Frustrated with his limited sketching ability, Plush feels increasingly irritable and breaks a pencil. Time slows and he enters a ghost world. Like E.L.O on the wrong speed.

The trio are at the Tribetables, unaware that the temple is open, invoke a poltergeist to cause devastation on their behalf, thinking that they are playing a game. Just a game. And the game begins with the titular tune “Lemmys, a mysterious, yet powerful man, man.”

At once, the band’s acoustic grooves are interrupted by rhythmic, almost jangling tones, harmonies from the horns and drums as if from under the carpet. When the slide guitar picks up a notch, the song’s energy leaps over its fuck drumming and horny horns, and seamlessly blends into the tear-jerking “Smiley Face” the music at fever pitch, audio power surging in a sonic orgy. “Put less ‘buts’ in the lyrics bro, sounds formulated, let it percolate.” Fang said.  “The voice must be freed, and find itself among little instruments”.

CUT TO: A cloaked figure is at seekers corner, Hyde Park “We speak of the Vico-Nietzsche-Fenollosa-Korzybski-Sapir-Whorf-Wilson hypothesis of Neurological Relativity, your life may depend on it, read em’, damn read em’ all.

CUT TO: Yeats: “Play the drum and gong, Flute and Dulcimer.”

CUT TO: McLuhan writing a letter to Harold Innis: “I applaud your ‘mental camera’ writing style, but you would have managed your style more expediently had he mastered the method of James Joyce in Finnegans Wake.”

The most ancient and heavy stones of music are unturned by these tables and rolled away from the entrance to the rave cave. A singer from the original tribetable world, (Hi) deploys a ring of double DJ thoughts. Dribble DJ sports. Dibble deejay ports, for the purposes of our damned novel poem video including history, our foundation so far consists of timespice coordinates in NYC, Rapalltown (Italy) on July 31st, and Berlingham on August 1st, 1936. The opening day of the Nazi Olympics, where Jesse Owens served up Hitler and the Nazi’s like the Williams sisters. “Not much white power in track and field events these days, eh” Plush wrote and then deleted it.

Historical characters breathe together at that specific 1936 spacetime crossroads, well, except the fantastic four characters. The dank odour of these details can hardly constitute a system or a solid foundation from which everything else builds, but maybe the Oilamp Trick Games, or a particular single game can bootstrip away the chaff, and burrow deep through the poem? Rock and Jazz drill.

On deeper reflection I realized that the protagonist disks and the process of taking quotes from the characters and indexing them upon the disks worked well. A randomizing process of divination, by turning off the power to the turntable platter and then manually pushing the discs, winding them up very fast and then letting em’ go. Where the needle is left pointing when the record stops will indicate the Tarot image to be interpreted. A stroke of genius, you could say, starting the vinyl disk spinning, and making a scientific observation of where it stops. Turntable divination, or TribeTable Method.

CUT TO: The curtain parted to reveal a band dressed as a sports team, an old hooded figure grabs the mic.

CUT TO: Yeats: “I have created a little play that can be played in a room for so little money that 22 or 23 poets can pay the price.”

The sound of the Rose, like the name, is similar to the sound of any other saxophone when played underwater. A subtle and melodic gurgle sound, which is at once a little melancholic and slightly melodic. Lemolodic, you might say. The harmonic differences between the horns, make the song soar, and the lower end and the middle are subtle messages on the ear, though they are magically perceptible. Rose music is like the saxophone equivalent of bungee jumping with a piano in yer’ pocket, or riding on a cello with buggy wheels drilled onto the side. The high E is used in a small quantity. However, we do not hear the presence of the high E in Rose music, only the aftereffect of a very low F. Fuck Jazz changes, they called em’.

Symbols bounce out from the Saxophone and into the room, the sound is unmistakably gobbled up by the drums. When the percussion comes in again, the room turns into a room of thunderclouds, the players jump around wildly on the stage to the music of the hidden drum machine (a black leather case with six drumsticks in it). There is a loud noise from the ceiling, muffled by the drums’ thunder. My favourite of the set is the lead guitar solo which plays over a series of drum loops that seems to move in slow motion throughout the mix, creating this odd sound. All this in a tiny room is so loud, that it can give you a nosebleed. And it’s not just because they are doing the deep scratching quickly, no, they are creating the sound of the whole universe, diligently, an unvarnished symphony is what this bed show is all about.

