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So there’s basically no one else on this beaten up Vauxhall Astra (that’s just had its skeleton cage torched up) excuse for an Island nation at the minute that makes a noise that I identify with quite as intensely as Hacker Farm. This thrum has always been in my head. It’s a total stone tape unearthed from the essence of every cryptlike onetime tavern that no amount of inner city office block “regeneration” and wank-splurge Blairisms can ever hope to fully decimate. They aren’t even from the inner-city, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve always heard this. It’s the sound of all us, every time we peeped back into the monoculture and felt like we were the only people in our viaduct-pockmarked haunted mill-strewn-skyline conurbations that got off on all those awful Neuromancer rip-offs and the musty stench of intangibly harrowing family photographs hawked for 10P a pop down the market and actually wanted linear history to implode. Except now it has and we are absolutely fucking terrified. This isn’t the future, because none of us are sure what that even means anymore. Painfully human, vulnerably pro-civ. The androids are dreaming of Peter Warlock and Henry Weston.
Daniel Baker (Ship Canal)

There’s a word for this stuff. Paramusicology, maybe. Psychotronic audio. It’s like two nutters on a farm in the wilds — which isn’t so far from the truth — got an old radio to tune into the flight deck of a UFO while it committed low-level strafing runs on the minds of the Western world. It is pulsing and alien and lovely, and I haven’t heard anything like it all year.
Warren Ellis


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