Uncle Lunar's Psychedelic Aqua Concerto

Note: wherever a word appears with a '2' at the end, this means it is theoretically squared, as in math terminology.

Try telling that to microsoft word;)

Any suggestions on how to adapt msw to include this as it should be would be gratefully received.

Enjoy.







Uncle Lunar's Psychedelic Aqua Concerto





Today is a good day for that first wakeful cup of Joe.



The sun's shining it's ass off for the first time in what seems like an age and I have a big meet to go to.



I neatly pack my newest giant instrument into the case I also had built special; knowing I need not practice on it again for the time being; safe in the knowledge the parameters I built into it will produce myriad2 comfortable iterations on all possible eastern tonics.



I wait for the crowd2 and my new piece to inspire yet more colourful dreams of high speed whirligigs through dextrous hills in the cowball with my Javanese maiden smiling, dancing through the air on gees and thermals; not a care in the world as the inertia and adrenaline sink their teeth into our fresh, milky souls…



…Time to go to work.



The arena is vast and oval, all we delicate few-many touching the grass and stretching out in the midday sun while our less musical protégés play, baffled, plugging our deranged concoctions into sub-jury mixers for the honour of one day being more likely to comprehend, before slinking back to the outer oval to spectate and await our grand superconductor.



I hear this time it's the Jaron construct, the honour is all mine.



We can expect a great lightshow to be part of, the multiple helium chromatophores swimming and bobbing in the ebb and flow of the tides the great Mr. Lunar conjures in order to inspire us to inspire him.



High bandwidth many-to-many philosophical feedback2 is one of the true pinnacles of this age if you ask me.



Even if you don't ask me, it's a long time we've all waited to get from catgut and vinyl bass on the four to many to this grand spectacle…



…I love it.



~*    *~


Soon all is silent and uncle J begins to send messages to his drone, this one holding an antique clarinet for some rusty, lo-fi reason…I guess he has to play the originals, even if they are ancient reproductions of even more ancient toys he used to own when he was alive.



All is heady and anticipation; the many minds encircling us await and wait long for our master conductor…he knows the longer he waits to kick the drone into life, the bigger each wall of anticipatory dreams will be before he begins crushing them into vast, new permutations by mellowly kick starting the patience and anticipations of our mush-pit.



A single chroma balloon glides out into the centre while the drone's clarinet flows a slow, droning, wavering trill across the egg.



Birth of consciousness and birth of life, this mook is surely what the creative right evolved for; we can all but hope our logical left hemispheres can hold out before full orgiastic, bombastic frenzy flows.



~*        *~



So J's trill slows to a real quiet drone, almost nothing.



The drone slowly rises in volume and a few more balloons drift toward their solo companion to echo the other voices beginning to join in, rubbing against the central chroma in circular flanking motions; some strings, some reeds, all playing fractionally out of tune and rhythm with J's oscillations, making the overtones really sing.



Scattered bass drums and toms creep in around the pit and the corresponding orbs waver into action while the mingling lights warm and cool, the thin sunblock building inwards from above the arena.



The last strays of rays shrink from the ceiling and the music slows to short, sharp and gentle bursts; the orbs lowering again and growing dimmer.



There's a nice, warm pause and the rice crispies in our ears are tingling with anticipation…nothing…



…And they're off. Jutting and rutting left, right and centre and all our machines the systems of romance.



Dense textures flowing – rushing – meandering, rising and falling;  the petit mort of the dancing squid; everyone turning one another up, down and upside down with the feedback they select from neighboring jury mixers; radiating from and inexorably back towards the dense slab of memory turning us all on…



…when all is done the nanoes pull apart the cover to reveal afresh the warm sunlight on our faces



The balloons fall and we all clap long.



~*    *~





Counting To Zero



21st Jan 2007



Hull


[Part three of bandwidth coming soon]

         Currently listening :
Richard D. James Album
By Aphex Twin