“Soon we all slept except the helmsman, who kept the ship in the mid-stream of Yann.” - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #182


Or:- “Is it solipsistic in here, or is it just me?”

The future is here. Salute the new world order. Heavy music is so far beyond Sabbath that their ages-old paradigm for religious rock and roll ceases to have any relevance in a world spiralling out of control. Their wide-ranging bomber-command music has been condensed into a microchip and burned with as much data as possible. The humungous crumbling statues of Buddha and Christ have no meaning and our own gods, built from wires and machinery by other machines increasingly resemble the Monolith. The stars are lining up. Technology is your god. The soundtrack is by Bong.
 

Gnodlike majesty - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #181

So what exactly is music? This extremely rare music I froth about most weeks that is probably heard by a handful of people. Does it change the world? Is that what I’m doing here? We live in hope. You know what it is, the only thing it is, the only thing that counts? It’s fucking cool. Spiritual carbs, jolly woo-woo wah-wah for the anima; a synthesis of the self, by someone else. A lens through which we briefly glimpse our own being indescribably. It’s also fucking cool. You know what’s cool this week? Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs (that’d be seven ‘Pigs’ kiddies. Bands, what can I say?). Pigs7 are dropping a split with blog faves the Kosmiche Tot, I haven’t been able to hear the full thing yet but Pigs7' part is pretty sweet.


Smiley Virus - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #180


The fight is over, you can give up now. We lost. Chauvinism, anti-feminism, the androcracy, all that won. Some time ago. When women started unironically pole dancing for exercise. But quite a few nails are being hammered into female empowerment’s coffin by child star turned rolling-news burnout Miley Cyrus. Daughter of contemptible Billy Ray Cyrus and star of Hannah Montana. Miley, like Britney, like every single child pop star before her all the way back to Elvis is in the midst of a choreographed and planned ‘shock’ phase, which involves a couple of public blowouts, a ‘shocking’ video, nude magazine shoots. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a stint in police custody and some drug possession to come. All planned and pre-approved, natch. The reason I’ve been driven to write about this is the endless discussion this has caused, and I’m here to say. Do not give in. Every time you click on a Miley Cyrus story, every time you watch a video, you’re telling that website and all others that Miley Cyrus content gets hits. You’re further cementing in the minds of those who run major news websites that this shit works, and that real news, that Syria story you spent half the time on, that doesn’t work anymore. You want Miley Cyrus news, give your clicks to a celebrity website, they at least are set up for this. Don’t go to Huffington Post, don’t go to Guardian, or Telegraph, or anywhere else because you are genuinely contributing to the smothering of online journalism in its crib.

(With the exception of this post, because you might have given me a click, one of the five I will receive today, but I also declare a blackout on Miley Cyrus, I will never in these pages again write about that presexual fuckdoll or her inbred family or her butt fucking fans again.)

Spring Breakers

Seems I’m doing a lot of writing about films. Don’t worry, this isn’t something I’ve done because I’ve conceived a spite against the subscribers; musically this year is lying with broken legs at the back of the pack waiting for some supersonic under-and-over head surgery to take away the pain so I’ve been indulging other mediums. The world of video games occasionally coughs out a marvel but for the most part is as puerile and adolescent as society expects it to be so I’ve been watching a lot of movies and telly (box sets, none of that commercially interrupted bullshit) so I pen the occasional article, can you dig?

"You can see winter from here, but the days are still bright" - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #179


Or: Psychedelia is dead, long live psychedelia.

“You can go to Jupiter, you can go to Mars, you can go right to hell in all your fancy cars”.

Batton down the hatches, buy bigger locks for bigger doors and bigger guns to shoot through them. Shop-window-dummy whores clog the airwaves and corporate goon malaise has spread from the adverts to the deejays. Bloodthirsty gangs of yuppies in pastel shirts with foaming mouths roam the streets looking for people to preach to and Priuses to agree about. Chelsea Manning goes away for longer than murderers and Rumsfeld, Cheney, Bush and Blair get to wring their hands of their crimes, if not all the blood that’s on them. Dare I say, we’re all in a pretty dark place. What we need is a new revolution. The whole world is in a desperate situation. And last week’s Pussy Riot repeat revolution didn’t help as much as we thought here in the bunker. We’re going with a slightly different tone this week. Totally in fact, re-cross the iron curtain to Echo Park Los Angeles and meet 5-Track. We like to say we cover new-ish music, and the word ‘ish’ is doing even more work than usual today. His greatest work, Backatcha Pod People is looking kinda old now, but it’s still damn good so you ought to go out and say ‘gimme! gimme! gimme!’. It was only fairly recently in a particularly tough bout of existential angst that I realised what a Neil Young distortion piece it was on top of the psychoDylan overtones. So while you contemplate the personal existential horror of your own bleak existence, and these modern times of universal crisis, it seems appropriate to take a break and contemplate 5-Track’s nouveau psyche.
 

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