Skazz invocation: This document is a fried offering to the Noise-makers, the Maze-builders, to Jah’s thunderbolt zapping us into breath, to the philosophy of William Shakeshaft, to the Soothsayers who predicted year zero: the Synth Uprising, to Manchester-Sheffield-Detroit-Berlin, to Wilson’s white-heat 1963, to the Dogged & Howlingest, to the souls of Engineers, to Robert Moog, to the ROLAND Corporation, to the National Coal Board, to smoking a holy weed while thinking of the leviathan’s cosmos, to certain undergrounders: the Givers of deep Muck, to the Billie Whitelaw wing of the Delia Derbyshire Library, to its spiral staircase there in Coventry, to Kling-Klang-Studio, to ye Ark afire, to nine hour sleeps, to the maggot in the heart of the cauliflower, to the percussion family: believed to be the oldest of musical instruments, to those Monoliths in the Desert, to strobesmokemachinebluelaserbeam, to Tubby’s loops and Phuture’s squelch, to Adonis the Pioneer, to AFX and MBV, to the Justified Ancients of burnt metallic entrails, to Burial and subway maps, to Kirby and subway dreams, to Konrad’s bottomless pit, to Pinter’s three black dots, to the spirit of old DH Lawrence Hayward, to the ghostwriters association of ghostwriting association, to the cavepainters, to lovers of neonlights in cities everywhere, to the aesthetics of Cruyff the greatest thinker in the game, to the aesthetics of Kappa, to the 2222 World Cup Final, to swimming across the Lake of Black Ink, to the Human League, Soft Cell, New Order, Depeche Mode, to a hill, a river, a tree and a stone, to co-inventors of static noise: Bacon & Warhol, to playing your own strats of spool-of-fire, to being alone at Xmas: on the street, in a room like now, to VHS tapes showing faded scenes from 1989 and 1992, to McLuhan’s brain in a jar of formaldehyde, to the New Wolfsalem, to misunderstood creeps, to living fearless against zombie-dread, to welded with a dash words like uber-vital, to Monday morning waking up, face covered in a layer of mucus, groaning, fucking hell there must be a way out and stood between the bed and the couch it dawns in bold slanted caps.
