We were recently lucky enough to take our summer holidays in the margin of non, just past the corridor of fear, a few miles from the land of no mans dem. You know the place, the no zone between worlds where the playful presence of diminishing apparitions can only be told by their warm and caring eyes, just visible against the nothing. On a clear day you can see for miles around. To your left, you have the wild, intangible breadth of the afterlife. On your right lies a similar township. The locals call it ‘life’. They said it was from where we came, but we weren’t entirely sure what they meant. Thoughts here don’t seem to manifest themselves like they used to, now all we seem to get are occasional fluctuations in an infinite tone of unfathomable frequency. Down by the pool we met the nameless one who invited us back to his villa for dinner. After a few glasses of anti-chardonnay he lets it slip that he feels bad about the decision he has to make. Again, no idea what he is on about. Something about a point of no return, or a departure lounge or something. But when we crack a joke about the one at Gatwick his faded face doesn’t budge an inch. Really have to stop booking these crappy package holidays.
Anyhoo, we made it back safe and well and have a few souvenirs to share…
Kicking off sweetly with this new 7 from
Vapours of Hall and Oates condense on the cold windscreen of Robert Rental’s abandoned Ford Granada. Discarded, wrapped around a tree somewhere in Epping Forest, these new-born tears of Yacht Rock soul invigorate and reawaken as they pour down into its heartbroken engine. We travel to who knows where next to an empty driver’s seat whilst the shattered stereo attempts to play a sun-warped c30. It plays ‘Contact Sports’. It’s echoes will be our fitting epitaph.
Not out in the spirit realm for some time, but has out been for a little while in ours on skinnywolves. They be the bringers of last year’s Telepathe/Effi Briest split. We be slackers of the highest order, but operate a policy of quality not punctuality. And a tune as beautiful as this out not be denied to you dear reader, tardy or otherwise.
Soundtracking the unplanned descent of our deluxe battlecruiser into the gravitational field of a tempestuous jade moon, it’s MR666. Chicago reigns supreme once again, sending us another 10 inches worth of epic comfort delivered in a dream by a tangerine mailman. As supreme oblivion beckons from its green and unpleasant surface, we stand loyally at our posts. ‘Esteban’ pours from every available com port. As the heat of this unfortunate re-entry envelopes our bodies, Estaban’s delectable upscale riffs envelope our souls into a glorious crescendo of analogue discombobulation.
Anyone who reads this hypertext photocopy on the regular will know that chi-town boys rock synthesisers in ways that put Schultz to shame and MR666 are no exception. No release info on the record as we are here today requesting a label that might put it out. Got some live vids right here, though.
While we are hovering sinisterly atop the streets of the windy city, it’s about time we submitted a little footwork love letter. In honour of someone finally managing to get hold of some of it to release. In honour of its influence on many a 20jfg featured band such as Salem or Balam Acab. In honour of its sheer freeform creativity and existence as a true modern day underground tape network. Here be a track from DJ Elmoe.
The first time we ever heard these musics we were literally blown away. 20jfg has long been a fan of the Juke and the Ghettotech, but this evolution over the past few years is truly something to behold. In context, ‘Whea Yo Ghost at Whea Yo Dead Man’ represents a new level of musical difficulty for high end Chicago street dancers to shows their skills to. Out of context, it is something akin to having your thoughts smashed up by the Carpenters wielding an 808 after they had too much cola at the fair. Fucking awesome. Looking forward to seeing those dance floors when this stuff hits the UK……Epilogue -
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