Thursday, September 12, 2013

Realm of the Rave (Part 1)

Time and again, I've returned the cross-hairs of my rant-scope to the realms of the rave. I've gone undercover, with little regard to my own safety and sanity, to get a closer look at the inhabitants of this dangerous, provocative realm. In December of 2012, I performed my final act of the year before the great apocalyptic cataclysm that occurred on the 21st. This hazardous act proved to be the single most successful insight into the PLUR Plague since the great MK APHEX CAPER of 1995.

It was a selfless act of calculated reconnaissance I will never forget.
With formidable tools of music production at my disposal, I strove to make the worst 'bootleg remix mash-up party mix' possible. In 3 pain-staking minutes of production time, (and 2 minutes of additional prep time, if you want to include pirating the tracks used in the mashup off youtube) I emerged with 5 minutes and 25 seconds of musical hell.
This piece of musical voodoo...this hellish, necromantic sonata....this bastardized was the epitome of musical failure and production laziness I could create in my meager time allocation of 3 minutes. With those 3 minutes of production time I was able to create a "Bootleg Mashup Remix Party Mix" that crossed the very boundaries of self-patronization enough times to camouflage itself upon reaching the ears of the denizens of the raver realms, a true act of musical ingenuity. The critics....they...RAVED.

Despite the success of my mission, what I and the scientists of Harvard University discovered upon dissecting the data gathered from my musical molestation of the ravers disturbed the lot of us. Several of the scientists commit suicide, one of which was pregnant. That's the depth of the insanity we discovered about PLUR.
Drugged out children, twisting and contorting to simplistic, robotic beats, half dehydrated and popping sweats all over the damn place. Males with flat brimmed caps and pockets full of roofies. Females with fuzzy boots, painted tits, and chlamydia. DJs that lazily press space bar and fist pump entire sets of music away, the hardest aspect of their job being to keep track of their cables. This....this was the

 December 16th, 2012
5:13 AM (EST)

My excavation troll team cuts through the dangling 1/4" cables with machetes, as we traverse the mystical Jungle Jungle. All manner of E-tarded wildlife inhabits the Jungle Jungle. I watch them wearily; though their eyes are glazed and pupils dilated, furry heads bobbing in unison to the constant throbbing timbre of Jungle music, they could come down from their MDMA fueled peaks at any moment.
And who's to say they are even rolling? All those crummy research know, the ones that are closer to bath salts than anything....those have been circulating hardcore, and everyone knows pressies tend to be cut with meth.

Rolling is for chumps. Why roll on the desolate streets below when you can take half a sheet and fly to the motherfucking cosmos?!

In any case, with the recent surge in popularity of research chemicals, it is best to maintain constant suspicion of all those around you, especially whilst in the Realm of the Rave. It is for this reason I keep my fret hand strong. Should the beasts attempt to attack, I will merely rage progressive funk riffs, rendering them in a dazed state of confusion and disarray. The mini-amp strapped to my belt may only be 1 watt of power, but the crisp treble twang of my LTD Deluxe will cut right through the bassy throbbing of the Jungle Jungles Jungle mix.

I spy a lumbering gazelle up ahead wearing skinny jeans and goggles. It's contortions are off-tempo and frenzied. I ready my axe and turn on the amplifier. Quickly I kneel, gather a handful of dirt from the Jungle Jungles floor into my right hand, and drop it, noting which direction it falls in.

"Good...D Minor...."

The agitated gazelle has caught sight of me and is clumsily making its way over. I unleash a furious flurry of notes, the crisp resonant tone of my Seymour Duncans slicing through the air like a knife through butter. The gazelle is stunned, something in its mind cracks. I continue to play the guitar, the musical sorcery confounding the gazelle like a Jedi mind trick. The creature steps to the right, out of my way, then collapses in a heap on the floor of the Jungle Jungle. I spit in its pathetic face, debating whether I have enough time to set it on fire and pee on it.

"Not now...must press forward."
The dark peaks of the DNB mountain loom overhead ominously as we continue to fight our way through the Jungle Jungle. The clearing ahead seems relatively quiet. The Jungle Jungle is in a state of a breakdown, which can last anywhere from an hour to two weeks. I decide its time to take a quick, meditative break from our travels. My troll crew start brandishing their instruments, quietly tuning everything, setting up amplification and drum sets.

We will meditate in the embrace of improvised jam sessions to cleanse our aura of the button pushing, lazy aura of the Jungle Jungle. The execution of live jams on actual musical instruments will tickle each chakra until we are ready to proceed deeper into the jungle, on the way to the perilous peaks of DNB Mountain.

I quickly update the blog with a youtube list as an afterthought of my encounter with the gazelle.  


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