The Cathode Terror Secretion Archives – Telekom Electronic Beats

Audioccult Vol. 24: What is Goth? Baby don’t hurt me…


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.

Right now this is me: one two and three. Life and various things got my stress peaked, and between you and me, computer screen, it feels a bit like unraveling. This, my blackblacknails chillin’ on the front page of and the rainy Berlin sky makes me feel like it’s the perfect time to talk about goth.

Last year I was asked to do an interview for a book about goth. This was very weird to me. Even as a goth I never called myself goth (which of course made me even more goth); most of the people around my age that I knew in my big-hair days were deathrockers (oh yes, that’s loads cooler), and I sort of was as well. It’s where a lot of the good dark underground rock music was in 2003. Most of these same young people also hopped right back out of deathrock, because, though it pretends to be cooler than the rest of the goth scene, it’s just as stifling, restrictive and backward-looking (and also tends to deify poor dead Rozz Williams in a bizarre way). As a post-goth I’ve been either apathetic, dismissive or downright hateful toward the mainstream goth scene (yes, that is a thing), and I was being interviewed about my blog Gucci Goth, which was, in part, a reappropriation and dissection of goth. So I wasn’t sure what to make of it. The author was a very sweet woman, though, and since I’m not a dick for the sake of dickishness I was happy to do it. Today, I was asked to once again to give an interview on the same subject, leading me to wonder if I’m generally perceived as a goth even now…if there’s something inherently gothy about me. It’s a strange idea; I certainly don’t perceive myself as such. Just because I wear a lot of black, and Docs, and creepers, and really really like Coil and fog machines and occasionally painting my nails black and vodka-cranberries…fuck.

But what does goth even mean anymore? My tagline for GG was ‘Fake Goth is the Real Goth’ because, while many legit goths hated Gucci Goth, the ideas, images and music I promoted were tied more closely to the original goth scene than ‘real’ goth has been in years. What was OG goth? Just kids dressing fucking crazy and fabulous, partying at clubs and exploring new music. It was punk with a death-glam veneer, jacked-up and jacking off. Most people were poor, and everyone was hungry and excited. Somehow that spun into a 30+ year subculture with giant festivals and progressively lamer sub-groups…most of whom are just super normal bitches with a different outfit and a false mental veneer of ‘outsiderness’ to make themselves feel special. I would consider both of the following tracks by Ethelwulf & Chris Travis and Bestial Mouths equally perfect to play in what I would consider a modern real goth club, which is why I make the parties I do.



There are two goth scenes right now: the goth scene and the goth scene . The former is, indeed, the former: the Wave Gotik Treffens, the Whitby Gothic Renfairs, the multitude of soulless and stagnant parties where people pretend to whip each other to EBM tracks they’re not even listening to. This is Mainstream Goth. The latter is what I consider ‘Whatever Goth’. Which is not meant to be a genre tag, because WHATEVER, fuck it—it’s not one thing. It’s just music for freaks. It’s the parties where you show up and Flocka is transitioning into White Ring and there’s fashion people and art kids and poor weirdos and just general mutants, regardless of dress code. It’s the oddball blog darlings reconceptualizing sounds: the Mykki Blancos, the Grimes and the Death Grips. It’s noise and pop, a dissolution of genres rather than the embrace of it. Why is it still called goth? Well…I do like those black clothes…


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Audioccult Vol. 20: The Lovers

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.

Slick hands and a body of bruises. I’m swollen, inside and out, with pleasure. An excessive weekend of cleansing dirt and fire against the sky has left me feeling desolate, yet also loved. Contrasts like this make me so appreciative of being alive (an appreciation which, admittedly, is my general default setting) though some aspects of my written and verbal output may seem temporally bleakbased. This passage through cathartic terror is how I express powerful emotions: for me it’s necessity, and I always do what feels necessary.

This weekend was about love, and self, and, for me, the creative destruction of both. The Lovers was a 24-hour event hosted by the Berlin-based collective Mindpirates. Together with four tour buses of other artists and musicians, we traveled to a remote patch of lakeside farmland to a wooded clearing filled with a massive PA, DIY sound and art installations, food and alcohol….essentially anything you could desire for a creative weekend, all for free. It was magical, an rare and special happening that was filled with double rainbows and sitars during the day, rings of fire and noise and altered minds during the night. It wasn’t an event that needed an outside soundtrack, but on occasion I found it soothing to escape into a remote area of the field and forest. Joining me during these times was a select soundtrack of ritval electronics, duplicated here for your consideration and featuring 2AMFM, Birds of Passage, Alberich, Svreca, Regis, Rrose, Vatican Shadow, Coil, Six Six Seconds, The Cathode Terror Secretion, and Christian Cosmos. It’s cleansing, like hydrochloric acid.



After such an extended period of creativity, no sleep, annnd mmmarching staaaaaarrrrrsssssssssss###########>>> the ego is shattered and what is left to say to the world, when the only translation of your thoughts after green and water and dirt and fire and bass sounds like a ghost. Stagger lightly with floating footsteps to the great vehicle and finally sleep, awaked by the urban vanity of brutal concrete and steel. When I becomes i the only pursuit is to be refined and refound in inflicted whorgasm, slick hands and mouths and flesh… is it possible to find yourself in others? Is it necessary? i forget.


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