Recondite takes simple concepts and energizes, sharpens, solemnifies, mystifies and lights them up.
Deep in the heart of the ancient woods, two slimy hermaphrodites were sharing a slimy embrace, suspended high in the air above a carpet of woodland leaves and mulch. Fuelled with strange invertebrate desire, they hung from a string of mucus like an umbilical cord and spiralled and pirouetted and danced through the night. For hours on end they hugged and kissed and smooched and cried together. They lost themselves in each other’s slippery skins and tasted each other’s slime until one final burst of enthusiasm that marked the conclusion of their meeting. The atmosphere pervaded with awkwardness all of a sudden. Immediately the two slugs were incapable of eye contact. It was now time to go separate ways. With their teeth like clandestine guillotines they severed the cord and dropped to the ground and slid away in opposite directions like they had never known each other. No goodbyes were uttered. They plunged into the darkness, never to meet again.
Hoot-hooooot. Yellow eyes glowing in the distance, between the leaves without blinking. Fast-forward to the night of our protagonist’s birth. The momentous night. A litter of slime in the dark. Hoot-hooooot. Yellow eyes glowing in the distance. A pale and translucent thing at first; the colour a gentle light blue, nestled into the rotten undergrowth, among others, all feeble little sacks- some without motion. Hoot-hoots in the distance. Yellow eyes glowing between the leaves. Two slugs remained, one sizeable and full of life. The other a runt, pathetic, soon to expire. His mother stared only at one, who she has named Zengin. Hoot-hooooot. She rejected the other slug, and gave all her attention to its superior. Yellow eyes.
“The owl is coming!” uttered the maternal slug, covering her favourite son with a leaf as she saw the flapping of wings through the needled branches of the pine. The young slug was devoured in one peck. Zengin watched from a gap under the leaf as the owl finished chewing, and then slowly rotated his head as he locked on its prime target, who on this occasion had not the haste to escape. Zengin’s mother’s shouted to her son one last time “be proud, Zengin. You are the greatest!”. The owl then scooped her up with his claws and cackled to himself as he dived into the air.
“Bless my feathers! I do love the fat ones. This’ll feed the kids for a whole week. Hoot hoot!”
From this point onwards, Zengin was left on his own to confront the world, however barbarous. All that he had to take with him were those precious words uttered by his mother. Being too young to understand the concept of hyperbole, he regarded them as infallible, as literal truth. Be proud at all costs. You are the greatest. As soon as Zengin could develop thoughts, they were exclusively self. Or I. Or me.
The young mollusc soon left the leaf under which he had viewed the slaughter of his mother, and got on with his life. He feasted on all of the rotten treasures of the woodland until he increased in size and strength, and his muscles began to show. God I’m handsome, he thought to himself. The mollusc purchased designer clothes from brands such as Ralph Lauren and Paul Smith God I’ve got style, the mollusc thought. The mollusc soon met other slugs of a similar age and established a clique full of admirers God I’m popular, the slug thought. The mollusc began to have dalliances with other youthful and exuberant slugs God I’m a stud. He watched his children grow up God my children are better than everyone else’s. The mollusc began to read the poetry of Percy Bysshe Shelley, John Keats, William Wordsworth, William Blake and George Gordon Byron. God I understand poetry, he thought. It was only a matter of time before the keen mollusc took up a pen himself. The mollusc composed an epic poem of twenty eight thousand lines titled The Eternal Quest of Zengin the Perfect Slug. God my verses are delicately cadenced, I’ve outdone Dante! were his thoughts on this occasion. Nobody read them of course; It’s just a shame nobody is intellectual enough to appreciate this emphatic work. The hubris was frightful and burned bright like phosphorus, and was equally corrosive, as we will soon learn.
The slug began to develop an insatiable sense of anger at the world, the world which he deemed to be insignificant for a slug of his intellectual capacity. But most of all he felt that his excellence was constantly unrecognised. In his bohemian slug circles he began to vocalise his thoughts about the pretentiousness and lack of ability that surrounded him. He ended up telling a slug with a liking of impressionism to “fuck himself” for refusing to make him the subject of all of his paintings. “Impressionism is shit anyway. An impressionist picture of a family of slugs eating a dock leaf is just a regular picture of a family of slugs eating a dock leaf, only slightly more blurry. Paint me, and you must not ever blur what is immaculate as it is.” The disgruntled impressionist slug left the society and was never seen again.
Soon the community began to realise that this Zengin slug was a most arrogant creature, whose thoughts were always completely concerned with himself. Thoughts that were descending into chaos! Why won’t they provide my food for me and attend me at all times? Soon became Why won’t they make me their Monarch? Soon became Why won’t they worship me like a deity? He was insufferable. They soon banished him from their circles.
