“This is an open letter inviting you to explore a special selection of audio/visual pleasures culled from my own musical and artistic associations and associates. This is the cult of audio.” – Audioccult Vol. 1
“In the old days, they’d go, ‘Hey, that old man died.’ Now, they go, ‘Hey, he lost his battle.’ That’s no way to end your life, you know? What a loser that guy was. Last thing he did was lose.” – Norm MacDonald
I started Audioccult shortly after I began working with Electronic Beats, in 2011. It was conceived as a way to showcase small, weird bands I thought were cool; bands that otherwise wouldn’t get coverage on such a wide platform. Over time, it became a repository for Lovecraftian fanfics about Lisa Frank and Roseanne, guides to the perfect summer or emerging fashion trends, thought-pieces on the arts, and controversial opinions about dogs—each with a soundtrack comprised of my favorite recent underground sounds. But the days of blazing in my desk chair and letting my brain splash itself across electronicbeats.net are over. I can talk about Taco Bell and ghost dildos as much as I want, to myself in the mirror. The death of TeenWorld. “WAKE ME UP INSIDE. BRING ME BACK TO LIFE.” – Me to Anna Nicole Smith in a dream.
But it’s what I’ve been saying all along: the living no longer matter. We feed on and regurgitate our dead in ways that would make their ghosts scream if they hadn’t already been recycled into iPod cases. Aaliyah reaches across the void to communicate sorrow; unfortunately her message becomes obscured beneath Drake’s burbles and baby-coos.
You say One Direction, I say Tupac Hologram
You say Skrillex, I say Whitney Houston
You say Aphex Twin, I say Kurt Cobain
You say Sia, I say Sia in four years (cast bones don’t lie, sad-but-true.wav)
You say Chelsea Wolfe, I say Per Yngve ‘Dead’ Ohlin
You say Kanye, I say Biggie Hologram (coming 12/21/16)
98% of teenagers continue to listen to living artists. If you are part of the 2% that believe the opinions of the living are void and worthless and that only the dead should be allowed to speak and grace our ears with wisdom from the next plane, share this with ten friends so that I make more money.
I hope you’ve enjoyed the last four years with me, unearthing strange sounds and words. Immense gratitude to Simona and Shaltmira, whose illustrations elevated my words immeasurably. I’ll still write things about mostly Prurient apparently on EB, and will continue to mentally ejaculate across a variety of other places, including my own³ BlackBlackGold and UnReaL. So if you liked this, you’ll loathe and despise that. Don’t click these links to lose an enslaved iPad. Also there’s now an unaffiliated Audioccult record store in NYC. It looks cool. Bye!
Extinguish the candle. Clean the sigils off the floor. And slowly, gently, inhale your soul—remember that? You can have it back. This was Audioccult, and now it’s time to arise.
Illustration by SHALTMIRA
Losing your loved ones just got a whole lot naughtier. Now you can cure your corpse melancholy by filling a dildo with 21 grams of Gram and cramming it slam up your rim-ram. Cadaver? I hardly knew ‘er, but I’m putting her in a sex toy forever. Spending a lifetime with a cherished person and then shoving their remains way up inside your guts is basically like being a really good hacker, but on the world. I recognize that many amateur memento moriphiles want to wise the hell up and fuck dead people ashes, and you don’t even need a ghost dildo to do it—anyone can can get a spectre to haunt their holes. The following are a few tips ‘n’ tricks for whaling on your cavities with the deceased until you make that gash splash or those nards barf. Bless ye.
The Momster Mash
Clean my room? How about I clean the floor with your pulverized bone and ash, mom? Not getting a job and doing yoga from Youtubes earned me my real payday. Once I crush and smush cremated birthgiver grit into the floor like zee finest wine then walla, my mushy hooves are going right inside. Now I’m pregnant with my feet.
Back when I was a teen (and occasionally as a tween) my uncle would take me to Taco Bell. Now he’s dead, and I live in Berlin, where Taco Bell doesn’t exist. Well listen up, Taco Bell’s Twitter. I’m here on a different social platform (a website) to talk about the mounds of my meaty tweets that you continue to ignore. “Hey how about a Taco Bell in Berlin” is one. “Where’s my gross one hundred percent beef burps and barfs? Where’s my late-night fourthmeal Deutsche-deal?” is another. Pile them on and wrap them up for recycling because nobody wants them. Taco Bell’s social media people just don’t care for me and my tweets much. That’s because every Taco Bell product is cooked to perfection and I’m just too raw for them.
“We’ve Heard the People, and They Say Taco Berlin Me” —Taco Bell CEO
If you believe Taco Bell should open a location for their vile liquid spume pre-pressed into pleasing tacoshape, tweet #UnWrapped because I need to consume something—anything—from Taco Bell. Bless me, Padre, for I have skipped meals one, two and three. It has been ten days since my last digestion. I’ve begun hanging around crust punks dogs and smelling their breath because it reminds me of lunch-nap dreams of Crunchwrap Supremes: a flour tortilla (warmed, softened) filled with beef (seasoned), nacho cheese sauce (warm, piquant), tostada shell (the crunch—this is the big one!), sour cream (fat reduced), lettuce and tomatoes all together, grilled up by a weedteen and ready for me across an ocean of tears and expensive plane tickets. I wish that all the crust punk dogs would run away and find homes and be happy even though their owners don’t smell like a pissed-on fart, and I wish Taco Bell existed in Berlin.
