Look kid, we don’t give a fuck about the exact co-ordinates that bound your taste. We are not trying to convince you of anything. Feel free to shackle yourself with as many style chains as you please, it’s your life. What we say is that, if you understand where we’ve been coming from since day one, then you’ll appreciate where we are going today. Our destination is a no-man’s land where mutant foxes raid the bulging coops of a cultural behemoth in reproductive overdrive.

We wake up ravenous every morning, at night we return to our lair bloated and satisfied. It is the mix of flavours that keeps us strong.

We first heard DJ Nate in that legendary mixtape which SALEM put together for us a long time ago- tip of an obsidian Juke iceberg disjointing chi-hips with epileptic micro-fractures. Well, the good dudes at Planet Mu have got on the transatlantic express to bring us some of the outputs of that bewildering scene in yummy vinyl.

We are still trying to figure this shit out like clueless tourists parachuted into a hip hop metropolis of impossible angles where the holy tablets that the Bomb Squad and Rakim brought down from Mount Sinai have been torn to pieces and scattered into the wind by a cadre of subsonic heretics.

Make ‘em Run (out in August as part of the Hatas our Motivation EP) is booty call fodder for a Brian Yuzna happening, or a sickly parallel branch in the evolution of the art form where Afrika Bambaata ditched Trans-Europe Express in favour of Metal on Metal- or Terry Riley’s You’re No Good.

DJ Nate- Make Em Run

Rammellzee (rest in piece in the scrapyard of the psychedelic motherships) would be proud.

George’s Quartz cover of Harry Nilsson’s off-kilter hit Coconut kicked off Tommyboy’s fierce ‘Don’t Mess With Texas’ mixtape. Well, here you have it in all its crawling Z-series bad trip.

Watch how the pseudo-dada comedy of the original warps into the obsessive exhortations of a freak circling you, the victim, tightly leather-strapped to a tottering chair in a horrid torture chamber deep under a decaying manor laden with filthy 50s memorabilia, photographs of buff German men in bondage outfits (that would be the D.A.F. jacket artwork) and vermin.

The protracted transition from your current position into a gaping pit whence skulls grimace expectant is soundtracked by this fucker, still camera zooming into the mascaraed eyes of your satanic judge until you can see yourself reflected in his dilated pupils, hands brandishing a triangle of light which is a wicked blade looming closer and closer, to compose an anthem of pain with strips of your body.

This flamboyant exercise in flesh origami almost grants him the closure he strives for, but not quite. Your last memory is a long drop,  his melodious whistling as he washes his hands before walking upstairs.

Thud.

George Quartz- Coconut

We are honoured to share a place with Mssr. George Quartz at the Altered Zones platform that shall be launching tomorrow Wednesday.

Epilogue -
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