1995 - TECHNO: Psycho-Social Tumult (Remix) - TechNet

Texto

nobody

knows where you’re at...

We could begin anywhere. A history of

techno would be too obvious and would

imply that the creative phase was over. Any at-

tempts at a genealogy, a hierarchical archeology,

or a precise pinpointing of musicians prohibit an un-

derstanding of the simultaneity of multiple codes, the

overlappings between styles and forms. Techno cannot

be allotted a place as either pop or an avant-garde

music - on the whole it doesn’t take refuge in art and

slips away from categorisation as the net of naming is

unfurled. It avoids the discipline of nostalgia which

keeps people in the thrall of the past, unable to even

think of the future but always referring back. Nos-

talgia is a language of lack, a language that fills

people with longings for a past that never

happened, a present that never comes,

for the gift that never arrives.

it is difficult for words to

say that which is their purpose

to deny...

Who knows what happens when we hear

the sounds? Thoughts can race without being

apprehended as thoughts and it is an indication of

the tyranny of words that experience must pass

through language to make it ‘real’. As we listen in the

network of composition there is a challenge to invent

new vocabularies to communicate what it is that occurs,

to express explorations and to rewrite the multiple per-

sonalities of the music. As a challenge to language

that is imbued with hierarchisations, techno conducts

the fleeting awareness that, just as what is possi-

ble is limited by pre-conceptions, listening de-

mands more ignorance than knowledge. For

then we are mobile... stammer bass kick

unfurling in blue analogue...

tabula rasa.

techknowledge...

The music studio is re-defining

the human as a continuously mutat-

ing collage of old and new technologies,

as adaptions designed through play and ex-

perimentation. In this model, samplers are the

hyper-concentrated representation of the subjec-

tive experience of time, with possibilities for time

travel through stretching, combining, looping, com-

pressing and reversing sounds. Sequencers form new

desires for composing, connected to the breaking up of

an individual into a collection of experiments. Drum ma-

chines and synths are tools for the survival against

mediocre audio programming and the restrictions of

commerciality, fashion, competition and self-promo-

tion. Routes constructed between music studios and

dance floors circulate into resistance against unac-

ceptable states of mind.

Only with machines can we recognise that

most information is data trash. Only with

machines can repetitious sound

blocks crash to create unex-

pected forms.

feeling

like another self...

As distance dissolves into space and

space dissolves into the haze of continual

abeyance, the new celebrants loose track of

time. The dance becomes a beyond unmarked

by archaic calligraphy of computer text, irreducible

to mystic yearnings but all the same a kind of blank. A

nothing. A nothing so far imagined. A nothing that gives

the lie to the word-net we throw over it. Body move-

ments in strobe/smoke. We are here suspended in a

slow motion that lets sparks fly as it visually contradicts

the call to speed-emotion of the music. This is our sover-

eign moment, spreading a virus of pleasure and awak-

ening. The moment when future and past no longer

meet in consciousness, where the music reverses

the effect of gravity. Lost hours. Lost days. Inter-

twined in ever escalating cycles of repetition

whose pulsations present unimaginable

sounds almost heard in the sudden

space surrounding acres

of bass drum.

AnarchOz

sensorimotors...

The listener as the operator.

These sounds are eminently

favourable to the birth and contagion of an

intense excitement with its inferred incitement

given propulsion by a rolling flanged bassline that

chases melodies away with accentuated off-beat

boosted cymbal rushes that touch internal organs by

impatient percussive patterns that encourage waste

pure and simple. Dislocated dance. Social magic. We

stumble across limits to conceptualising. Close your

eyes and listen to blurred vision. Eyes cease to order

things. Your senses overflow into one another,

emerging as a senseless confusion of taste smell

and memory. The very air is tormented into an

audio gel. Body music surrounds the listener

who thinks as a pack intuitively knowing

how to go all out... The secret is to

hear what you never

heard before.

Enlaces

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