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
Last weekend, Kanye West stunned fans and family alike when he revealed his music and very existence to be a side project of Japanese pioneering industrial musician Merzbow.
From the press conference transcript:
REV. AL SHARPTON: “Where is all this leading? What are your goals for this realm?”
WEST: [Pitches voice into eerie Mike Tyson impression] “Unstoppable terror!”
KURT LODER’S GHOST: “Jiminy jillikers!”
This was actually one of the few intelligible portions of the twelve hour conference, through which the enigmatic hip-hop figure repeatedly promised that great destruction will come from an unspecified area in “the West.” No comment yet as to how this will affect future sales of West’s work or why—if he actually is Merzbow—his drums sound so flat, though an official press release states that Yeezus is best henceforth enjoyed through the new Harsh Noise Wall By West headphones.
This announcement comes at possibly the worst time for the music industry, as more and more consumers push for transparency of Reptilian agendas. I myself have been the target of systematic harassment from industry officials and fringe-industry thugs. On Monday I was slapped about my body, repeatedly and without warning, by R&B heartthrob Drake outside a lavish mansion (not his), which was admittedly less painful than having to see his poor cuticle care up close. Columbia Records CEO Rob Stringer rides day and night past my house on his bike yelling that that I have “a weird butt, like if a lobster had a butt,”—but he won’t tell me how he knows. Mysteries wrapped in enigmas, languishing on the CD racks for the industry’s remaining target crowd—the Target crowd.
Despite these high-level intimidation tactics, I refuse to back down. I know my cause is just, and right. It’s something I’ve known ever since I smoked those cigarettes I found in the bus and which tasted like skin and magic markers. The music industry has had their way for far too long. This veil of lies will crumble beneath my hands like dust on a Baha Men single. It’s long past time. The pack of mysterious producers outside, circling my house in red hooded robes and cursing god in tongues long thought dead really need to check their privilege.~
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