DAGON by Andy Pickford

One can never go wrong with a touch of H P Lovecraft :-)
And so for album one hundred and feckety-several, a bat is soundly put up yer granny's night-dress. Again. I mean, every once in a while it's good to blow off the dust.
The sprawling, Earth-shatteringly self-serving mutant dwarf colossus that is Electronica, with its blind eyes still fixed firmly on its deceased forefathers and its rotting clawed hand wrapped protectively around what remains of its devilish offspring, crawls through the slime of a million patch cables, down the endless modular corridor towards the coffee machine...
Its baneful cries of longing for the past glories of yesteryear nearly drown out its few loyal denizens and their attempts at creating new things. Only those with inheritance money, sponsorships or tits, are destined to make it to the ancient Stone Plinth of Recognition. Deep down, it cannot escape the cruel uneasy feeling that everything it vents forth to the world is essentially shite, so therefore the only route to salvation is to sell more gear and promote new frowny smiley faces to carry on where its ancestors left off. It needs more coffee.
Meanwhile, safe within my garage lair, my sanctuary of shit, I proceed to weave together another tapestry of inspired electronic sounds, knowing that, trapped here as I am underneath the Stone Plinth of Recognition, those who matter to the Old God hear only distant muffled sounds from beneath their scaly feet.
I have long forgotten the reason why, only that I must. I was once young and held transfixed in the gaze of hallowed forebears, now long gone. Afflicted by the same preternatural urge to draw sublime and unsettling music from the ancient sacred devices they themselves once used.
I can but only try, to continue, to strive, aimlessly yet fixated, gradually towards that final moment where, flashing for one last time upon the event horizon, I too shall disappear up the Arse of 1975... If only I could reach that coffee machine. Maybe, by some obscure miracle currently eluding me I could patch it in to my paupers' ASS2600 recreation, perhaps for one brief moment reaching those same ancient frequencies which summoned forth such infernal monsters of the imagination, back in those long bygone days.
Well maybe not, so here's another new album of music from under the plinth.
I like that word, plinth. Like flange. Great words are plinth and flange.
Arse.

P.S. If you wondering what all was about, my apologies, but I gave up on meaningful discourse years ago when I mislaid my last reserve backup braincell. If only I had reached that coffee machine in time.

Electronic music producer since 1979. The right to experiment and to utilise any electronic sound source is important to the genre.

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