Grandpa Jeff Is Poop Now
I still remember the last thing you said to me: “Xbox doesn’t build character.” Now I’m putting the dung in bildungsroman by feeding you to a sextuplet of sows, sweatin’ an gruntin’ packed pork heavin’ to go hog wild on peepaw’s flesh and then releasing it as waste, in the manner of many animals. When I am reborn as swinekin (I have suid ether), the DNA of the pig who ate him will flow through me as well. Goodbye to rules forever. Seance results say feed my six hungry pigs.
A Bird In The Hand
Sometimes I’ll choke myself out instead of eating so I can pretend I’m choking on chalupas, nachos, flyspeck salad with extra hot sauce, funny dog commercial and kitten turd steak, and whenever someone finds me I just laugh it off with a wink and a, “Whoa, haha—too many Baja Blasts, m’man!” If they’re a cop I say it while discreetly reflecting a middle finger giving “the bird” from my smartphone gadgetscreen off my mirrored shades. Tweet #UnWrapped if you believe that social justice and equality are false concepts served for shit breakfast and stuffed inside a soggy fetal waffle shell. #UnWrap the flavor of death.
Illustration by SHALTMIRA
There’s a lot of things to like about living in Berlin. Too rarely, it’s food. Yesterday I saw a milkshake that was just a banana mashed into a glass of normal milk, and the ingenuity of its awfulness inspired me to share my recipe for 100% All-American Meatloaf. Press play on the embedded tracks from a variety of weird underground artists, and by the time you’re finished cooking your ground chuck lust will be so fucking swole you’ll need to use a trowel to scrape off the stink-stash of saliva pouring from your mouth. That’s my word.
Audioccult’s 100% All-American Meatloaf
- 8 oz. canned water chestnuts.
- 14 small bags of kale.
- Some pebbles. Note: For a nice burst of nostalgia, shriek “Barney, my pebbles!” when you add them. Also, make sure to chop off your bloody dick and flail it around your head as well. #90sKids will get this.
- 3 cups gibbon oil.
- 1 teaspoon fishnets.
It’s very important that you measure your ingredients properly. If you ever feel like, “Hey, it’s okay if I waste something,” just imagine what that chef who hates everyone would say.
Mean Chef Gordon Ramsey: [Aghast, pulling yards of wasted mesh from garbage can.] “Look at it!” [Waves mesh in face of bad cooks while voice rises in pitch like teakettle.] “LOOK AT IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII [Voice turns into dialtone from The Matrix.]
Hahah, now I’m imagining Korn showing up to get in on the fun. They’re yelling and wailing on you, calling you a disgusting lady and making you wear these boxer shorts:
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: Alex Micallef
The following are selected excerpts from a short book of writing and art I’m working on. I know this is Audioccult and all, but for once, none of the following contains references to cum. Pay it forward.
Fragment from 1. The Strangling Hymn
On a good night, by this point the sweat will have begun to drip into my eyes. It has been a blindingly good night so far. The bass is strong, the crowd is enthusiastic, and for once the monitor doesn’t sound like it’s underwater. Even better is the fog machine, which usually spurts more like John Lithgow than John Holmes, but tonight it has voided the writhing crowd almost entirely. Twisting the fuck-slick knobs before me, I line up samples and beats in geometrically perfect lines. The concrete walls sweat as Soulja Boy spins into a flock of shattered choirs, the voice of Azealia Banks refracts off binaural beats with 10x echo, and powernoise R&B is Forever 21. Genre Jesus will be in agony until the end of the set. There must be no resting in the meantime.
“This is what counts”, my blood tells me. “This ceaseless Now.”
Transcendence through the propulsion of sound. In this sealed baking container of sweat and smoke, we breed and sate lust, tempt aggressions and arrogance to a greater goal—a better perception of spatial/spiritual connections through the necessity of flesh. Skin the mediator of sensation, fetishism the product of the mind. In this corrupt plane, honest reactions are rare and must be wrenched from the human body. It must build like bile in throat, choking you out until the Real comes out your mouth. We have built an Icon of Bass to be consumed rather than worshipped, digested and rebirthed. Not in fire as the Phoenix, that child of the Sun, but in smoke and shadow.
Fragment from 13. The Orgasmic Culture
There’s a need to find meaning in life that is singularly human, and negating that (with or without malice) is widely considered a turn-off. What is it, then, that allows it to thrive so richly in our culture? What inspires us to create images, words and sounds worshipping destruction?
