MUSIC IN PHASE SPACE

  • Dubbing Actors

    Spanish Politicians Sound Like Dubbing Actors In this hyperreal political landscape, Spanish politicians reach for the ghosts of Hollywood actors, not the grounded reality of their constituents. Their voices become simulacra of charisma, a hollow echo of a manufactured ideal. This isn’t about embodying the gravitas of a statesman; it’s about mimicking the seductive power…

  • Strong People

    Son, the world demands sacrifice! You play with fire, you expect a marshmallow roast? Absurd! Yet, your mother, bless her naive heart, coddles you like a prince. Freedom, they say? More like a participation trophy for existing! These science-worshipping simpletons wouldn’t recognize responsibility if it bit them – unlike you, of course. Son, the world…

  • Punk as Neoliberal Protocol

    Downtown, a discordant symphony played out in cracked vinyl and safety pins. Punk, they called it, a sonic Molotov cocktail lobbed at the bloated belly of the Man. Yet, embedded within its snarling riffs lurked a paradox more byzantine than a Pynchonese plot twist. This rebellion, birthed in fetid dives reeking of stale beer and teenage…

  • The Bravery Of Being Out Of Range

    The air hung thick with the metallic tang of nostalgia and cordite. Elmer, a relic of Reagan’s microwave optimism, fumbled with the ancient beast in his suitcase from a bygone era where Brylcreem ruled and John Wayne reigned supreme. A chrome leviathan, a magnum opus of a bygone era, a phallic monument to simpler times. Inside, nestled in crimson velvet, lay…

  • War Larp

    Armies prepare to fight the last Hollywood larp, rather than their next anti war indie. War is the continuation of delusion by other means. Our garish parade of grunts rehearses for their next technicolor Götterdämmerung, a glorious clash of CGI battalions against a backdrop of pixilated deserts. Their maneuvers, choreographed by generals hopped up on John Wayne matinees,resemble…

  • Gravity Slam

    The mess hall reeked of lukewarm mystery meat and a pervasive sense of millennial ennui. PVT Tyrone Slothrop, a recruit with a name ripped from a forgotten paperback and eyes perpetually glazed over like a malfunctioning VR headset,poked listlessly at his tray. Across from him, Spc. Lester “Ramrod” Rodriguez scrolled through his chem-coated implant,a vapid stream of tactical memes and…

  • Ego As Control Panel

    The ego, that greasy control panel strapped to your meat chassis, craves one thing above all else: validation of its own rickety self-image. It doesn’t matter if this image is a flickering neon sign in a bugfuck nowhere town, advertising a product long since discontinued. No, the ego insists it’s a holographic billboard in Times…

  • Triplicate

    Herbert W. Plinth, the Deputy Assistant Undersecretary for Paperwork Affairs at the Bureau of Red Tape, navigated the labyrinthine corridors of his own department with the weary resignation of a spelunker lost for decades. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of old filing cabinets and the musky scent of decaying memos. Every surface…

  • The Stain of the Watcher

    Every son of Adam, every daughter of Eve, carries the stain of the watcher. We are all, like it or not, the children of those who stood by, the inheritors of stolen land and broken lives. Our bloodlines, if traced back far enough, will snake through tangled histories of dominance and displacement. There were grandfathers…

  • It’s all Subjunctive

    Oedipoid and vast, the world swam in a subjunctive sea. Every action, a ripple in the pond of potentiality. Was it rain that fell, or merely the memory of rain, a phantom echo from some parallel dimension where skies wept? Perhaps it never rained at all, and the damp chill was a collective delusion, a…

Got any album or book recommendations?

Get In Touch