Inflamed with rage and disappointment, Zengin decided to take a stand, and make his voice heard. Crowds of slugs were congregating to discuss routine political matters, and Zengin the slug, wearing a T-shirt with a pseudo-iconic picture of his own face on the front, climbed onto the top of the tallest dock leaf and commanded the attention of the populace, rudely interrupting a discussion regarding tax credits.
“Zengin stands before you. Worship me you pathetic slugs. I am the best. You are all worthless molluscs spawned from your mothers purely for the purposes of following my designs,” there was an intrusive silence. “I am the righteous dictator”. Each sentence took what felt like a life time.
“I am the greatest.”
The crowd had already grown tired of his grandiosity, “Are you not also a mollusc?” a little leopard coated slug dared interrupt from the back of the crowd. Slugs speak every bit as slow as they move.
“No. I am no mollusc,” if not slower.
“What are you then?” another slug, flummoxed by Zengin’s words gave in reply.
“I am a celestial deity in the form of a slug,” some slugs laughed in response, others were growing irritable and murmured to themselves their discontent and embarrassment.
“PROVE IT!!!” they all roared.
“Does not my mastery of oratory demonstrate this clearly enough to your impoverished brains?”
A long pause, “no.”
“Well what must I do?”
A fat slug with short stubby antennae addressed the proud orator.
“You say you are celestial and a deity and not a slug like the rest of us. Surely you must therefore be immortal?”
“Yes, immortal. I am yes.”
“Then we shall pour salt upon your flesh, and watch you return unscathed. Then we shall worship you unconditionally, for as long as our miserable lives may transpire.”
“How insolent of you to even require proof. Do you not know it in your souls when you gaze into my eyes, my eyes heroic like lion’s eyes on stalks?”
“Not really,” the fat mollusc replied with ambivalence.
“Oh as you please. Bring me the salt. You will see. Oh you will see that I am invincible.”
The slugs congregated and after eleven long hours of acquiring salt granules and carefully placing them on a dock leaf, which they carried to the spot where Zengin remained standing, facing the slug crowd in what he believed to be an imperious stance. The slugs violently beat their drums and violently waved their torches in the air. They drank beer and ate popcorn (sweet flavour)
The fat slug with the stubby antennae saw this as an opportunity to make money so took it upon himself to open a betting shop, and take bets on the outcome. Most backed death. The queue stretched further than the eye could see. It is rumoured that even a number of snails came to view the spectacle. And the other slugs were too captivated too notice. They were consumed and in a frenzy.
Zengin was not intimidated by the mob, and stood strong, laughing at the gormlessness of the crowd. The crowd were divided in their chants, some roared for Zengin’s divine rulership, others for his demise. Some wanted divine revelation, others simply the gore of death. The dock leaf full of salts –carried on the shoulders of eight labouring slugs– was moving ever closer to the mollusc orator by the hour. Zengin was not phased and stood magnanimously on the his rock. He imagined that this image of him would remain the most prevalent and revered image for the future of not only slugs, but all molluscs alike. The gastropods, the chitons, the bivalves, the cephalopods- they would all remember the image of Zengin on the rock. Some slugs took it upon themselves to video the event on their camera phones, others drew portraits. Some merely watched intently, waiting.
“Salt!”, “SALT!!!” they screamed.
“You shall see. You shall see pathetic ones. You shall see,” Zengin responded.
The slugs who were administering the salt couldn’t help but portray their enthusiasm. It was not often they had the opportunity to potentially destroy a fellow slug for sport. Zengin lay next to the leaf, unwavering and motionless. With smiles on their faces, the slugs began to tilt the leaf while the crowd was catapulted into ecstasy.
The first granule fell onto Zengin’s back. The second. The third. Then the rest. The eight began their journey to the other side of the leaf to witness the results. The crowd fell silent as the granules began to slide down the dock leaf towards Zengin’s back.
Yellow. Then came the swoop and in a matter of seconds the young slug was in the talons of the same owl. As they flew off into the trees, Zengin shouted to the crowd at the top of his lungs.
“Zengin is the greatest, and will be resurrected!”
“Shut up little slime! Hoot hooooot!” replied the owl as he carried off his dinner.
We are the most intellectual species the planet has ever been home to, and it’s about time we started acting like it.
We’ve all been to stomp nights, where the music sounds like gravel. It goes like this…
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp, STOMP
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp, STOMP
or perhaps the very similar but ever so slightly different…
STOMP, Stomp, Stomp, Stomp
STOMP, Stomp, Stomp, Stomp
then maybe the chorus comes in and another emphasised STOMP takes you all by surprise…
STOMP, stomp, STOMP, Stomp…
‘Woahh, isn’t this guy clever.’
