Light a candle. Draw the required sigils. Now, raise your arms above your head and slowly, gently, exhale your soul. You won’t need it here. This is Audioccult, and it’s time to get low. Illustration: SHALTMIRA
Hey guys, welcome to the 68th meeting of the Rad Music Dudes-In-A-((TRIGGER WARNING))Gender((/TRIGGER WARNING))-Nonspecific-Way Club. I’m really happy to say that, thanks to the contributions of generous members, we’ve had a couple improvements around here. Our collection of rare objects and memories—the mummy hands, the photo of someone smiling at NY Fashion Week, old drink tickets from the Rave Cave—have been moved from the old china bowl where we keep our keys to a larger china bowl where we don’t, Allison, thank you very much. Also, after several meetings with the clubhouse rental space, we’ve come to the agreement that it’s totally okay to cuss and swear in the clubhouse now. I called three people floppy buttholes on my way in today like it was no biggie, including my ride. Sod off, Step-uncle Robert. Finally, you might have noticed that David Guetta is descending from the ceiling on a gossamer web. My friends, I’m tired of normal bullshit music. I want ultra-sleek house music to drop ultra-sleek ’80s sunglasses on me, piss neon Will.i.am Miami chrome on my navy-blue blazer with the rolled-up sleeves, c’est bon! That’s why David lives in our cool clubhouse now, and why we have this robot laser soundsystem and also why club dues are so high this month. Please refrain from touching his webbing, as it will burn the skin.
It wasn’t easy getting all this Guetta up in here. I had to tell several people, “Get me Guetta!”, without context and in an increasingly aggressive manner, before I even found out that he wasn’t actually actor Dennis Franz, whom I’d confused him for initially having not seen or thought about NYPD Blue in over a decade. I know, it would have been great to be able to form the word, “Sipowicz,” each time we met. But this is even better. Think about all the music we share together every week. Now imagine that music, only it’s applying fake tan at 4am in Ibiza and going, “Wooo,” every five minutes. Guetta’s doing it for us now, and all we have to do is make sure to replace his blood once every Monday and make sure there’s enough giant disco balls scattered around for him to play with. Do not take Guetta outside or get him wet, or he’ll stop working. Some of us may be required to give a monthly tithe of blood to Guetta. Be sure to tell Guetta twice a day that he’s cooler than Tiesto and his bootcut jeans are way more chill. When he’s happy, Guetta will emit a pleasant odor similar to new pleather jackets and mid-price champagne.
That’s a good question, Louise. Yes, we will have access to the various entities, substances and hyperspace orgies Guetta brings back to the clubhouse after a gig, but in return we have to call up Steve Aoki and invite him and then yell, “PSYCHE!” and hang up. Sample his tears for powerful drop at 43:57 of next mixtape. Guetta is a very good listener, and will be happy to spend time listening to your stories about the time you fell asleep watching X-Files and woke up, and it was still the same scene as when you fell asleep. He’ll have some engaging but not abrasively strong or over-the-top opinions about what that means. He’ll swap stories about the crushes you’ve both had on girls named Pepper (if this has never happened to you before, then fuck you) and if you ask him nicely he’ll play the Terminator theme for you on his synthesizer, which can also make the sun set. Guetta’s eyebrows are made of cocaine. He is the Beginning and the End, and I do believe that the End is here. He shall consume reality and bring salvation through fire. I’d also like to add that, starting tomorrow, we’ll be bringing back the Friday night Pajama-Jam sleepover, so please remember to bring sleeping bags and juice. See you then, and may Guetta bless us all.~