ocean ... familiar dark chords and drowsy voices pull us further under ... buzzing motors drone away amidst skittering unnatural rhythms ... the primary point of contention remains vaguely but not definitively terrestrial.

Appearance of secondary secretions.

A disgusting form of karaoke performance, gutteral and jerky … Loops and rhythms chopped up and mocked cynically ... Bass pulses and synthesized twittering machines dart under us ... We’re told over and over not to rock the boat but its already capsized ... A haunting electronic melody cranks out from a dying transistor radio on a garishly colored beach blanket ... Old batteries ooze acid into the sand emitting an endless, gritty, metallic drone ... Delayed feedback, plunky reverb and hiss seep in … A whispering voice focuses our attention and abruptly evaporates as a medieval space rhythm blasts from thin air … Sheets of cold metal fold and rattle, tinny frequencies and droplets drizzle … Deconstructed voices saturate our stereo sonic field, and as sticky bubbles propel us upward the voices fade … Crushing through another sheet of metal, structured blips and square waves create another movement impulse … Continuing looping metallic sounds and crushed voices create a claustrophobic aura until we find ourselves again outdoors amidst autonomous shifting objects and distant birds … A long walk eventually leads us out of isolation into a tunnel with a malfunctioning chorus of broken Victrolas in complete darkness … When sunlight emerges its directed upon a lone narcotized organist playing to a film projected in reverse upon a moss-covered wall in Piccadilly Gardens.

The inaugural discharge.

Processed percussion streams into sputtering homemade synths and tense dronescapes ... Birdcalls and reptilian tail splashes are echoed by ping pong analog electronics ... The swamp atmosphere oozes into the nightclub, where artificial fog hovers over adventurous breaks and samples ... Slowly a pulse wiggles around the static and lingers before dissolving into nocturnal space ambient ... We are awakened with feedback and scattered thoughts on jail, bowel movements, and the social contract, then soothed by a twangy lullaby piped in from the past ... Skeletal electronic rhythms and repetitive voices entrance, further vocal deconstructions scatter into musique concrète and fade ... Sounds of the material world finally reground us ... humming engines and squealing rubber, a resonant percussion punctuated by silence and whispers ...