It’s a fairly overwhelming feeling being pulled under into the world of electronica. It takes a good segment of your life to fully understand the promenade it’s woven and the depths that have been engrained into your soul. Even further to compensate for everything else in your life that seems to look on as if it’s partaking in a spectacle that’s irrefutably developing void of concern. That’s how it works. That’s how any creative discourse functions, and it’s mechanics, in the chaos of an attempt to incite reckless symmetry, constructs a convenient avenue for expressing everyone’s own world. Whether it’s discernible to pedestrians or not is irrelevant, but if it’s a genuine attempt at contributing to any given medium, it’s a likely derivative.
It’s the artists that fortify themselves amongst this concept who reside in our periphery, be it destructive or otherwise, that infinitely resonate.
Winter 2000, and AFX’s ‘Schottkey 7th Path’ engineers proceedings. Still in highschool, my friends mother seems more disconcerted with the state of the localised manufactured citadel than of the sonic disposition we felt more comfortable in. Her husband appears to be far less apprehensive in the company of Kraftwerk and the Tour de France, which the former later went on to orchestrate. Perhaps it was a mild novelty attempting to reconstruct Autechre’s ‘Confield’ instead of participating in necessary school activities, though it eventually became a persistent theme as Saturday evenings receded whilst Nicole Foote’s MixUp program pushed the saga into the early hours of Sunday morning. Boards of Canada and Aphex Twin flanked her routinely, and if we were lucky enough, we’d find a dense sense of attachment in the event of random precipitation.
Now it’s 6AM and irrespective of the allurement that a thick Essex accent has as it announces ‘Southside, Dave Clarke’, it insists on sanctioning an incursion by Glenn Wilson’s remix of Ignitian Technian’s ‘Shark Attack’ as Paula Temple’s ‘Contact’ winds up. It’s this momentary lapse of reality that catalyses a transition from an interest into a restless kind of company. Some of us would be more fortunate enough to compliment the scenario with a sweeping tundra, than that of a dirt path that snaked its way through coastal Australian suburbia, though there’s aesthetics in that too. In it’s own sheltered way. Radiohead’s ‘Motion Picture Soundtrack’ would be an apt theme, I think. Eventually it gives way to a lifestyle that continuously reenacts an art house production portraying sleep deprivation, than of constructive progress sometimes. Periodically it’s both.
If you juxtapose it all with the way you live your life, it refracts into that spectrum of stunning consciousness that’s so comforting again, and ultimately it furthers your pneuma. From the ideas you dream of, to the music you make, to the spaces you reinvent that host the artists you love, it all makes sense when everything turns off, more so than ever. Silence solidifies small victories. But reinventing yourself seamlessly into a higher tier is decisively accosting. The demanding faculty of expectation settles in and the checkpoints of where your conscience rests, becomes a daily questionable activity until you deduce a conclusive summary on the particular direction you should take. It’s the risk that pushes everyone into the uncertainty that constitutes uniqueness. That’s something that everyone can relate to, inadvertently. It’s also something that should be encouraged in moments of ambivalence.
As a point of reference, there’s a multitude of underground artists that have succeeded in achieving what they’ve always wanted, some of which we’re proud to say we’ve worked with and hosted. It’d be somewhat defamatory and presumptuous to conclude they’re satisfied with where they are in the context of where they want to be when their last record stops, but it’s a sincere compliment none the less. It’s probably something best left to the uncertainty that originally actuated their affair with what they love.
Similarly, we’ve all drifted off into that haze where everything sits where it should be after experiencing a piece of music that’s worth consulting yourself on, be it at home, or otherwise. That’s the space where everything makes sense as it conjugates pieces of your own interpretation of peace, really. And if your interpretation of peace is the end of the world, then surely Autechre’s ‘Vletrmx21’ would coordinate it.
And that’s why we all do the things we do.
Elliot Clarke, Monday May 27 2013
Photo Credits: Autechre, Sounds From Hell