(Where we share some bits from the diaries of future curmudgeon extraordinaire & gallic cyber-problematiser Alfred Tessier-Guilleme, moaning about what life is like in 70 years or so. We can totally get away with it because he hasn’t even been born. All hail H.G. Wells!)
We have reconstructed the concept of love for our new era.
Life stretching technologies have obliterated all aspirations of intimacy and permanence. Every single assumption underpinning the religious cliché, ‘til death do us part’ has been violated. We have killed death, and in doing so we have killed life.
In an infinitely connected world, there’s no telling between me and you, or between you and them.
Sexual intercourse, the last redoubt of pure physicality for the future shocked inhabitants of the pre-singularity, is now preceded by systems engineering foreplay, as the compatibility between cybernetic enhancements is assessed, updates downloaded, firewalls lowered, virus suites activated. It feels like an awkward merger between the IT systems of two lumbering corporations.
Pornography has reached its logical conclusion, the metaphorical pump to which the old priapic colossi aspired has become the standard in the business. At its most abstracted, it reminds us of those old videos of shuttles coupling in their orbital boudoir, before we gave up on space.
Romanticism is a lost craft, gone with the old world and its obsolete, irretrievable media formats. A few nostalgic tribes scour the Net and dusty archives in ruinous libraries for evidence of the way we used to feel or, at least, what we said about what we felt . Some of them even try to recreate, using archaic technologies, the kind of sound content that used to be the backdrop of love. Music, they call it. Another ghost from the past.
Trust hail from Toronto. No, scratch that, Trust hail from some twisted edit of 1980s Europe, where bubble-gum tastes of fear, and the freaks dance under a grid of shadows cast by squadrons of strategic bombers on never-ending patrol. Aesthetically, they know that their synths are the only possible source of colour in this defcon 2 world. Clairvoyantly, they anticipate the holocaust and sing accordingly. Their ballads live in a fragile limbo between here and the aftermath.
FTF is included in their Bulbform 12 on Sacred Bones.
‘Find out for Yourself’ closes the savage exercise in versatility which is Balaclavas’ Snake People album in a surprisingly pastel note. It sounds like one of those moody 1980s soul ballads, perhaps even a Sade instrumental, vomited back by a clan of ghouls shacked up in a gristleized industrial park, trying to hang on to their love all the same.
The record is out on the 18th through Dull Knife.