‘Yes, he is, yes.’
So again, it’s the same track, but slightly different. And when you get that something slightly different your response is to be relieved, or even, in extreme cases, become so deluded as to think that what you’re listening to is progressive. ‘See what that guy did there’. Listen to me now children, it’s not progressive. It’s not even techno. It’s just banging. Literal banging.
The fact is, it just isn’t intelligent enough is it? To make a combination of stomps and put them in a slightly different order then repeat them over and over again, and then for the next song, to slightly alter the stomp sequence, and then continue this for the rest of the set. Oh Christ. I went to see Sidney Charles, Sante, and Syrossian 32B at Rainbow and heard the most cacophonous, rugged, most unintelligent, banging ever to be produced by the speakers of Man. And regarding the people who were stood about- Oh colossal hordes of the vilest simpletons! I bet they couldn’t even point to the UK on a map, let alone the Ukraine! The crowd they were attracting were shouting things like ‘oi, oi, oi!’ and playing with an inflatable hammer. We are the most intellectual species the planet has ever been home to, and it’s about time we started acting like it.
So thank God for Artists like Tale Of Us, Mind Against, Recondite, Fur Coat, Scuba, Locked Groove, Solomun, SevenDoors, Stephan Bodzin, Adana Twins, Clarian, Eagles and Butterflies, DJ Tennis (and many more) for coming up with a new genre altogether, known colloquially as ‘intellechno’, a kind of techno designed for the most intellectual of techno fans, like me, my friend from uni, Ben (Fryll) and Shen.
So last Saturday night I grabbed my encyclopedia and my scientific calculator and went to see Tale Of Us at the Black Box, and have never been quite so intellectually stimulated as I was by the quality of that techno, the variety of sounds, the minimalism, the spaced out synths, it’s no wonder that so many fans and producers of this new sub-zero cool techno eventually end up turning into professors at Ivy League institutions. The music takes you on a journey, abandoning the childish constrictions of the ‘funky’. I’m telling you now, fuck disco. The world ain’t a happy place most of the time, and life is inherently sad, which is why in order to consolidate for this, we need an injection of a few sad particles, like a vaccine. We come to terms with the melancholy, and thus, we are uplifted. This is our way of becoming immune to sadness. Music has tremendous healing capabilities, it’s cathartic, like Greek tragedy. Just ask Aristotle, he loves melodic tech.
So yeah, fuck disco. Life for me isn’t disco with its smothering sense of ‘joy’, it’s slowness and its ‘musical instruments’.
Nor is life hip hop, I can’t relate to your disgusting anti-shakespearean use of language, your gang-based lies, your bragging about your car, or your trainers. Yes I can imagine Brooklyn can be a very inhospitable environment, but why do you think I’m interested? I don’t care. Turn it off please Dean, there’s a good lad.
Grime is initially enticing, because I admire the audacity of any genre that prides itself off it’s filthiness, where its artists spend all day slagging off each other’s mums and spitting at one another, it’s a nice extended metaphor, very amusing, but let’s not get carried away, that isn’t us either. Do you wear those jeans? When you think of a battle, do you think Pro Green or Gladiator? Yeah that’s what I thought. Anyway…
Chart music is for impressionable children and confused adults.
House isn’t a thing.
Garage is cheaper than chip shop chips, purchased with discount.
Jazz is something that happened many, many years ago and is currently in the process of fossilisation, with very few people caring.
Metal is for people who are mentally ill or feral.
All of these genres have produced some utterly incredible music, fantastic art work, clever lyrics and some fiery beats, but that’s in the past now. I’m not done with it, I’ll go back there every now and again, but not often, because the last thing I want to do is live in the past. It’s time to move on. It’s time to progress. It’s time to develop. It’s time to change the record. Those people who change the track at parties, demanding to play something they know from the past, they want shooting on the spot. That would show them. Regressive hunks of flesh, wandering about, desperately seeking the AUX cable, too dumb to realise that they’re massively interfering with our intellectual development. Who even invites these people?
I just want to listen to some nice, hygienic, melodic, intense intellectual music, and that’s exactly what I am doing, back at the flat, hanging up the washing, in the shower, when I’m out and about, whilst praying, at the rave itself, wherever I am and whatever I’m doing, it’s paradise. Find a proper mix from any of the intellectual artists listed above, and listen to the stuff they play. There is not one sound to it is not beautiful, not one note which is superfluous, not one key that does not resonate inside the throbbing intellectual human brain.
