Industriographic Copy
'Like most stories involving aliens this one seems, well, made up. But it really happened.
For a few years in the late 60's to early 70's worlds collided and aliens walked among us. And made music. This magical moment lasted for 3 short years producing only 3 releases: 1 - 4 song EP + 2 - 7's. Today, these 3 original releases are the most sought after and most elusive African funk records. It took Frank Gossner (Voodoofunk.com, Soulpusher, DJ Franco) 4 years, 9 visits to Ghana, and dozens of newspaper ads and radio announcements to track them down.
Alibaba.com offers 1,559,014 printing machine products. About 9% of these are multi-function packaging machines, 5% are digital printers, and 4% are carton printing slotting die-cutting machine. T need drying after printing,which can dry instantly during printing,very suitable for industrial use. Free lifetime technical support and 24hours. Turner Design is a multidisciplinary design studio, in Charlotte, North Carolina, with expertise in Industrial Design, Product Development, and Graphic Design.
Psycho African Beat is the complete recorded output of this amazing group and their unprecedented music that combined elements of American soul, funk, garage rock and psych with African rhythms and melodies.' MEVAS BANK QUEEN`S ROAD CENTRAL BRANCH, HONG KONG. Good Day, Please kindly accept my apology for sending you this email without your consent. I believe you are a highly respected personality, considering the fact that I sourced your email from the peoples search database on the web during my discrete search for a foreign partner whom can assist me in taking this business to it success.Though, I do not know to what extent you are familiar with events. I have a proposal for you.This however is not mandatory nor will I in any manner compel you to honor against your will, but I hope you will read on and consider the value I offer. My name is Mr. Jerry Ntai,I am the Head of Operations in Mevas Bank, Hong Kong.
I have a business proposal in the tune of $22,700,000.00 to be transferred to an offshore account with your assistance if willing.After the successful transfer, we shall share inratio of 40% for you and 60% for me. Should you be interested, please respond to my letter immediately,so we can commence all arrangements and I will give you more information on the project and how we would handle it. You can contact me on my private email: ( ) and send me the following information for documentation purpose: (1)Full name: (2)Private phone number: (3)Current residential address: (4)Occupation: (5)Age and Sex: I look forward to hearing from you. Kind Regards, Mr Jerry Ntai'. The email inbox for Awkward Magazine tends, for the most part, to stay relatively static.
I get the odd email from industrious artist friends like Carl Gent and Ian Pons Jewell about their exciting new projects and exhibitions, as well the occasional bona fide submission for the zine, but for the most part the communicative landscape remains fairly barren. I have to admit that I rather like it this way, for instance I'm yet to receive one electronic prank call telling me that my bank account has been awarded 7 Million Pounds, a transaction that simply requires an email reply containing the actual details of said account, plus full name, home address and birthdate for completion. The relative inactivity of the account also means that all and any correspondences are met with full care and attention, which makes events like today's all the more joyful. While admittedly this fanzine's content bears only an abstracted relation to its title, the eloquence Mary Cappello is using to relate her chosen subject can only help to bolster the understanding of what it is that we - Awkward Magazine - are trying to do here. I mean, Awkward (the zine) could have gone in lots of different ways.
It could quite easily have turned into a comedy routine; a juxtapositional exercise in the jolt of incongruous collage; an account of its various authors' most self-conscious moments. What I happily think that it has actually become is something far harder to categorize, something like a collection of works that each don't quite fit, but are fitted, together, in some sheets of paper, and delivered to your door, for a reason that none of the involved parties quite understand in its entirety. It's this edge of understanding and comfort that I guess is the most important thing as far as Awkward is concerned. I get the impression that Mary Cappello's effort is something of a tidier, more eloquent, professional affair, being a series of memoirs and historical layers, you know, like a real proper book like wat an aktual orfar as rit, but envy aside, I really hope that there is some kinship somewhere in there somewhere between the two namesakes. I went to art school and studied video art for three years.
