Last Friday, your 20jazzfunkgreats explorers slipped into a sensory deprivation chamber connected to a High Definition TV set and flicked between BBC’s factual psyche-scientific repertoire and bouts of carnage in the windswept taigas of the Hellghast world. The unlikely collision of theoretical physics and relentless headshotting released a myriad diminutive particles which were meticulously collected with a butterfly catcher, and rearranged over the surface of the basilisk-footed coffee-table, smidgens of a theory that explains the nature of the vibes that we bring to you on a daily basis (approximately).
The deal is thus: We are a holographic projection of information encoded in the 2-dimensional event horizon enveloping a black hole in the deepest reaches of the Universe. What you hear are imperfectly translated shadows of a perfect pop architecture forged in the carcass of a Supernova, and endowed with just about enough energy to escape from the claws of its infinite gravity well, animating the dreams and muses of the quantically attuned. This is the sink where some of this cosmic debris precipitates, odd and beautiful.
Arrange a Beowulf cluster to parse a billion parallel lines of non-descript psychedelic trance music and compile their genealogy.
At the most basic level you will find the parameters of a joyful model long ago corrupted. Retrieve them from the land of Obliviorama and let them evolve in a synthetic world whose basic building blocks are the prose of Lord Dunsany, high resolution imaginary from deep space probes, and selected minimal composition scores.
After a few thousand iterations, a creature emerges from this data soup, with feathers of a shocking chromatic scale, like M83, and echoes of Lucky Dragons’ soothing purr. Its dominant survival strategy is love, and it drives the ecosystem into equilibrium.
Apply super-conducting electrodes to a 1980s psychic amalgamation, run the output through an open source game engine to recreate a poetic teenage bedroom wallpapered with images of obscure divas, chunky stereo system and a large mirror. Insert Konnichiwa into the tape deck, press play and let your super-eye-lined avatar dance through the night.
China Maiden taps into the same well of esoteric pop wonder as the Knife did in their pre-Silent Shout glimmering incarnation, but varnishing it with trebly Freestyle paraphernalia. An avalanche of non-linear reveries ensue, like A-Ha’s Take on Me if it had been penned by Yellow Magic Orchestra, which truly is something.