Old (2010? Ancient!) but not aged in the way modern Pop sounds do when producers jump at the latest gear, knock out sounds on it and move on....aged as if pre-digital technology spawned a death soundtrack to it's demise....field recordings from the dump of dead computers...or...some kind of future Past utopianist hard sell gone to seed, breaking open pods that set spores sailing on the wind until they germinate all our tomorrows, reborn as a file that's rotten, corrupt, magnificently degraded....depraved...defiant in the face of clean, efficient Updated techno-addiction...Interzone mugwumps fucking Nova cops whilst Clem Snide, the private asshole, takes notes..."Nothing here but the recordings..."...inhuman...stained transcripts of what the machines said...
19F3
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