It goes dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun. I am playing Bejeweled Blitz as I listen because I am a fidget, but I realise as the clock runs out that I have forgotten the game. I have forgotten how to play it. Match. Lines. Of. Three.
What was I doing?
Brain. No. Lon- dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun
-ger functions. Why aren’t I bored yet? I keep drifting in and out of consciousness, but I’m not quite bored. How is this possible? dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun
Mention: Carter and Tutti are from Throbbing Gristle, Nik Colk Void is from Factory Floor. Throw in some bulls*** about minimalism – brain still not working – google – ah, thank you, Beeb: “The motif that recurs throughout is that of pace, propulsive forward movement, the creative interplay between the three artists almost tangible in the listener’s ears” dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun.
There’s actually a lot going on here. Layers break apart and swell together, sounds build up and drift down. That’s why I’m not bored – it’s ridiculously intricate. If I force myself out of my hypnotised state and listen to each new texture, it’s almost impossible to focus on individual sounds before the next bleep, chirrup or swirl comes in. It’s the opposite of a magic-eye picture – you can only see the whole cacophonous behemoth, and have to do a funny squint to see the little dots. It’s a live album, recorded at the Roundhouse in Camden. Pink Floyd had a residency there when they were psychedelic. OK, why has Notepad gone dark grey? My eyes are playing tricks. The cover art is making me feel sick. I should stop listening soon … just not quite yet … dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun