“The great yolk, the sun.”
– Marcel Broodthaers
Face-to-face with the decks, but in the quagmires, in the enjambments, in the weeds. Undisturbed by speech and getting back into the unceasing bass iterations, as when suddenly the entire fractal telekinesis of the DJ set clicks, and an avalanche of feet start dancing in the smog. Two bars faster, halfway there, BPM skyrocketing to Pluto, as Zeno’s ghost cries hysterically while DJ NJ Drone curves the arc of attentional energy of his set toward a heap of transitory memories, his mindset intact on the phrasal propulsions of his imaginary surfaces and on his sportsmanlike playbook of ideas in things — yes, no ideas but in things.
Funny. William Carlos Williams, the poet who positioned his work along that theory, was from New Jersey.
The contagious proximity, the bombast boundlessness, almost airlessly, that’s aglow on Syn Stair. A legit alien in a legit reality of a reality. Yep. A looping that is a returning that is sonic propagation; recursiveness in the form of stealing the enemy’s mask and donning it for the entire night.
Of what, in another life, of untenable gestures, of what might be thought, of hypno and florid synths prowling the flatlands in the latest Air Jordans, in place of the face one might expect, with the reckless crud of Jersey club whizzing back, not to haunt, but to reembody its own historicity. That’s what’s happening in these 25 minutes of Syn Stair: a glimpse of how sound subtracts, makes edges, makes bread, makes a spillway, makes mud spew, shreds ghosts, or causes quicksand. Followed by the smack of skeletal impact on concrete overflow.
Syn Stair, on the brink of an abyss. A cube, a space, a cube in a space, a blue cube, a rotating blue cube in a 3D vacuum, in an uncommon realm, uttered on the corners, with the dregs of an ebb sucked through the verbal-sand. Fluted, flickering, fallow, hyper: a pressurized harmony of surging breakbeats zooming through the mutant amoeba goo. In its elastic abstractions, its abstract collisions, its colliding swerves, and its swerving molecules, the whole thing manages to detoxify the club, elastically. It purifies the inner and outer, micro and macro, verbal and non-verbal, and extends what that word “club” or that word “DJ” means. It’s, for real, the beginning of something, a foggy glimpse into an underground, with a thing-in-itself eeriness that’s got me locked in, clubbed up.
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