You go to see any of these intellectual artists and you realise that this stuff is it (needless to say, I had the best time of my entire life on Saturday, plaudits also deservedly attributed to ShenChop and the Black Box for being devastating, as usual).
Music has to generate intensity, it is intensity which makes music captivating, distinctive, and it is intensity that drives crowds absolutely bat-shit-crazy with euphoria. And you know when that kind of euphoria happens, it’s like a Revelation. Like God has popped in to the building to say hello to his Creation. And he saw that is was proper techno.
This doesn’t happen a lot, and it’s difficult to describe to people who weren’t there or haven’t witnessed such a spectacle before, they’ll tell you they’ve seen it before whilst watching Kerri Chandler or Richy Ahmed, or in Church on a Sunday and you just have to sigh and then go home and bang your head up against the toaster until you stop caring as much.
I’ve seen it first hand and I know what it’s like.
It’s like this.
‘We’re going outside!’
After being whisked straight over from Brazil to Old Trafford for the 2014 season, Van Gaal came to the club with a specific set of philosophical ideas in mind, bringing a dilapidated Manchester United side a new, innovative, philosophical approach to football that got everyone talking. However it hasn’t all been sunshine and daisies since then, and two years later in 2016, after having failed qualify for the Champion’s League, Louis Van Gaal’s ‘philosophy’ has become the subject of heavy scrutiny.
After having reassured the media and his players no less than 573 times since becoming Manchester United coach that he has a clear ‘philosophy’ that he believes is suitable for the football club, it was all of a sudden revealed by a number of players after a 3-2 loss to West Ham United in midweek that they ‘know absolutely nothing’ about the subject.
When Catholic team captain and striker Wayne Rooney was asked what he thought about the usefulness of Saint Thomas Aquinas’ primary and secondary precepts to 21st Century Western society he responded irritably with “who the fuck is that?” and wheel-spinned off in his Bentley.
When we asked midfielder Bastian Schweinsteiger what he thought of the validity of German philosopher Immanuel Kant’s moral argument he responded with “oh so you’re one of those funny ones are you?”
We then caught up with left winger Ashley Young and asked him what philosophers he and the team admired and inspired their football and he looked perplexed and responded with “Philosophers aren’t actual things are they? I only know the one in Harry Potter and I didn’t even like those films”.
After suspicions that the entirety of the Manchester United dressing room don’t even know the basics of Philosophy, Van Gaal was questioned about the level of philosophical knowledge his team possessed and he responded with “no comment”.
One thing is for sure, if Manchester United are going to return to the form of their past glories, the team has two options- get rid of Louid Van Gaal and change to a more easily comprehensible series of ideas, like sociology or home economics, or get studying.
Now I know how controversial this is, but I actually think that Trump has got what it takes to make it at the top. And when you’ve got a monstrous ability to use the deep screw shot and side that John Parrot could only ever have dreamed of, then you’re definitely in with a chance of winning the World Snooker Championships at the Crucible (even if you are currently trailing Liang Wenbo, currently 15 ranks below Trump in the World Snooker Rankings, in the first round of the competition).
Now I’ll make no mistakes about it, we’re all friends here- Judd is a good looking man. Any of us would dream of looking like him, let alone cueing like him. Many a night have I spent down the snooker club in my waist coat, envisaging myself as Judd while I step up to the table to make that all too crucial finish on the right hand side of the blue, or that long plant to put myself 34 points ahead with only 29 remaining.
Now I know he’s not quite so good as say, Neil Robertson perhaps, but give this guy a break. And what a break builder he is as well! And don’t get me started on his safety game. We all know that Judd on his day is as safe as it gets.
He’s got tremendous ability and he’s certainly one to watch for the future too. You can also rest assured that he will take a mature approach to conversation with the media and avoid controversy where possible. The last thing we expect is post match racism from this guy! Which is an absolutely marvelous thing for the game, and for us snooker fanatics as well!
And yes, he might be filthy rich, but as a professional snooker player he’s earned every penny. It’s not like he brags about it or anything either.
So let’s get behind Trump, and get off his back for once, yeah?
Last night I had a bad dream in which I saw a viral video of Alex Zane/ George Lamb (I don’t know which, possibly both) committing suicide. He was wearing a blue t- shirt.They said something to their wife briefly, then jumped down a massive trap door deliberately. I then followed everybody’s reaction on social media and the dream was just so distressing. No body knew why he did it, but I felt like it was because the world was becoming a horrible place.
(I watched the Dead Poet’s Society last night (sap) and I think the suicide idea came from that character who wants to become an actor but his horrible dad won’t him so he kills himself).