This tape is called: I don’t exist therefore I can do whatever I want. It is a split between the aforementioned artists. To purchase: Centers of Disease Control 2319 W. 19th Street, Chicago, IL
Early on it became nearly impossible for me to listen to this album without nursing one of the most hallucinatory narratives I’ve ever nursed while listening. You cannot suppress the theater of this shit and there is no medium more appropriate than a tape to convey the drama of the two act form:
The first (act) is a kind of folktale. There is a pugilist fighting an A.I., (the A.I. existing both as concept and upset tortoise.) Occasionally the village chimes in and they have offerings of landmines and defibrillators. The tortoise gives a speech, and while it is difficult to make out what he’s saying, the didactic nature of the breathing is compelling. It gets bad after this. This lingering fear that it’s all a sick, fucked up advertisement. The whole shebang.
BANG.
BANG.
The pugilist steps away and all goes silent. He removes his head. There is more than we realize in distance. (At this point I thought I was overhearing not the tape but a radio playing because people are painting a house nearby, but this was not the case. At all. And so where. the. fuck is that. voice. coming. from.)
The second act is: it turns out the pugilist is a woman. She starts to sing. There’s an orchestra. So we’re meta now because we’re in a theater in a theater that only exists as a function of associating the underlying desire to relate to other human beings and it’s only a tape after all. There’s a series of libations poured for the headless pugilist who is neither dead nor headless as he/she sings the truth of experiential living and poetic exposure. We are alone with this singer now. A feat accomplished not by a strategical librettist but by ancient, ancient Gods. Everyone is mesmerized. There is a cabaret in one corner. A tribal culling in another. A scene out of Christiane F. in another. Zombie Amanda Palmer in another. A casino in another. And finally Manchester, England. There are obviously too many corners. The doors have turned into corners. “How does she do it?” The eternal question that should be shot in the Pineal Gland.
thesupercoda 