Sounds Like: omnisensorialsweepout year 2077. the Ritz_times square 3am.
1800 bouncing bodies to d&b. 77 circus performers. your face on 250
monitors. racy solitude. ahhh the amazing Gustov underwater, on stilts and flying beside a skateboard ramp. technorganic multilayered soup camp on plush red carpet . Radical Anxiety Termination. halloween. east-village. 9:30pm. kids
leave there moms to watch the remote monitor outside. inside, an inflated bubble.
the space is completely inflated with black plastic. Disneys hunted hints mixed with screams and Kenny Dope breaks. smoke, lights and the kids go wild. while shapes push in on us from outside the plastic, we kick back, scream and collapse laughing. the Song of Fuaa. summer. Brklyn Bridge Anchorage. the date one billion years ago. shifting light, currents of air, sounds, and water in falling cross-sections reveal the flight of a dancing hydroid. a lighter than air pneumatic soprano named Fuaa who sings the efforts of the body and the dreams of the mind to escape gravity. the Solar Drama. worldwide. multiple browser windows bump across some monitors. in and out a group cues sites. a camera is zoomed into one window. the sun is rising beside a smoking volcano. we dance under a projected sun live from Italy. 122 other sunrises over a single 24 hour revolution.
a real-time perpetual sun rise. Keep Refrigerated. fall. brklyn. some fri. damn chicken was sleeping in my coat. it ran through the dance-floor and jumped through a hole. punks kick off the cement in the basement strangling their microphones. crackerjack puppetry and analogue free for all upstairs. flaming barbecues in rows. greasy grinning Argentineans choke on there own laughter as they turn the flaming spits and play pool. we get down to acid house. mustard factory. 1am brklyn. watermelons explode. endless little stalls of artistoids. yelping we crawl out of a mustard silo and dodge the hi dive only to get soaked by a bellyflop. Noiselab. Brklyn. 5am. two feet of fresh snow. inside, bodies bounce like water in a hot pan. cant find or make head or tails from the omnisensorial immersion and butt kikin beats. a table of plastic and gear is entangled in the unpredictable light. steam pours off the dancers. icicles drip in the corners. in the toilet my pees like a smoke machine. Comfortzone banquet. 11:11, 11/11. Brklyn. twenty-something people
down one long table. nine courses for $9.99. overhead projector shows jiggling frog legs in quail eggs. on the stage a bazaar drama starring our food unfolds. even the pans are miced. the chopping block is a favorite instrument. quiet village, taboo, and caravan cycle quietly from dangling tape decks. Translounge. Brklyn. 6am.- cant find the bridge. a strobing erosion simulacrum out on the street next to someone bolted into a mannequin mold. inside-mini-wetlands, water droplets wind slowly upwards in the light. skipping Thomas Crown Affair mixed with paprika, and vacuum cleaners with condom reeds. drink seaweed extract and dance on moss. others drive each other crazy with that hypnocapsul thing: a car seat inside a portable phone booth with feathers, fans, lights, curry and a bank of answering machine loop-tapes. TIJUANNA 2077 omnisensorialsweepout. new years eve. Brklyn. 3:33am. semi occupied building. we register and are given plastic, toxic handler apparel _asked to sign a film shoot waiver. an akai? bumps bodies at us from the other side of inflated black plastic. we emerge to a blinding light obscured by a vertical wall of falling water, trip over a pile of chopped logs, land at the feet of someone in scuba gear. vertical plains of water slip down while intense pointed beams of light project it running across a ceiling of sloppy silver pipes and beams. two fat polish twins ask us where the bathroom is. a bunch of startled giggling latino homeboys step around us. naked in gold, beautiful and angry a woman disappears behind a cliff of falling water and debris. inside warbling rollands, girls from ipanema skips on a distant record player. the gravely sounds of delta blues ooze from a pile of equipment held together with so much duct-tape that at first we dont see the living old man taped inside with his graffitied guitar. dub beets out some triplets. the bar is completely covered by moss. you must reach through rain to receive your drink. inside a clear tube two tall and slender german brothers and a finish friend man a pile of 303s punching out future funk. hips fly in time. a projection is having an unintelligible dialogue with the kiks. we fall sweaty into a relatively quiet corner by a dark closet startling three sleeping ducks.
Cross the east river and take a deep breath Go over the bridge. Ahh Brooklyn. Escape the gravity.
Dancing is our culture, a world culture. A world without borders. A culture of positive vibes. Mass joy and the shared energy of togetherness through simply dancing.
Dancing is not about fashion or a beat on the cover of a magazine. for me it's an attitude about independent love laughter and life. A wild respect for solutions and an unswayable distain for violent hubris.
There is a party... find your way ...you are welcome there.
You will find the house, the garage, the dance hall.. look for us, we will take you up to see the view from the roof. roof music.
HEAPS AS, LIVE IN TASMANIA "HEAPS AS" Live in Tasmania, 2006 on the Agriculture
was recorded during two live shows in Australia may 05
while i was on tour: one in Hobart, Tasmania and the
other in Perth, Western Australia. This is the down home
happy go lucky feel of sunrise future funk on a roof top
in Brooklyn with all your positive smiling friends dancing
in your arms around the hibachi.
