The Turntables Turn & The Base Vinyl Spins

Flooding upon the muted planet, through screen doors and over cobbled streets the Masters of Sound dance in the frenzied beating of the tribal base brigades.

The united bands of mistrals and misfits roll like a tidal bore up a dark midnight tributary into the souls of their companions who are either Angels or Demons.

Rock and Roll does not alert the enemies to their presence, instead, the clawed dragon birds and steel toned guitar growlers swoop down from the rigging with caped and gilded wings of pure-pitched feedback.

The stiletto manifestation of power chords and melodic mushrooms of alien existence start from  eye-level and rise to the sacred sky like a periscope rising from a freshly tilled grave, peering above the heads of the mute sheep who roam the world without hope or leader and who consume the bland plastic-algae that is churned out on synthetic algorithms by toxic pop-stars created within the capitalist machines of  passive merchandising.

The alternative is the original physical touch between diamond stylus and base vinyl impressions. The elector-magnetic pulses that are purely organic and warm-blooded are unleashed like black stallions fleeing the gates of mediocrity. Rising up from stony cliffs the Rock and Roll frenzy this seething mass of monster magnet music sucks our souls further inside your deepest desires.

This is the dance of  abandonment. Bringing the tender babes towards their grassy lairs to feed and devour them and to selflessly transfer the essence of their blood throughout the ether. This is the original creation of music. From the wax cylinder to the shellac wheels comes the vinyl perfection that is the pinnacle of human auditory achievement.

The digital cloning of data in in quantified fields of rectangular abstractions is no match for the syrupy touch of the warm kiss of the writhing beauty that is emitted from the coils of the speaker powered with the analog glory from a long play record.

The diamond crowned stylus reigns the kingdom of Rock

When the music could be written in a language across lines of the staff the ability to share music blossomed like an octopus’ fireworks; compositions and emotion and dance and culture and even revolution could be shared, encoded on paper.

This became an amazing way to store and retrieve the music but the organic connection of living souls was still required. One living entity had to create and compose and transcribe the music and another had to understand the graphic language and repeat it through a standardized instrumental language.

When machines were created to store actual performances of musical works the paradigm was blown wide open.

Etched shellac discs, wax cylinders and glass tubes became rudimentary devices to record sound and play it back. This evolved to vinyl, 8-tracks, cassette tapes, mp3 and new and developing quantic means of storage yet at what point does the creation of new formats for storage and playback start to become a detriment to the actual spirit and soul of the composition?

The turntable is the pinnacle of a technology that fused an artistic process from the creation through to the playback. The fragile nature of the vinyl meant it was an unique individual like a person.

There is a melody in my soul, a song I do not understand.

Slide the volume up when the din of the voices strangle your still waters. Attach your ears to the beautiful spiral umbilical cord from your auxiliary out to the padded lobe cushions on your headphones and you will dissolve away from you like a mist under a north wind. Hidden like invisible ink in every micrometer of space is the electric flower that blossoms under alternating current and sets your timpani cavity into a rhythmic strobe: the light from the stadiums stage and the barroom dance floors mingle and marry in a capsule of frozen time.

Plug in this power and set down this album. This glorious vinyl sheet etched by the artists of the wave that can be captured but not tamed. As you hear this music it grows inside your very roots the power of the song is a flammable concussion that will break you out of this brig and take you to the top of the mountain. Tear off the layers of your complicated onion like you would with her nylons or rip off her leather bustier, and you think you might just go all the way, for these Rock and Roll wings will let you fly.

Refuse the prefabricated symphonies of lust and consumption within the juvenile music industry. Find the original touchstone in the extended play mixes hidden in dusty wooden carriages in the sunset of time.

See how once you and your punk apostles lived for the night and for the fury and fascination of the beat and the drums breaking the downward power chord. 

Now in the evil robot metallic shadows the shadows of slaves choke down fish netted fetish delivered via fiber optic cables and copper-thrush networks into the airwaves, those once silent airwaves, to wrap us all in their sticky mantis traps.

The fatal tragedy of the new teenage musical creation is that it is fueled by a misanthropic distaste for all of the mankind and a horny lust for drug-fueled mush without pallet and without taste.

Artists used to create music on vibrating strings and with air through pipes and with bones on skin while now the machine has been trained with a hypnotic leash that forces all listeners into a line like cattle marching between wooden posts to the trucks waiting in the cool dusty parking lot.

This vintage storm was not created today nor was it born yesterday. This is a creation of giants and this base vinyl is the remnants of a past that con only be explored when the mind has been primed, not with the tearful melody of the songwriters sighs, but with the amplified bass guitars and kick drums sparring with the hum bucking lightning rod that is in Rock and Roll hidden in the grooves waiting to run at thirty-three and a third revolutions per second into infinity.