wReck thiS meSS ~ Radio Patapoe 88.3
Amsterdam ~ Ethno-Illogical Psycho-Radiographies
05.09.11 // 16.45-18.30
The Normal Heart > Heart Sounds [Leo Pharmamceuticals]
Interventricular Septal Defect > Heart Sounds [Leo Pharmamceuticals]
Khalija Part V + intro & Dub Revolt > Khalija
Evil Dub > Trentemoller vs ClickVision
Klik > Ashfelt [Fat Space Acid / Iris Light]
+ Daddy exc. > Sylvia Plath [Totally Corrupt / Dial-a-Poet]
New Ground + Tibet Protesters vs NYC cops > Andy Stott + Street Doc
Vacuum > Mohlao
+ ShitPissFuck > John Giorno [Totally Corrupt / Dial-a-Poem]
Basstone > Zenzile
DubRevolt > Bart & LS Perry
Better Not Try > Puppet Despire
The Enclosure > Power Steppers [Bass Re Enforcement / Universal Egg]
Execution > Andy Stott
New Dawn Minimal Dub > Beat Pharmacy
Killa > Cee Mix [Home Is Where The Bass Is / Incoming]
Flowerhead > Datacid [Flowerhead / Asphodel]
+ When Did I Stop Wanting To Be President > William Burroughs [Totally Corrupt / Dial-a-Poem]
Simmer Down > Beto Narme
Loom > Isolex
Kick The Peace! > Agoria
Strange Cargo > Mark Stewart [Edit / Crippled Dick Hot Wax]
Fat Space Acid > Ashfelt [Fat Space Acid / Iris Light]
Dubism Cop Violence > Upwellings + Kriminaldefense.com
End of Marvelous Night Outro pal* > B/art & MC Pal
compiled: Laurent Diouf, liner notes: bart plantenga
“A broad drape of sound that seems to hypertrophy
the slowness of the tempo into an almost immobile song.”
• Philipe Carles
“varieties of sounds and silences, terrifying, mysterious, whirling
… must somehow be felt in the pulse, ebb, and flow of the music …”
• Hildegaard von Bingen
I saw Dub Syndicate in NY. The speakers emitted deep, swelling subterranean tremors — dilated, diffuse, insistent like a heavy train rumbling through a dense fog, into the cauldron of the solar plexus until finally — vertigo, awe, breathlessness — somewhere between hangover and rite of passage; my partner was mugged by the music; it pressed consciousness from her body. There she lay, puddle of pretty unconsciousness at my feet. Further into the evening, mate in full upright revival, a young man dancing, suddenly withered and collapsed and then a taffy-legged woman wilted away, eyes lost in her forehead.
Dub causes wax to dislodge from the innermost portions of our tympanic nerves — fomenting disorientation, derationalized music, blurring — sound begins residing both forward and back, as well as inside one’s head (head as drum) where sound can wreak its havoc, invoke boundlessness, alter relationships to body, environment, desire, and linear time. Woofers begin to fibrilate, shred like paper flowers, let go of all moorings and we realize speakers (like our minds’ ears) were not designed to accommodate such sonic tremors.
Audio shaman “Scratch” Perry believes dub is meant to “cause a confusion.” He has scratched psychotomimetic loops and kinks, atmospheres, mad laughter, gunshots, religious invocation into dub for 30 years to create eerie multi-tentacled ghostly insinuations.
The subworld is the aural nether where these sounds grumble along below sea level, snugly hugging the contours of territory with great spectral and counterfrictional lassitude, beyond “economies of desire,” below fetishized thresholds of pain, near the edge of all audibility. Where its signature sound (pungent alloy of ephemeral noise, TV ghosts, found sound, archival musics, distended metarhythms, nomadic radio frequencies, hidden currents, mind-altering echo, natural ambience, auto-piloted composition, psychodynamic mood enhancement, and disembodied voices), rumbles along at the somnabulatory frequency of 30 hertz. Like a dense and spacious iceberg, scraping across a parking lot, immersive dub produces large vibrations in objects.
This vast substratum’s denizens, remain behind their turntables, in the dark; lit only by constellations of L.E.D. pinpoints strung across mixing boards. Here they evade the prefabricated pitfalls of fame, the knick of the knack of product endorsement, the standard “fandemonious” infantilization of stars, the vectors of conventional power, prefering to subsume ego in meaningful patterns found in noise.
Mark Stewart and the Maffia’s post-situationist deconstructions, feedback, cut-up polemical wall of throbbing noise is the essence of anxiety-as-terror on a discotheque floor. “As The Veneer Of Democracy Begins To Fade”—the world upside down 15 years years ahead of its time never sounded better. The history of Wreck This Mess begins here.