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essay into the industrial complex.

What would it be to see as the Grateful Dead see it? What could be the harm in that thing there? The view is serene, with two drummers in the background, and enough acid to throw us on our hippie asses. Where do we go once the good times die? When our heads have busted wide open from that perception of a world where things are a hallucination. There is still that little subsistent grouping of people around the world, but in excess is where it seems to have rested its position. The masses gathered at the feet of supposed gods which are really monsters at heart. What happens when we realize that mess? Do we surge forward, and present our hind ends to the authority in charge? I have chosen not to give up hope, no matter how smothered it may become from the crass debris as it falls, and the people are given the chance to be more than some mundane day job in the undertow. No number can include my persona while containing all the lesser information that hones my ideas into a whole, and it is this that music tries hard to remind us of conceptually. Long after the acid wore off for our predecessors, we were left in a shapeshifting flux for most of the seventies, and soon faced a brave new world sedated into taking whatever hack actor was available to become presidential elect for a good portion of the world. Hypocracy roared through the eighties alongside democracy, as the pull from politics distorted and twisted public opinion further out of reason, and into a silent dark age. Even as digital focus began to pick up speed, both accumulating intensity and intent, there was still yet a dark cloud over the horizon. At various points in history, somewhere there is a reference to acknowledging those parts of ourselves that we disagree with, and this is where the recent timeline has apparently lead because the general law seems to grind lesser strengths into dusty nostalgia.

Don’t get me wrong, there were dark tones underlying everything throughout the foundations of cultures from the beginning, even in music like the blues and folk, but here and now we see an output that seems to match the strength of the fear generated by other scandalous sources of cultural awareness. The modern age of a post modern thought, a powerful future when confronting the wreckage of the past, and the role of the artist allows for the reinterpretation of pain for the present. The future abstracts from this present, paints the canvas with an eye on what has delivered far before in anticipation to carry all of us into better times, but always returns to the cycle of craving for the new works in a different age. Going back to the Grateful Dead, though, for a moment. We all seem to lead certain unique paths overall, and our ways truly defy careful explanation even amongst ourselves. The crucial moment comes with understanding. Industrial music and electronic music have coincided for many decades, developing and progressing out of the whirlpool of analog blues and jazz ornamentation, and has been coveted by many new artists in the wake of the punk and disco eras. New wave began as a springboard before a post punk movement began that then incorporated a popular sentiment, and many eighties artists conformed to these predefined categories of genre and corporate labelling. In the early years of this sentimental apocalypse, this meant that big hair and make-up were used to step up the performance art aspect that was becoming big shit through the rest of the eighties as glam rock and metal were slowly melding together for a bastard offshoot that reigned supreme in America for too long, and came crashing down after the excess of the eighties were flipped into the nineties.

Grunge became the new herald for advancement of the youth culture lying deeply embedded in society, and angst became a rallying cry even before one particular singer shelled his brains out, causing a massive wave of sentiment to strike the world. All these different musics and modes of expression have struck fear into the hearts of our dictators and corporate warlords because it threatens the hold that they have on the nations, or at the very least subverts them, which makes them have to scheme in order to clinch control over unaware people. They do this by commodifying the means of expression, and make it popular to want to be famous, enticing young people to abandon original dreams for hollow commercially shaky ground. In an age where authority is commonplace in situations of unforgiving cruelty, the music is sometimes the only way to release into another mode of thinking, and the powers that be might really fear that we may understand the ability of control for ourselves. Thus taking away the powers from the authority because awareness puts understanding back into the minds of the people.

As the eighties were merely a glimmer from the coke-soaked distance of the seventies, the industrial moniker was working its way into music and art of many varying castes, and subverting the status quo even as arena rock was predominant with Peter Frampton and other bozos at large in the world. We lost trust in the idol, raised on high by every corrupt will in the way, and have taken the expression into our own hands. Only a few of us choose to see these startling conclusions, but many others are trapped by the will to power that the tyrannical and greedy use against us, something that definitely needs rectifying sooner rather than later. Watching the world fall apart can be no way to have any interest in saving oneself or any others if there is no respect in what one feels or thinks about any given situation whether we might consider ourselves indifferent fools or not. There is no time like the present to choose to show your personal strength, but the inspiration to prove truth needs a muse to guide people along, music gives us this motivation. Somewhere deep is where we connect with this freedom, a freedom to choose who we are instead of accepting some predefined options, but we can be easily duped if there is no proper guide to our actions. Music can inspire the best and the worst within us, and change our outlook irreversibly sometimes.

What did the bitter musician do to music as performance art form in the age of synthetic rebellion? industrial-strength pop that is sweet enough to be catchy, and starkly breaking down the stereotype of popular opinion in one gulp, at least that seems the most likely opinion Here. bringing anger and fury from a world defined as a carriage to ill will and suspicion from one hand to another, stealing ideas and trademarking them away into piles marked by the blood and sweat poured into production, and those artisans were markedly enraged long before the industrial revolution swept all shores into the oblivion. the words have always been the perilously tragic route to finding peace in this world, the deranged and greedy have taken control by force, and their obnoxious machinery multiplies at a rate that break the barrier of flesh. flowers of the man-made hellbent philosophy that mocks for religious repose in a mainstream sense of thought, the arena of the boardroom and office-borne power struggles, and all this right down to the fascism inherent in a capitalist franchise built upon mediocre creations sold to an already over-engorged society. tolerated because its commonplace, its trivial. the musician, like any proper artist, breaks out of those human derived works that seem to drive themselves right off the page, and reverses all those ideas of opposition naturally and otherwise imposed. the proper writer will do the same, but under a different set of adherent qualities befitting their own individual outlooks.