It is hard not to get swept up in these sounds, you say tornardo I say tornaydo, although you can’t take it all up with you. I remember sitting there, in the cloud, with my eyes glued to the screen, really stuck, as someone said, “What have we gotten into?” It took me a long time to grok the point; the crowd is not just people, in the crowd is the cloud and in the cloud the crowd. They are people of many different shapes, sizes, genders, and sexual orientations. The band does not try to convey their gender identity in their music or even their lyrics. It is a matter of taste – as is usually the case with this art form. Plop will shit itself.

CUT TO: Olivia Shakespeare introducing Ezra Pound to William Butler Yeats in London, 1908.

Narrator: “A plurality of meanings, a galaxy of signifying motherfuckers”

CUT TO: Nietzsche: “And take care ye philosophers and friends of knowledge, and beware of martyrdom!”

We can taste the plot twists to come in the DJ music forum, and this fly show keeps that DJ theme alive, and manages some of its best comedic moments too, most notably a scene in the temple where a young girl gets shot after having a heart-to-heart with her man, who promptly calls out her name, “Sally” as he proceeds to pull away in just his underpants while she’s shot at point-blank range with a marshmallow gun.

There are many nice little Easter egg moments in the first hour of the video, surprising sweet discoveries, like a gummy bear up the arse, a new, somewhat ridiculous version of “A Good Heart These Days Is Hard To Find” mixed expertly with “The True Hero Is Covered In Poo”. The introduction of new products from the studio of John Cusack’s Comedy Jail called John Travolting, and some lovely old songs get played constantly throughout the podcast episode. There is no filler here, a few jokes have some nice punchlines, the humour is wicked. Dark, alive and kicking with both stumps.

In 2011, Richard is dreaming of drawing geometric patterns in the air while making love to a six-story human bull hybrid. His cell phone blinked blue. His peanut butter order had arrived by FEDEX. Underneath his apartment on the ground floor of the same building. The dank basement itself was haunted by dead DJ’s. The police still had enough time to get doughnuts before they went to investigate the sounds. When they arrived there was no sign that anyone had been down there since that fateful day twenty years ago.

I turned on the light to face the house and found myself alone. Touching myself. The lights were off because the room was empty. I was sure that someone had taken up my sleeping place and had given me sleeping pills as well, the kind that usually came without the Monsanto curse, and to my surprise, I slept soundly for the last twelve hours since, conversely, I’d managed to stay awake in my dream. I had no fear of what lay behind the door. I had only a brief moment to rest before the darkness fell once more over the music house and the ambient dub started pounding, strobing and chasing the groove.

After another three hours of being alone, I finally made my way to the basement of the building. The house was already dark. I entered the basement. The greenhouse was just a mere block and four-sixths of a mile away, so the door was about as wide as the basement door, in hindsight, I guess I was foolish to try and squeeze through. This is how the song “Out House” came to be.

Plush sits in a yoga pose and visualizes Lenny Bruce in a Jesus Christ pose. He gains control of astral travel and faces a lifetime of guilt and jealousy, arrogance and stupidity in the form of a talking book, a weird fucking book, this book, the order of chapters was jumbled in his head. They must compete in a DJ battle royale. It’s the genre-hopping madness that the DJ people often expect. The games are there to be played! Begin, bornless one.

Let’s get some facts straight. This is not a game based on fantasy, it’s one that looks at real-world events, and takes the piss out of the most popular narratives. Even though what you see today might have been created for the ’80s, it doesn’t mean that the same concepts are being recycled here. It’s not stranger things, and yes, I was the first to propose that the Merry Hill Shopping Complex was a complex government operation to embed the CIA’s arsenal in the West Midlands of England. They may not seem to be the same, but I say they are the same, and they are part of this dying genre of fucking liars, cheats. This is where this great game shines through when you begin to understand that they aren’t just using their imagination to create a fantastical universe, they are looking back to the footsore. Floating skateboards, self-lacing pumps, and Jaws in augmented reality. Think McFly. Think.

CUT TO: W.B Yeats: “The Mask and the headdress, I have seen them both.”

CUT TO: Dr Frankenstein, Norbert Wiener and Claude Shannon pose for a photograph together at M.I.T.

Who is looking at too much old-school horror cinema, with all of the elements you would expect to find in something that came out of the ’80s, with the likes of Silent Hill, Benny Hill, Penny Dreadful, and the like, mixed with splatter pop elements you would see in flicks like The Evil Dead and Resident Evil. As the title implies, “Fash Dance” is also tackling real life, with a turntable, some golden dawn books, and a name to come.