I sat through silent 2 hour Stan Brakhage films and I am still deeply in love with many of the things I saw, the experiences I had and the thoughts that I thought I thought during that period of intense revelation, experimentation and aesthetic awakening. It may sound arrogant but the reason I mention that stuff is because to me that's where TSOTS belongs, up there with the best there is. Now I'm not saying I'm right and I'm not saying that Pontus' film has the grace, concentration or esquisitely distilled quality of a Brakhage or of a John Smith or of a Maya Deren piece, but what I am saying is that it is really, really, really good. The Strongest Of The Strange isn't necessarily about process in the same way as much of the great, cannonical video and film work of the recent past. Instead it is a film about being alive and doing what you love. At the end of the day it is 'just' a skateboard video, and as such it also belongs 'down there' with your home movies, with the camera phone clips of drunk adolescent friends jumping into bushes, with the crappy iMovie edits you made at sixth form college.
Of course it also belongs alongside the boundlessly beautiful video your parents shot at the hospital the day you came into the world, you know, the one where your Dad furtively wipes a tear from his eye as he gets nudged into frame. This synthesis of relation, or synergy of belonging, or cross pollination of genre, or whatever you choose to call it is part of, but not the whole reason why I feel so enamoured by Pontus' skateboard films. He includes so much of himself in the work that it becomes impossible not to judge him and the video as the same thing.
Try emulating that. It's pretty fucking difficult.
I think the real trick might be to remain relentlessly naked, honest and aspirational about what it is that you mean to the things, the people and the spaces around you, and to keep on doing that every single day. It's no mean feat and translating it into moving image is a whole other kettle of fish, but I'd venture to say that when you get it right, you'll know, because it feels almost exactly the same as waking up from a dream where all of your best friends were around you.
The only major difference with video is that it is drawn from time and posited in potentially infinite different times, and spaces, in lots of different somewhere elses, where it sits waiting in binary form for any old Joe to come along and extract the contents, either whole or piecemeal, from inside its digital capsule, sucking what they please into their day, or their night, whenever, wherever, whyever they choose, setting it apart from the way in which we each experience each other's human times. As people, rather than as representative codes of 1's and 0's. Depending on how and why and where and when you look at it. But I'm getting lost. Don't you just love the crunch of blood-free bones?
There's no guilt, no expensive and inconvenient legal proceedings, no mess, no panic and no need to claim self-defense when all you get caught doing is simultaneously hacking in half a couple of drained pig carcasses in a hygienic, sales based environment! You can even take the time to adjust your protective eyewear before plunging the enormous razor sharp phallus like an ornamental knife through warm butter deep into the skull of the large sow you've ergonomically stapled to a brand new wooden post. Luxury incarnate. The video embedded in this probably quite laborious post comes from the original soundtrack for the 1984 film Decoder, a low budget cult affair featuring cameo appearances by the late William S. Burroughs and musician/transgenderist Genesis P. The film is beautiful in a raw, industrio-psychedelic fashion.
Both of the big cameos give pretty weird, awkward performances but it's worth watching all the same. Like a decent Ballardian B-movie. It's apparently based around or 'inspired by' Burroughs's ideas about sonic virology, a concept first outlined in his seminal publication on the subversive potentialities of sound and technology, Electronic Revolution (1970). The book contains (amongst other things) ideas about the 'language virus' itself, Burroughs's cut-up method and the use of sound recording and the human voice as weapons. Richard Kirk from industrial avant-garde band Cabaret Voltaire sights Electronic Revolution as 'a handbook of how to use tape recorders in a crowd to promote a sense of unease or unrest by playback of riot noises cut in with random recordings of the crowd itself.'
Steve Goodman is variously known as Professor of Musicology at The University of East London, label boss of underground U.K dance music giant Hyperdub, acclaimed electronic music producer Kode9 and as the author of a fascinating philosophical treatise entitled Sonic Warfare (MIT Press, 2009). As Goodman terms it; we are today dealing with the dynamics and application of 'affective tonalities in the Industrial-Entertainment Complex' and 'the politics of frequency itself'. These are the kinds of ideas that Decoder sets against a backdrop of hyper-capitalist industry, impending spiritual apocalypse and ineffable individual isolation. I liked the film; the textures it deliverd, the mood it created, its lack of compromise and it's luscious low-fi, made-in-a-blacked-out-garage feel. As a student of the more subversive arts however, it disappointed me in a couple of quite important ways. Firstly, I fell asleep at least once.