BODEGA "BODEGA", 2003 on the Agriculture
is a fast paced continuous mix of 17 ass shaking
tracks that sound like they were scraped off old funk and dub 7"'s.
BUOY
In 2004 ROOM40 from Brisbane, put out my "BUOY" composition. A 60-min voyage of
beat-less warmth i call a "sleeping pill."
SLEEP
in 2006 ROOM40 released my second sleeping pill called "SLEEP" made in september 2001 as a secret mixtape for friends who couldnt sleep.
hi! the WE TM records are some of the greatest recordings i ever heard!!!! GREATFUL!!!!!! i like these records very well!!!!! do you have a WE-myspace page? cheers and much greetings from dresden!!! hagen
Sounds Like: omnisensorialsweepout year 2077. the Ritz_times square 3am.
1800 bouncing bodies to d&b. 77 circus performers. your face on 250
monitors. racy solitude. ahhh the amazing Gustov underwater, on stilts and flying beside a skateboard ramp. technorganic multilayered soup camp on plush red carpet . Radical Anxiety Termination. halloween. east-village. 9:30pm. kids
leave there moms to watch the remote monitor outside. inside, an inflated bubble.
the space is completely inflated with black plastic. Disneys hunted hints mixed with screams and Kenny Dope breaks. smoke, lights and the kids go wild. while shapes push in on us from outside the plastic, we kick back, scream and collapse laughing. the Song of Fuaa. summer. Brklyn Bridge Anchorage. the date one billion years ago. shifting light, currents of air, sounds, and water in falling cross-sections reveal the flight of a dancing hydroid. a lighter than air pneumatic soprano named Fuaa who sings the efforts of the body and the dreams of the mind to escape gravity. the Solar Drama. worldwide. multiple browser windows bump across some monitors. in and out a group cues sites. a camera is zoomed into one window. the sun is rising beside a smoking volcano. we dance under a projected sun live from Italy. 122 other sunrises over a single 24 hour revolution.
a real-time perpetual sun rise. Keep Refrigerated. fall. brklyn. some fri. damn chicken was sleeping in my coat. it ran through the dance-floor and jumped through a hole. punks kick off the cement in the basement strangling their microphones. crackerjack puppetry and analogue free for all upstairs. flaming barbecues in rows. greasy grinning Argentineans choke on there own laughter as they turn the flaming spits and play pool. we get down to acid house. mustard factory. 1am brklyn. watermelons explode. endless little stalls of artistoids. yelping we crawl out of a mustard silo and dodge the hi dive only to get soaked by a bellyflop. Noiselab. Brklyn. 5am. two feet of fresh snow. inside, bodies bounce like water in a hot pan. cant find or make head or tails from the omnisensorial immersion and butt kikin beats. a table of plastic and gear is entangled in the unpredictable light. steam pours off the dancers. icicles drip in the corners. in the toilet my pees like a smoke machine. Comfortzone banquet. 11:11, 11/11. Brklyn. twenty-something people
down one long table. nine courses for $9.99. overhead projector shows jiggling frog legs in quail eggs. on the stage a bazaar drama starring our food unfolds. even the pans are miced. the chopping block is a favorite instrument. quiet village, taboo, and caravan cycle quietly from dangling tape decks. Translounge. Brklyn. 6am.- cant find the bridge. a strobing erosion simulacrum out on the street next to someone bolted into a mannequin mold. inside-mini-wetlands, water droplets wind slowly upwards in the light. skipping Thomas Crown Affair mixed with paprika, and vacuum cleaners with condom reeds. drink seaweed extract and dance on moss. others drive each other crazy with that hypnocapsul thing: a car seat inside a portable phone booth with feathers, fans, lights, curry and a bank of answering machine loop-tapes. TIJUANNA 2077 omnisensorialsweepout. new years eve. Brklyn. 3:33am. semi occupied building. we register and are given plastic, toxic handler apparel _asked to sign a film shoot waiver. an akai? bumps bodies at us from the other side of inflated black plastic. we emerge to a blinding light obscured by a vertical wall of falling water, trip over a pile of chopped logs, land at the feet of someone in scuba gear. vertical plains of water slip down while intense pointed beams of light project it running across a ceiling of sloppy silver pipes and beams. two fat polish twins ask us where the bathroom is. a bunch of startled giggling latino homeboys step around us. naked in gold, beautiful and angry a woman disappears behind a cliff of falling water and debris. inside warbling rollands, girls from ipanema skips on a distant record player. the gravely sounds of delta blues ooze from a pile of equipment held together with so much duct-tape that at first we dont see the living old man taped inside with his graffitied guitar. dub beets out some triplets. the bar is completely covered by moss. you must reach through rain to receive your drink. inside a clear tube two tall and slender german brothers and a finish friend man a pile of 303s punching out future funk. hips fly in time. a projection is having an unintelligible dialogue with the kiks. we fall sweaty into a relatively quiet corner by a dark closet startling three sleeping ducks.
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Woody Guthrie
Cool Herc
Luc Ferrari
Ikue Mori
Overton Brown "Scientist"
Marla Ruzicka
R Buckminster Fuller
HEAPS AS, LIVE IN TASMANIA
BODEGA
BUOY
SLEEP
hello?
