(Part of the series where we produce posts loosely inspired by Sci-fi classics you need to have read to “be with it”)
The planet at the crux of the universe where the 20jazzfunkgreats astronauts find themselves marooned is disputed by three powers: the noble Atreides, formidable masters of the classico sound, the corrupt Harkonen, forever polluting the atmosphere with an oil-spill of viscous necrowaves, and the austere Fremen, who dominate the desert and ride the gigantic worm, worship water and spice in their rituals, and await for the arrival of the Mahdi.
This battle shouldn’t end, least any of the three elements that fuel each of the powers reach ultimate dominance, and imbalance the universe into a cascade of entropy towards the untimely abolition of time, matter and the life that latches upon both.
They all have their songs, if you listen to any of the musics that we have reported from this website over the years you should be able to trace its lineage back to one of the powers. Today we leave you with some melodies that the Fremen intone around bivouacs enveloped in sandstorm, transmitted across unimaginable distances to animate the dreams of earth-bound troubadours.
If the Boredoms are the Bear, and Deerhunter are the Wolf, then Hotel Mexico are the Manta Ray dancing in that kaleidoscope of blues of which Fremen dreams are made, a majestic shape gliding on an ecstatic loop which is the refraction of dawn showering tropical fish of countless colours, and along the mighty flow of the oceanic bass-stream, it is the metaphor for awakening and growth, for life thriving across vast expanses and in its expansion building further niches interconnected in an ecosystem of great complexity which, beheld from a great distance, has a heart that beats as one.
Love in a hostile environment is a dirty and pragmatic affair, romance and courting are compressed in the brief moments of quiet between crisis and threat, balladry delivered with mongrel equipment fixed by generation after generation of self-taught machinists. It sounds harsh, like all real things.
Colleen Green’s ‘Worship You’ is a spell of square-wave fuzz and drum machine skronk which, if it wasn’t for the lovely vocal harmonies of glazed teen adoration, wouldn’t be out of place in some cassette collection of abstract german post-punk experimentalism, or one of those Royal Trux quadruple vinyl compilations of skaghead faustian bargaining.
Weld it all together and you have a brutal gem for the real indie club bound to blow up speakers and inspire many bands out there to get way more creative (or violent) with their re-appropriation of 1960s Girls in the Garage tropes.