NOTES FROM A CONCEPTUAL VACCUUM
Drafted on a piece of birch bark by Steve Albini and edited for truculence by John Semley
Well newsflash, slugabed! Bulletin! This thing is now way beyond slick A&R reps peddling their snake oil and Faustian-like bargains under their perfectly faded Levis, well-manicured bangs and Buffalo Tom t-shirts. You know: trying to charm the piss out of your dick with their promises of 5 week tours and ‘only’ taking 15 percent. And it’s well beyond fat cat big label swine-type swindlers drinking single malt scotch and kicking up their fucking crocodile skin boots in the backs of hired limo-sines. Naw, you fucking automatons: this shit is going down on the level of design & manufacture. Of capital ‘a’ Artistry its own fucking self.
Antonio Gramsci—writing from a fucking PRISON CELL, you pricks!!!—said that like once a system of operation becomes all-powerful its whole very fucking logic precipitates down into every fucking nook and cranny like a domino effect. Don’t you understand? Can’t you see? Our is yr. vision too clouded by dreams of tour buses and groupie blowjobs and the smell of yr. own personal shit??? Big Label USA has made Col. Tom Parkers of us all, and I (for one) am fucking sick as piss of it!
UNMITIGATED TRUISM: Any fucking moron knows that the whole banal drama of Western Music possess only three significant historical moments: the move towards rhythmic modalities forwarded by Johannes de Garlandia (ca. 13th C.); the radicalism of the Second Viennese School and the resulting explosion of atonality, serialism 12-tone, &c.; and Naked Raygun’s Flammable Solid seven-inch. The rest has been candy in the mouth—vulgar, butterballed Corporate fucking trash. Twelve-bar blues? Boring. Krautrock? More like lemme-out (of this shitty bar/club)-rock. ‘Dance punk’?!!? Help my fuck man I just hurled in my mouth a little bit.
THE PROJECKT: Those of us who take music seriously: who still give a good ol’ fashioned fucking American goddamn about shit like, Oh I dunno, artistry and creativity and integrity and pushing the boundaries and constant, Ego-less exploration of the infinite sonic terrain should shut ourselves off. One Hundred Percent. No Top 40 Dick Clark horsehit FM bands, no cell phone fucking ringtones, no iPods and myPods and for fuck’s sakes no fucking Zunes. We’ll hang out in my newly constructed studio I handcrafted out of mud bricks, soiled mail and busted orange crates I found in the Dumpster-brand Corporate Waste Recpitical behind the downtown Winn-Dixie. The mic set up is calculated to be perfect now but fuck it, we can change it around (but really it sounds really good now, you guys should hear this shit).
Picture it: no blasé crooning about love and loss and whatever-the-hell else, no ‘metal sensibilities,’ no choruses, pompous guitar solos and Jesus fucking Lizard no major chords!! Just the pure fucking blast of undifferentiated noise pulsing through us like an e-lecktrick shock, carrying us out on its majestic sinusoidal wave and whirring us around in its aural gyre like so much disposable flotsam.
To all who heed the call, the time for action is NOW!!!
[Post Script: Bring beers.]