While this may well be 100% my fault and is certainly 100% my problem, it wasn't just my lack of zest that set me to dozing I don't think. The pretentiousness of the narrative sincerity became quite boring after a while, especially as most of the acting was so dismally guarded. The reliance on narrative in and of itself betrays a lack of conviction in the ideas that the narrative here pursues, specifically Burroughs's ideas about cut-up techniques and true deconstruction/reconstruction - to coin a phrase from Doctor T. Leary, 'pyschic imprinting' - which seem better suited to writing, musical production and more formally experimental forms of the still and moving image than to narrative cinema per se. Decoder did make me feel uneasy; it succeeded in temporarily breaking down some of my preconditioned responses to social taboos, as well as those of my own subjectivity. But I wasn't in a crowd, and I never felt quite uneasy enough. What I think I'm trying to suggest is that the narrative form itself acted as something of a buffer against existential experience proper, keeping psychic activity just beyond arm's reach.
The editing, brutalist aesthetics and hyper-diegetic sound design were all pretty abrasive, satisfying some of the lust for sensory overload the viewer may or may not have been predisposed to. There is a prolonged Dreammachine sequence for example; a self-hypnosis tool propounded by many a transcendentalist artist, including not insignificantly Burrough's long term partner in crime Brion Gysin, as well as by Genesis P. Orridge and the cohorts of Throbbing Gristle in the U.K in the 1970s and 80s. The soundtrack is possibly the strongest thing about Decoder, although there are definitely some really 'cool' scenes in the film.
About twenty minutes in for instance, once the angst and isolation of the weirdo-protagonist have been fertilized and the fruits of rebellion begun to blossom. A mesmerizingly pretentious scene takes place wherein the junky-chic, deadpan beauty, peep show starlet girlfriend of the male lead delivers a soliloquy about the symbolic significance of the frog in the spiritual languages of the ancient world. 'I read that they're a symbol of fertility or the amniotic fluid.
Industriographic Copy And Paste
For the Mayans they symbolized the vagina: Mucho.' Cutting between the two faces, we see the pair each on the phone, one in blue light, one in green. 'Got a light?' A cigarette lighter enters from left of screen and a two-shot reveals the couple in their shared apartment room, situated like pop videos in poised pose. They've both got dark glasses on and there are frogs lolling around all over the floor, the silver futon, and the girl. Despite my fairly directionless criticisms, it's not hard to imagine some-where, some-time, some suitably weird scenes in and outside of cinema screenings of this film.
Ultimately though I'm left wanting to compare Decoder unfavourably to David Cronenberg's superb 1991 adaptation of Burroughs's famous novel Naked Lunch. The key differential is that where Decoder attempts to insert theories of Ontological Anarchy and Poetic Terrorism into a risque, cool, dirty movie, Cronenberg's Naked Lunch instead takes the 'Art' of Burroughs and emblazons it in masterfully onto controlled celluloid. Maybe that's an unfair comparison, like pitting a spirited bare-knuckle gypsy against a zen master in a game of chess boxing, but as Oscar Wilde spake through the mouth of Lord Henry, 'comparisons are odious'. It was a shit load of fun and thanks a million to everyone who helped make it happen and to everyone who came along. Now if you could please buy the bloody zine because I forgot to make them available for sale at the launch party after having gathered probably dozens of potentially interested customers. I regret that. Jack Carr, quite good at writing dialogue, very bad at selling things.
I think the magazine might actually be really really good as well, so there's another reason to at least stay in touch. And I'd love to say that this was the sweat James worked up playing his set, which culminated in some unprecedented aggressive banana eating, but as true as that last bit is, I think he's sweating so much here because we'd all just been loosing our minds and shaking our asses to an hour of sweet, deep, earth shaking 80's dancehall and digital reggae thanks to the talented Luke Branston aka Cool Hand Luke, who incidentally appeared on the front cover of Awkward Issue 1. Luke is seriously the best DJ ever and in my opinion put pretty much everyone else to shame on the wheels of steel.