There are an estimated 1.6 billion music tracks on the internet. The sheer volume of the potential volume is stunning. With over 4 billion tracks in the world, the amount of material available for anyone to riff on is truly immense. Ama-Google-Book is trying to make VR the ideal platform for data-driven artists to make their artwork accessible, and spy-on-able. However, with all the data that’s available, where does that leave artists making music? Where do they get their ideas and stories? All that good stuff could be lost as data-driven music is only money game in town.

What should artists do about this? Where would they draw the line between research and production as part of a music career? What do the data tell us about the types of artists and listeners that might be able to best cater to them? In my article last week I mentioned that the average track that Spotifear plays at most weeks is shyte. There are plenty of other interesting, and potentially important statistics I could share, such as the English language is fifty per cent redundant. Yeah.

There are also a lot of great new songs (not on the album), like “I Love to Get the Shrooms”, a song on where he’s already gone deep scratch, and “Dance Dance You Prick”, one from his upcoming second album sounds a lot like the Discordian banger, “Nuesto El Tezcatlipolka”, where Plush mentions the album “Fast Crackers” in his lyrics, as an inspiration and reference to one of his old songs.

With one big dream, Plush realizes a dream is still alive because of this car. What car, I hear you ask? The dream is of a machine-drum car that had never been seen or heard before. It may have been a car from the future when Plush was younger. He sat bewildered. This is how the mind works, he thought. This place, it’s called Earth I think.

And so Plush goes to work on a computer program designed to do manifest the old magic dream car. He creates a virtual reality movie that is based on reality. Dig? Plush started to think in abstract metaphors based on the last words of the Wake…L.P’s keys to. Keys in my bike lock. Indoor. Under Mr Brick. Under sun-Visser. On keychain, on a belt. On a cats collar. From a key cutting shop. Images of keys reverse-engineered from photographs. Forged keys, crossed keys, key code. Electric cupboard. Moneybox. Magic Car keys. Key fobs. Missile launch keys. Chastity key. A drum key. Piano key. What happened to our lockdown world of jailers and snitches is coming to your bedside table, soon.

CUT TO: Marshall McLuhan: “It can’t be satirized!”

CUT TO: Orson Welles: “Panic broadcast media, and a fake dossier?

A key is hidden inside a block of green cheese. Key codes rolled up into a joint filter and passed to a Russian diplomat. Reverse engineering from CCTV footage. The jelly mould. The fingerprint print. The retina repro. The finger, eye, word world. Truffle skins and bioprints. A scooter left in a bush. A racing bike left unlocked. A found set of keys at the gym. A skateboard on a shop wall. Hair shaped into a key. A biscuit key. Mini printer for keys on the fly. Turntable key and hand crank. L.Ps keys to…Public data drop points fixed into Trump’s wall, fences, pavements. Portals into the other words. Bio ports into trees and flowers. Insect portals. Bees with tiny fibre optic cables attached to their nuts. Drop points in the bloodstream, clot points? By ear and nose and mouth and anus and piss hole. Entry points and keys and cables. Male and female connections.

It’s not just the album’s title “L.P’s Keys To” that is a disappointment, the songs are desperate and show evidence of cheating. Marshall McLuhan, who was born on 8 January 1919, was a man who often had trouble controlling himself when he heard Mood Indigo by the great Duke Ellington or the equally brilliant version by Charles Mingus. (Oh Lord Don’t Let Them Drop The Atomic Bomb On Me) Marshall’s great invention, he once said, was to try something new and then give that fresh feeling of innovation a new identity.

When it comes to music, the world’s biggest piss artist, Plush, has produced what sounds like nothing more than a random collection of bird sounds. Some are weirdly close to stepping into a pile of shit with bells tied to your toes. In his new memoir, “What The Hell Are You Brewin’ Marshall McLuhan?: How To Beat The Press With A Pencil”, Francis Cocklepop opens up about what it was like being so different from the average male Technology student. Marshall was surrounded by the kind of music that was all-but-forgotten until his early teens, he was not a very good singer unless on the ole’ acid tabs. At an early age, he became interested in his older brothers and sisters, and he was determined to become a better singer like them, even if he had no idea how to write lyrics. He fell victim to the music journalist Michael Kranz, who said that his audio experiments were invoking Bamphomet, and to be avoided at all costs. This turned out to be great publicity.