We’re not in the habit of deifying our nihilists, and why should we? Aside from the fact that most claiming the name are closer to mopey teenagers than existentialists, even the most clever one would be a cultural dead-end. Despite that, and despite our overall confidence in ourselves as a race, we love to terrify ourselves on a daily basis with the thought of our own annihilation. The Russians are coming. Saddam can touch us at any time. Osama Wuz Here. The Russians won’t allow anyone to come. There are weapons, and leaders, and they are not Ours. We fetishize the incomprehensible End because we fear it. Approached with a pair of tweezers and a microscope, this attempt to “solve” the logically unsolvable is strange indeed. More, it’s even somewhat gruesome—mankind’s attempt to place itself outside the natural order of things. Surrounding itself with death images is rather like a large-scale jack’o’lantern display, totems to scare off the real bogeyman. In every beautifully-rendered explosion or reverb-drenched industrial shriek is emblazoned the words “The unknown terrifies me.”
In a dream, I ride a crest of light upon the detritus of man, represented primarily as an HD inverted sneaker logo. As my surroundings disappear, I am able to reach out and touch the Truth that negates negation. As I do I realize that, in knowing everything, there is no reason to know anything. Life without questions, without natural entropy, is pointless. Perhaps this is why we’re so fascinated by our own ruin, by the idea that values and life itself either doesn’t exist, or shouldn’t. Propped up by our existential night lights, we’re all secretly trying not to bore ourselves to death.
Fragment from 4. The Separatist
The opposite of giving birth is not death. Rather, it is inverse birthing—a reclamation of something that came from you, whether flesh, emotion, or desperation disguised as philosophy. Can you imagine what it’s like to suffocate a memory? To separate the organic from the inorganic, restoring and updating the internal systems that were in place before this new life or idea was given shape? What must you sacrifice to get there? The numbing tentacles of modern medicine have expanded upon the human nervous system to the degree that any sort of pain, once just a daily part of existence, can oftentimes be snuffed out at whim. This modern philosophy has brought more than nerve anesthesia, however; it has also produced cultural forgetfulness. Pain isn’t always a bad thing, something to deny and tuck away behind walls of man-made chemistry. We see things from a different perspective when we hurt.
A man walks into a cliché social setting. “Make me one with everything,” he says. So the bartender stabs him through the heart. Through the foam of blood bubbling on his lips, the man sputters, ” That was supposed to be an allegorical joke about life!” The bartender nods and says, “So is this. It’s just a bit shitty.”
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
There’s some ruddy good collaborations happening in music at the moment. Scott Walker and Sunn O))) set the standard for mindblowing combinations, but there’s more on the horizon, including (hopefully) something that involves Bring Me The Horizon, the band who use tattoos to portray emotions.
Considering how prophetic the artist collaborations piece was (I’m looking at you, Miley Cyrus’ ghost), we couldn’t help but whip out our orbs and start predicting who’s going to work together and blow all of the blogs and online magazines away into a fine mist. Unfortunately, someone stole our gotdang orbs, and no amount of searching yielded results.
Yeah, no shit. So we’re left guessing, grasping at straws like thirsty nerds eager for a frosty shot of pinã collaba. GULP—drink up, there’s plenty!
TRAP-A-HOLICS and Mute Records
The legendary trap masters curate new Fad Gadget retrospective! Waka Flocka “brings that swag” to dead new-wave artist synths. In the making-of DVD, we see a close-up on Frank Tovey as he discusses his daughter. Special appearance by the “Damn son, where’d you find this” guy, who pops up behind Tovey’s chair wagging his tongue and screaming “TRAPAHOLICS” before the beat drops.
Taylor Swift and a rock
You’d have to live under a rock to not know Taylor Swift! She wants to rock, and this stone-cold stunner has rock cred in spades—”Ace of Spades,” that is, the classic Motorhead song written about Taylor Swift—nine years before she was born!! Once you connect the dots, it’s easy to see that Taylor Swift is a witch and should be chained to a large rock, which she’ll then be required to drag behind her forever. Also interesting allegory about how her music is a real “drag” (another term for witch house). Gravel.
James Blake and every post-indie band making SoundCloud accounts to sound like James Blake
James is known for being a real “down-to-earth” guy, but when you see how many Jameses we have lined up for you this time, you’ll say he’s out of this world! Audio LARPing: catch the wave!
LIL INTERNET and my orb
This collaboration between online audio prankster LIL INTERNET and my orb is out of this world! It’s kind of a cheat to include this in the most-wanted collabs list, since it was actually an Audioccult-funded meeting already. However, Julian just spent the whole time encouraging the orb to giggle and doodle futuristic Tinder profile slang onto notepads. The results are published below:
ORBGUIDE TO TINDER PROFILE SLANG
LTPS: loves to pick scabs
NWO: never walks outside
NSIP: no smiling in pics
DTF: drug-taking fiend
DTN: Deleting Tinder now
BAE: Blood Anointed Everyman
ITBM: I’m the Barf Man
ASL: I don’t know how to read profiles correctly