(This is what came up on the radio the other day, distorted, obviously computer generated messages interrupting our joyful listening of WT Records’ most recent batch of releases)
Stern Overlord: “Puny humans, the time is nigh. You either get your act together and do what it takes to join the society of galactic civilisations, or we liberate your planet from you and plant another seed in it, hope that it evolves into a species willing to gaze further, one that is truly worthy of this prime piece of cosmic real state you are currently running to the ground.
A fleet of Juggernaut-class destroyers is now headed towards you, equipped with a varied array of fast-reproducing vicious predators who only find sustenance in your – to my taste –chewy and gross flesh, they will clean up Earth in a jiffy & get it ready for the next tenants. It hasn’t been the first time we have done this, you despicable mud-hugging insects, planet purging is an spectator sport, and a KDGBLNET media vessel will be broadcasting the proceedings across the galaxy in a highly immersive, even interactive (for a premium) format.”
[Chase Smith’s recent release in WT Records has many different faces: that of dancers dissolving in a sea of glam, bounce and echo, and signals from recon drones penetrating the new greens of an alien Amazonia. But the face we are seeing today is the no-face face of a swarm of black pods crashing from the sky into your cities, blasting a numbly cruel dose of Chicago machine swearwords, further adulterated by the leading engineers of Belgium’s cyberpunk intelligentsia. This is their Ride of the Valkyries, and your future is a big chrome nothing.
Buy the record here]
Nice Overlord: “The threats that my good colleague here is proffering are very true humans, the proverbial stick he brandishes is approaching the position whence it irreversibly swings toward your collective face.
But please, don’t see this as a threat, but as an opportunity. We are not menacing you with obliteration, we are offering you bliss. The sight of new stars being born, old stars sliding into senility and death, portals ajar communicating with adjacent universes, communion with species evolved in oceans of acid and clouds of fire, the wisdom and woes of eternity. I plead you, put an end to this introspected self-obsession, stop navel gazing and look up, don’t aim your Hyperloops at each other, aim them at the stars.”
[Tagwell Woods is a London-based producer whose recent WT record release stands poised in the chasm between the present and the future, like an astronaut selecting which records to take in a journey with no return; flesh ballads and silicon ballads, ballads to tend hydroponic gardens near the zero-g core of his habitat, and ballads to analyse the coupling of entire stellar systems. Acid rifts summarise the abrasion of loneliness and cosmic rays, sheets of synth float like augmented reality planet cartographies, often blank with the beautiful miracle of no-information, and therefore mystery, spectres of sirens singing a song whose call cannot be denied.
Buy the record here.]