Nice one boss. Ben and Emma supplied the wicked (ware)house, about a hundred guests, a lovely, open atmosphere, 4 or 5 djs, after-party cleaning services, as well as their beautiful selves and all they got in return was this lousy blog post. Oh and a short term loan of the fabled Kazoogle. The party was also in celebration of Emma's birthday as well as a launching pad for Awkward, a a fact which was largely overlooked in keeping with the distinct lack of 'magazine launching'. I think it's safe to say that everyone was far too busy enjoying themselves. Behind all that hair and sweat and other fun stuff is Awkward contributor Rosemary Kirton.
Rosie has been on board since day one and I have her artistic fervour to thank in no small part for the continuation of the zine. Some new work of Rosie's will undoubtedly feature somewhere in Issue 3, which is coming soon to a collapsing, piss stained magazine pile next to a toilet near you! Currently in the works is a cartoon strip collaboration with distressingly talented painter and illustrator Ryan Humphrey (I was introduced to Ryan's work at the recent Fine Art graduation show in Farnham at The University for the Creative Arts, where I was instantly seduced by it's simplicity, skillfulness and gallons of style. Definitely one to watch.
(photo by Alex Milnes). Awkward Issue 2 - Awkward is a book project comprised of short stories, images and little experiences that happen inside and outside the heads of the makers.
What seems to be the idea behind the project is to create a collision of works, but not to have a unique theme involved. In some ways this can create difficulties in consistence and follow-ability in reading and viewing. This was seen in the previous issue, but not so much in this issue.
There have been critical choices made for the Awkward audience, but how have these choices been made without a theme or context? The direction seems to be purely a force exerted by the act of collection, the way the choices are made is curatorial rather than editorial, or like a writer working on the flow and sequence of the words rather than just the polemic. The point is not encased in themes or just one piece of work. Its point is made by its entirety, though it does seem to have two principles running through it; imagination and narrative.
The way the collection is laid out seems to be much like a conventional catalogue from an exhibition, which can give a flow to the audience's thought if done well enough. In Awkward, the layout choice does give clarity to each work and does not create a feeling of being overwhelming to the viewer or singling out individual pieces of work. The idea of narrative is being used here in terms of the layout; to create a dialogue between the imaginations at work and to show a correlation or confliction of expressions effectively. The principle of imagination is seen heavily in the majority of works. What is meant by imagination here, are those grand or epic depictions of the unbelievable that will stay unbelievable. These stories are not ‘lived’ in today's societies but some stories show the fine line between real and unreal by overlapping them.
These stories do require you to use your imagination or to be a part of the writer’s, illustrators or the photographer’s imagination. What is refreshing to see is that these tales are ‘written’ with such compulsion, that even though they are obviously budding writers, they are still able to reach into you and take you somewhere else. This is only the second issue and so it is hard to say where it could go from here, but so far so good. In some ways this not a magazine, a fanzine or booklet but a notebook made by many people. (Samson Blond).
150 copies of Awkward Issue 2 were sitting on my dinner table in a nice square cardboard box when I got home from work about 10 minutes ago. I'm nervous about letting them out into the world. I'm nervous because I'm exposing myself. I'm nervous because I don't know what I'm doing.
I'm nervous because I put a poem of mine in there that makes me sweat with embarrassment. I'm nervous because I really do care what you think, although I know I probably shouldn't. 'Art should be imaginative, not authoritative - kill that fearful and mawkish voice inside you that disallows poetry!' - as my very good friend Toby Dyter said to me only yesterday. So then, Awkward Issue 2 is available as of right now.
Containing documentation of the brain farts of the following fine folks: Jane Isaac Franciska Waskiewicz Jack Carr Rosemary Kirton Andrew Carlin Ben Powell Alexander Milnes Florence Poppy Deary Javena Rahamantya Wilkinson Andrea Kearney Toby Dyter Gene Limbrick Ian Pons Jewell Samson Blond and Ashleigh Marsh If you'd like one, simply send £2.75 via paypal to trustthedarkmen@hotmail.com and don't forget to add the address you'd like your copy sent to. Get in touch about paying through any other channels, or indeed with any other currency. Thanks, Jack.
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