The cassette is sentient, and the magnetic tape unspools and performs its nefarious deeds, like loop itself around my neck several dozen times to keep me from writing about it, from getting the word out to the masses that we have to stop it at all costs. Lucky for me (and you, in the end), I’m in arm’s reach of a scissors, and we all know that magnetic tape is no match for scissors. That’s why we play rock/magnetic tape/scissors at my house — scissors cuts magnetic tape! I’m uniquely qualified, therefore, to combat the great WUMISI on terms other than its own.
It’s not like WUMISI doesn’t try though — it’s all battle cry essentially, as it cycles at top speed, spilling the sonic blood of its contents in an effort of psychological domination, its manipulated magnetic tape as much intestine as tentacle. It’s like WUMISI gutted the music section of a library, incorporated it within itself, and continued to grow its consciousness into a Tetsuo-like mass of seething destruction. Every utterance is spliced chaos, and before you’re able to pinpoint an anchor within the madness, something to keep you grounded as WUMISI swirls around you, WUMISI floors it to the next thing, and even the “next thing” may just be the action of flooring it after a while. Is that a jazz performance? A pop song? Some French ditty? It’s all mulch in the end to WUMISI, who is clearly enraged that I’ve managed to escape its grasp, its spool holes glowing red like eyes, like hellish portals to the center of its reactive consciousness. And it won’t stop until shreds me like paper in a paper shredder. I’m the last thing standing between you and WUMISI. Don’t worry, everybody, you’re in good hands.
Join the adventure over at OJC Recordings, home of all the best hellspawn masquerading as media.
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