The creation is that idealized hinge on the edge of the world that looks different to different people, the lenses are always somehow contrary under the scope of logic, but united the visions form a perfect mirror of who we are right now. there are no thoughtless actions Here, but there are residual vibrations that tailor themselves to similar wavelengths, just as the visual centers are drawn toward the fluctuating bandwidths that allow for the perception of sight. the mind is eternal state of flux, molten concepts become crisp and brittle when brought to the surface, but upon fragile wings fly enchanting whims pulling us beyond mediocre predispositions and formulations of opinion into the ether all over.

Weight of the unyielding sanity feels like a rushed exposure of a negative universe through the generations all at once, the industrial-strength loaded weapon, and pointed at our collective face. the culprit might be our own dark psyche, possessed of all the shared means to make the masses an oppressed chain of dramas, and the vague restraints get pushed and pulled ever further beyond constraint. our waking lives want and will while the more and more corporeal essence of the shared soul hastens the approach towards defiant resistance, or is that force of all that in itself which becomes perverted by the spectral analysis of human being? the scientific recycling of the human animal, and those conditions that make living tolerable for the moment. consume or be consumed by any means necessary. how have we as a species become vocal in remaking our world outside of those hands which begin to tighten at the first signs of self-imposed authority, in a sense anarchistic, but always working well within the structure or otherwise at the fringe? through artistic spelunking as it were, throughout the ages, there have always been a means the defy the result of everything already defined. between the unwritten and unspoken facts were the crevices to be explored deeper into the consciousness, the particles and emotions floating there, and the conceptual bearings that affect the physical world into the nexus of the unknown. the motion blurs into itself like an ouroboros, but on the individual scale that becomes realized through the human vehicle, creating an interwoven fabric of events and victories that reach out for the pinnacle of human function at times.

Now, we all happen to be lulled into a sleepy conditioned response to the screaming alarms that society is crawling towards oblivion in the comfort zone, and very few stabs into the center of habitual and automatic movement that we all seem to enact has met with any real result other than total freedom from the oppression inflicted by conformity. only the obnoxious canvases seem to intrigue the populace, their wailing the extreme pulses represented by feelings of a primal instinct for free and high pursuit of happiness, but not necessarily supreme or blissful comfort as more than a few artists have been lost to the creepier and destructive wills of the void. this writer not withstanding, I feel drawn between both “sides”, and can sense myself at an impasse. on one hand, there is the excuse of dragging ass and complaining that there is never enough, but on the other, there are age-old mindsets that won’t let traditions die. there is no real way to raise people in the opposite, non-robotic ways if exposure to the television age were not so all-enveloping. it doesn’t scare me that every other part of us is connected except for the consciousness that seems so because of the innovative, ever-expanding limits that provoke a culture to move, but those that know methods of control use those abilities to a crooked end at some point. the divorce between conscious form and body makes for an interesting mirror in self parody, and there are few people actually willing to confront the natural blatancy of stupidity that we are all subject to in one manner or another. the blunders intrigue, though not in an altogether bizarre pattern, but otherwise random falls around planned movements of thought and structure.

A giant machine like that has to toil away day and night in order to use others to reinforce the same behavior in indoctrinating anyone else that might have been primed into training, spreading at least a diseased idea transforming the culture almost overnight, and trying to feed itself upon the wounded in a veiled attempt to bleed the dry of any resource. the trance that everyone entered seemed put into action all those generations ago, like some momentous cattle prod that set things in motion, and always with the seeds buried somewhere in those systems wrought by long dead chauvinistic animals we might confuse for ancestors. the more immediate trend is to side with ones own relatives on the basis of keeping dead cultures alive, passing the insults intermingled with loving acts of generosity, but not everything can be considered altogether perfect inside of that system either. as the flaws get exploited once their weakness is exposed, and this translates into the awful habits practiced by the dominant species on this planet, also cluing us into our past as a primitive humanity that shat and destroyed as a whole. those disgraceful animals become the long dormant guides hidden between densities of consciousness, slowly seeping into the metaphysical atmosphere, but more like a wound than a soiled patch of ether. the organic machine, made of its skulls and bones, tries to secure a position of specialty somewhere in the greater picture based upon raw assumption and drive. to move anywhere takes effort, and a stomach for travel, though only when the time is ready it would seem. linked in thought with one another in the grand cycle gyrating along with contradictory efficiency. flights of fancy, maybe, and also imaginative arrays of living understanding. abstractions provoke thinking instead of offering easy answers. the possibilities of becoming enjoyed only through realizing the various truths.

These are some of the concepts the structure of society uses to break the young child from those early schooling periods onward. grinding us through a precursor to consumer culture, and to those who might seem to individuate the most are sedated into dense humors, chemically lobotomized for the good of the classroom situation. is this where we want to be standing in the light of oblivion’s twisted fist-to-kiss? speaking through a rough sketch of science fiction dreams come to reality. the endless array of books and shows that have opened the doors of perception straight into the imaginary realm. where menageries of gilded concepts float in wait, to be plucked from their stem to be revealed to the world, but the flowers growing from these sockets where eyes once grew hint at the darker and less permanent aspect of ego-driven madness. the guess on my part says we are in this dark age still because it never stopped, and we got Here through the efforts of those to have come before us, without consent or due credibility considered. plagues and famines and attacks of all severe form have come as well, and left us scarred and scared by any potential there might be that worse is on the way. there then we have a release valve managed through the power channeling energy into expression, it is from that same imaginal realm that we find these words with which to say something other than chilling reminders of the cruel nature underpinning every concept in reality, and that which gets expressed in our music at times. squeezed out as a relative by-product of progress, the creative scenes out there in the real world only redefine the nature of everything as it changes through a myriad of different lenses that make up the overall body of society, and yet the crazy still crawl around on their hands and knees.