bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonn...

The dub-method of recording is the imaginative absorption of stray material. The fried dregs of life is thinking splosh as in splosh as in just splosh when reading a review of this Sir Matt Busby autobiography, cos I won’t buy. What was I doing? What’s the point? What I did on a second splosh was open a browser tab and search: greatest record producers of all time.

01. Meek.

02. Martin.

03. Spector.

04. Perry. 

05. Hütter-Schneider.

06. Moroder.

07. Hannett.

08. Dre.

09. Eno.

01. Week.

Best not be migraine, said voice-in-head.

Followed by the continual spool of: Yeah, hope but let’s build in a room in a brain in my room in my brain in my skull let’s build a copy and paste laboratory. Deathstar. The simple idea is that the bed over by that bare wall with all my books is the scissors department and the settee with my laptop near the kitchen door is the glue department and how you produce is by tapping buttons, twiddling dials, tweaking and splicing time, looping, rewiring images to the circle inside the triangle of the ancient mindseye.

Layering the noise to my ear has the echo of being made on a Be Light keyboard: i.e. plotless, first person, a voice that jigs to its own bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam.

I’m a one-man Seething Whirlpool.

And rooms are important for all types of writer but especially the acidhouse writer. We need silence and solitude. This control room is rented as I type of another eye. It’s my room for now and I live alone, a bonus in the S-ring because my room is in the S-ring luckily but the day this document is done I could be in another cage out of the ring: whatever: it’s worry for the future cos at least this month and next the bills are paid so I can work while upstairs treads loud and nextdoor bangs a hammer, all the neighbours and all neath the floorboards the rats, plus the waterpipes, these growling waterpipes, all’re quiet now I’m sponked in bed and editing twelve Memory files for which the technique is to freewheel and squelch, to add a bassline but it’s not a bassline, to add a drumbeat but: it’s the myriad flow of thousands of pictures, rear-view-mirror-shit. And so I’m a student-of-dust. And this room is significant cos they’d prefer to evict me and double the rent but I’m going nowhere, a lawyer said I’m contracted tight: so okay, all good: I spooled the gaff into a cube into a DIY ghost laboratory where the settee doubles as the scissors for my art and the mattress plays the adhesive I enjoy to think.

Engineered at SHOOM-in-Me Studio, that Raleigh Banana hell. My mind. Spinning in what’s dubbed the maggot of the universe.