If that was aesthetics, this is where it recoils. Turning twice over, 720 degrees, to come back. Dwell on the nervous tension of holding on. Aren’t we all self-obsessed.
Accelerate.
Smell the peeling rubber.
Gridlock. Amnesia Scanner carry a freight of skepticism apropos all common sense, their own included, full of unvarnished truths, philosophies of art and beauty, moral codes, anything sacred whatsoever. Indeed, AS offers a pass to new forays into more and more defenseless rationale. Pulling in all directions, until it buckles under the strain. Hereafter, we might emerge. But in the time-stretched thick of their shriveling transformations, bending anatomy, falling angels blazing hotter than lifeblood, the seduction is irresistible. Until the the burden of atheism fractures, Amnesia Scanner keep tightening their grip.
And we readily submit ourselves to this alien atmosphere.
What odorous waste is emitted through AS’s sweaty glands, as sparks of sound and silence is endorsed, welcomed as the general condition of existence. In the twilight, it ripens.
The spectacle is everything.
AS. A Sanctum of traditions built on crude rudimentary impressions and unconscious thirst, where organic sensation glues to the milieu of orienting signals. Detached from reality and deserted from companions, we reel to illusion in the empty space, a gulf state, an oculus rift.
It’s true, on the one hand, nothing about Amnesia Scanner seems weird anymore. The tools are the same: still the granular dissection of dancehall a capellas — “AS Chingy” reaps Mavado’s “At The Top [It’s Just Us]” just as Angels Rig Hook took apart I-Octane; still the mechanical textures, the battery of pounding bass and piercing synths, the gyral high frequencies.
Yet these glittering representations affecting in engines of the unreal are just as susceptible to constraints, their hypnotics capable of shepherding herds. In other words: “AS Gardens Need Walls.” So, as conservative warehouses haul information and then close their doors, Amnesia Scanner grind, beautifying misrepresentation and pitting to trends. Probing all matter once prohibited, they drive toward that breaking point between wake and sleep, where the logic of day-to-day is cut loose, but you’re not entirely dead to the world; that which dawns in darkening halls and dusks in the eerie air of closing raves, glaring in the becoming light, a crystal cesspool of strewn remains. It’s all clear. Unhook the blind autogenetic.
After all, the virtue of these representations, the horrific attraction of this pure lexicon, is no more artificial than it is absolute.
#3000fps
#960000Hz
#WorldOfDesign
#Rudeoxil
#720°
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#5ever
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