(Otoman architecture via 50 Watts)

As we descend parallel to the spike that impales the heart of the province over which our tower rises we reach a damp oubliette whose walls are covered in mysterious scribbles, the descent continues into the darkness, but we have never gone further, for an old man of foreboding countenance lives here, and his dire warnings about the dangers that lurk beneath are rather convincing. When in doubt, it is this blind oracle that we approach for counsel.

-We salute thee, old blind man who scribbles hermetic nonsense in the fungous walls.

-And I salute you back, dim and scrawny minions of the multifaceted beast who coils in the pool accreted from the dark dreams of a myriad psychics. What is your plea?

-We live in doubt o sage, for these are confusing days. We hear some respected commentators say that the culture that feeds us is devouring itself like a nostalgic ouroboros of past-dipping tail, we fear that our fetishism for the uncanny sounds of yore may be somewhat contributing to this outcome. What do you say to this, you who lives closest to the viscous pools that nurture our broadcasting?

-You think of yourselves too highly, and the Gods beneath laugh at your childish impudence. But I’d advise you not to worry. I have been watching you for long, and I’ve seen you trash in the turbulent winds of your racial culture like the chromatic fool of ancient pagan processions. I know you mean well, when you instinctively seek to stitch together a gestalt tapestry of fantastical reverie, and understand that it leads you to tap on certain sources of antique genealogy with metronomic frequency. That’s your schtick, there’s nothing wrong with that.

-But aren’t the Gods sick of our constant kneeling at the feet of handlebar moustached, leather gloved totems, analogue alchemists and cruel divas of sirenic pitch?

-Ha, how quaint you are. The Gods don’t listen, they speak, and you listen but you don’t understand, most of the times. All I can say is that they care little for your futile exertions, or your polysyllabic drone. But neither will they disapprove, for as long as the tribute that you pay, and the tribute that those you are the vessel of pay, is true of heart and in the direction of the psychedelic Mecca, not some egotistical altar of yourselves and themselves, or undertaken with that ironical sneer which truly is the canker which dulls the apex of the Manslowian pyramid. The intent of the effort you run along with is serious, but you shouldn’t be. Avoid sliding into the pit of meta-analysis, which is the death knell of fandom. Now run away back to your twisted playroom, I’ve got some gobbledygook to graffiti, shoo!

(The becloaked 20jazzfunkgreats cult climbs in sniggering procession to its sound chambers, where it will continue its Warhammer 40K campaign to the tune of some bombastic synthetic symphony)

20jazzfunkgreats has been seriously considering changing its name to ‘Steve Moore Stalking Club’, which is understandable given how much do the Z-series kosmische glidefests that the sage of Pittsburgh effortlessly delivers agree with our own inclinations towards the weird and the astronomical.

The always admirable Moon Glyph label is now releasing in tape format some work of his which goes back to 2004, we listen enthralled as ever.

Steve Moore – Cepheid (Original Version)

The original version of Cepheid (which was included in its definitive form in the wonderful The Henge EP) is our choice pick.

It rewinds the journey of a chaotic alien lifeform, back from its landing spot in Antarctican seracs and through the millennial trajectory that took it there from an apocalyptic battlefield galaxies far away, whence it was routed by an Eldar army whose Banshee champion wore a tunic covered in golden runes that flowed over the black fabric according to a mysterious whim. These runes contain the unsung lyrics of the SETI project disco headbanger that Cepheid is, and you can hear them if you listen hard enough.

Demon’s Souls has been our definitive video games experience this first half of the year, followed closely by Portal 2. If you have a PlayStation 3, enough trust to slide back into the ravished infrastructures of the PlayStation Network, and a few days to spare, we advise you to pay a visit to the lands of Boletaria where demons, dragons, ghouls and the odd hero await for your blade most eagerly.You will die a lot, and you will like it.

Sunshuke Kida’s soundtrack delivers the goods too, as the astonishing mutant strain off Ennio Morricone’s Exorcist 2 compositions that accompanies the video below demonstrates. But today we are leaving you with the theme tune for our guilt-ridden battle against Maiden Astraea, charitable mystic who dwells at the bottom of the valley of defilement, knee deep in a poisonous pool teeming with ghastly plague babies. It comes across like John Carpenter’s Christine Attacks if it had been produced by some 1970s (probably) French prog classico weirdo  (Massiera?  Goraguer? I say Vannier). Fantasy battles with cosmic repercussions don’t get any better than this.

Sunshuke Kida – Maiden Astraea

Epilogue -
This post is tagged with Moon Glyph Video Games