We can all see a resemblance in the faces of two men, the tall and lonesome, yet friendly man, with a short, thin moustache, contrasted with the short, chubby and handsome man, with his long long face, his mouth made wider with a frown, and his ears turned upward like Dr Spock, his eyes dark and full-lidded like a southern Italian mobster at confession (go on my son) filled with such melancholy as to become sweet lemoncholy. Together in the same room, like me and you dear reader, these blokes knew each other perfectly well. In other words, they were different yet there was nothing in their personalities to distinguish them. Follow me follow me, and, think for yourself buck.

All-Stars is a podcast that features a mix of comedy and culture crystals, hosted by Billy Burr and Jim Carmanz, it became one of the first podcasts to incorporate a live-stream element into its regular programming, taking the piss out of others who professed live stuff was really live. The podcast featured items covering comedy, drama, pop culture, sports, music, spun through a multimedia cosmic laundry dryer of video, radio, VR, MR, AR, and “Oh R!”. In 2011, the duo expanded to feature podcasts in pigeon English as well as Spanglish.

A TREMENDOUS POWERFUL HAWAIIAN JOURNEY AWAITS, was scrawled in blue paint across a road-sign in Live Oak, California. Other strange slogans were popping up too, including: “The Spirit and the World of Ancient Greece is the Spirit dragon of Myth,” and, “A TRIANGLE OF HUMAN NATURES LIES ABOVE” and “Journey to Atlantis today mate, the Planet of All Nations is the world of Chinese Ideograms. Alphabet is dead.”

This book has been read by more than 1.5 million people worldwide and won over 5,000 honours from industry associations. All fake, but true enough. Keep reading, I swear it will not end with tears for fears. This is why men like Homer freaked out, tease the reader with yer’ socks, recall the direct transmission principle. The tables came to a standstill. Plus put down his wand and slumped to the ground.

CUT TO: McLuhan sez to Pound: “There are social groups directly guided by the magi?

CUT TO: Ezra Pound working at a desk in London reading rooms, editing letters of John Butler Yeats in 1917.

And 2 hours before the stage collapsed, killing hundreds, Plush had this nightmare to wrestle with. J Twotson, Kunst Wankula, Saghole of Ickewadd and Loo Pooloose prepare to perform at the Daily Foil stage of Prick Pop 12. Thousands of pale angry faces looked out, with the occasional dot of brown and black. Many dressed in white, teeth gleaming white, and hands in the air waving their Teutonic symbols on huge flags.

Wankula slithers up onto the stage first his whisky cheeks bulging with vomit readymade backstage by Loo. Next, the figure of Dickwad dressed as the flabby Sultan of smug village with tiny printed versions of himself badly ironed onto orange shorts. Small Joe was dressed up in full military uniform, with a few stains around the crotch, he launched Alex Jonesin’ brand tactical wet wipes as if he psychically knew what was about to happen next. Mass wanking.

Loo stepped up from behind the stage, his hair like a doughnut glazed with vanilla drizzle, his Ray-Ban shades jiggled around on is nose and at that moment he resembled every male teenage idol from western history. A backstreetzone biebergun kelly kids on the block. Half the crowd jizzed in sync, catching the globules with those handy Al Jones wipes. The band were yet to start. Their setlist was: “Femministasi pale male chorus,” followed by “victim-techno” and “Gammonati Steaks”. The second set opened with “The PC left stole my kitten” and ended with “Papa, Boris Broke My Unicorn Horn.”

Saghole got down on his knees near the end of the tune and started to drink from Wankula’s water bottle, “I suck, I suck, I suuuuuck”. The stupid crowd laughed and laughed again each time he said suck. Such was the level of comedic wit and required to move this crowd.

Other notable musical abortions include “Brokebuck Brexit Stomp” “She’s A Shaved Man Now” “Yes, I’m A Right Count” and “Immigrant Sung” a new one, crafted by the four snakes while having tea with Tubby Rubberneck and the devil.

Twotson gave out 14 kilos of a substitute for coke called Jonesin. The pale crowd chomped it up like good little consumers. Happy consumers. Next came a special guest appearance by DJ J Peedhimself, doing an impression of Christopher Lee while singing on the Prick Pop anthem “Stairway To Oblivious”, a song about a bridge made of kippers. “The planet will turn to stone, and our lives will cease forever, because of Muslim immigrants,” said Mr Dulles. “We are already living on a big stone called earth”.

A group of hardcore Prick Poppers broke away from the festival, and started to cause a disturbance in the city streets, throwing things, breaking stuff, and pulling up plants. One total dick wad picked up a brick and hurled it through a window, which by quantum entanglement and the flow of this book, became the inciting incident that set Plush up to pull the rudder and avoid the upcoming waterfall. Pull up!

They Came To Starburg by Steve Fly

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