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"Dr. Horse, Wild Turkey mooded, bootlegged, heats tobacco tip, sucks coronary smoke inward, illicit minded. Awake as if snakebit, a torrent of sweats, heart's motion a drum 'n' bass beakbeat, he had fallen head first out of a dream. Set in Mexican motel room, his own shaped shadow blocking hall light yet sufficient luminescence for nightmare glimpse of fishnet serpent writhing by satin shrouded alterbed where groins desire lay only one hour in past time. Whispers at the dark end of the street. Radio came on with a blast - an Acapulco disco bump groove - the fat man at the desk lip-zipped on psycho-sexual manifestations.
Just stepped out for worms liquor and narcotic plant after three straight shifts. "Taxi," yells Horse. "Take me to another part of town." Dozed in Chimpera noodle shop. Now faced with life's upset. Club managing in Mercurius Port - interplanetary e-mail booking - like clocks tick in an eternal circle. Waking life's admin little different to the nightmare's dark messages. Tired of programming music's background lull for dull-witted cerebralists. Meet 'n' greet Earthside couch parties and corporate champagning with drive-by shooting thought's masked by shiteater's grin and glad hand. Horse, doctor in audio destabilisation, prescriptions punishable, assignations dubious, marginal tasks variable, turns to Eathside remedies now available on Offworld media.
Like beer's stomach settler boom in moderation, nerves calming not always sourced in volumes of mellow. The Doctor's blue desires - notorious back home - emotions bizarre cuisine of sweet and bitter. Jack, that cat was clean, he murmurs realistically. "Baby I love you I want you I need you for ever come on back to me let me pump you all nite long" not rich or strange enough for Dr. Horse's overloaded blood. Too lowered in life's humpbacks. Too mush rising on top. Horse needed slow songs about murder, despair, life's injustice, financial vacuum, cross-dressing, flesh texture, foreplay and sleep as much as the planet's other half-needed songs about groins requirements after candlelit supper for two.
Dr. Horse accessed his collection - music called for soul once upon a time in a far off country - found items not available by absences in source material, Horse punched in switchback selection for emotions in-depth explorations of sound-word-feeling-rhythms. He cut them form a timeslice notable for uptown moods contrast of urbane sensuality and identity rehab leavening despairs pit of dashed aspirations after FBI's trickeries, war's end and economic downturn. Cool as the next fool, Horse enjoyed a disco bump but found trenchant pleasures in narcotic reversions to the infant state, agonised urban fear cries heard on discos downside, sensual skin touch after the boom-boom stops, melting into sleep states, dried tears clarity, hybrid tropic languor, machine sex and long distance love's longing.
Planetside and disengaged, Dr. Horse felt veins open, flooded by gush of aliveness. Caught up in complex emotions, chasing a dream, glad to be unhappy, remembering who he was and what he was to himself. Far inside the vibrations of a silent scream. By imagination's implant, sonic concentrating, Earthside recall, he followed Al Green around a vocal booth in Royal recording Studios, 1320 South Lauderdale, Memphis, Tennessee. Heavy lidded, Green lifts himself out of this world, circles in a trance of convulsion and loss, walks away from the microphone, claps in ecstasy. Dr. Horse is absorbed in the words "Grains of time," he ponders. "What the mothership are grains of time?" Whispering in the aether talk, he thinks he hears a faint reply..."you're a fish, I'm a water sign"...."Float on," he tells himself. Some questions, only a ballad he can answer.
David Toop"
― henry s, Sunday, 21 August 2011 13:46 (twelve years ago) link
six months pass...
six years pass...