TAA 2057

 Taken from Rupture 2018 - https://rupturezine.org/

TAA 2057

Parking my mobility helicopter on the highrise rooftop and boosting with my jetpack down to the cultural resistance centre on level 23, I realise I haven’t been in these parts since I got the fuck out of London during the 2020 meltdown. Earlier, as I flew down the highway to the periphery at Colchester, it had been tough to see the still smoking ruins of East London for the first time.

This is the first Random Artists meetup for 38 years. Of course, when martial law came in and the hunger wars started, everything took a back seat to survival; woman cannot live on Instagram alone. I’m happy that a lot of people I knew survived the riots. We were already nomadic and pretty well prepared for complete societal breakdown. I moved up north with the hoverbarge and never really came back.

At the door for TAA it’s funny to see the usual reprobates hanging out; grey-haired, several decades older but still recognisable. The beer cans of old are now opioid-based concoctions and noone smokes tabak anymore. Still we can all stand around and talk bollox for hours – at least that hasn’t changed. Some of the Hekate crew are here showing off their new bionic limbs; very nice. The Ship of Theseus paradox has reformulated with a vengeance – if you are continually replacing broken limbs with metal parts, when do you stop being you and start to become a robot? Or at what point does the robot become you?

The exhibition is broken into several immersive VR spaces; where you can wander in and out, interacting for several days if you want. The politician shoot-em-up is super popular and glitching a bit, so I take the party option. I spend several pleasant hours reliving the Curley memorial party in Hackney Wick back in the late 1990s. As the stream enters my visual cortex I feedback data from my own frazzled birthday memories, blending them into the broader knowledge base and creating a wider playing field for other visitors. Where no memories exist, I hit a grey wall; then if I turn round I’m back on the dancefloor again.

I do miss the first squatted TAAs of the early 2000s, since one of the best things about those exhibitions was that they were centrally located and people could be enticed in off the street to see what was going on; back when walking was still a thing. Occasionally, visitors had never stepped foot in a squat before, so it made everything a lot more exciting - just like your first rave. The unrestricted transformation of space, the unbridled enthusiasm of smashing a wall to make a door or pouring paint down the stairs; I still miss those things and I never saw them in a legal gallery setting.

It’s funny what a boom and bust society we have lived through in almost hundred years, now it’s post-WWIII situation where there is no rule and most buildings are severely damaged. In the cycles of urban growth and decay, the Wessex region is a shadow of its former self; whilst the Manchesti/pool/port conglomeration is gathering the new generation of freeloaders. Take this venue – the centre is a huge space spanning a few floors of an abandoned yuppy tower that would have cost millions to buy before the crash. Now the ruins are freely available to anyone sufficiently brave to risk living in them. There’s free electricity, since the building is covered in adaptive solar panels and most of the technology on view will have been cannibalised from the other abandoned flats.

Up north this would have already been put to use by a pirate crew, down here it’s just another derelict block. I'll definitely take what I carry with me when I leave. This squatter attitude of reusing and recycling, of doing stuff for free wherever possible – of hanging onto things when any sane person would throw them away – has done us proud. Here we are, in the wreckage of the ex-capital city, still creating social spaces to interact with each other face-to-face; when many people are still hiding out in bunkers in the interior, waiting for the green-light to emerge. The all-clear will never come; the government prefers everyone to live in fear. They say that you can’t breathe the air outside, but it’s ok. In any case, I’m half bionic by now.

Doppelgangers

from an old link zine:

doppelgangers 

when i was a kid i was really struck by this newspaper story about a guy who was found drowned in a quarry lake somewhere in south wales. he was positively identified by his family and about to be buried when 'he' turned up again, alive and well and wondering what the fuss was about. 'his' family must have been overjoyed to find out 'he' had simply gone off travelling for a while to sort out his head.

meanwhile the police must have been a bit frustrated to have to reopen a case they thought they had closed. apparently this man and the dead man bore a stunning resemblance, even down to a shared birthmark on their respective legs. obviously it's quite rare that we hear about such blatant cases of mistaken identity, but what if they don't happen so often not because people don't look the same but more because there are rules governing whereabouts the doppelgangers can go and most of the time they prevent them meeting up? it's possible but then of course you start to wonder who makes the rules. and does he/she have a doppelganger too?

definitely i see types of similarity - for instance a girl in a record shop with the same length hair, the same glasses and the same backwards tilt to the head which she adopts when looking at something as an irish girl i met in another country. are people really so different? are we really unique? or are we just a bundle of behaviour patterns grabbed from the collective unconscious and as with language we can unconsciously turn on or off various factors. with so many parameters to choose from that most of the time waht results is a real unique individual?

certainly the patterns can be traced. certainly fashion and society shape the way we look, whether we allow it consciously or not. well, my childish mind decided that everyone has a doppelganger living somewhere on the other side of the globe. although you must bear in mind that around this time, i was also trying to pull fully grown oak trees down with my plastic tractor, still it's a theory which cannot be denied. the sticking point was skin colour actually, i just couldn't decide whether doppelgangers were racially the same, they do have to be really, since for example one racial division is body build and i never resolved that one satisfactorily. and also another problem comes back to me now, namely whether the two doppelgangers would be born and maybe even die at the same time or not. the welsh quarry man could be a counterexample or the exception which proves the rule. i dunno.

anyway, this squat party in eindhoven i went to recently also got me thinking about this topic in a different way, for it is weird to see how things such as dress sense and face composition move in circles. i see this a bit having been to lots of tekno parties in the netherlands, the czech republic and england. if you look at the people it's strange to see how across arbitrary boundaries like nationality and location, things such as a look or a posture can be the same.

i guess you will only understand what i am droning on about if i give some examples. actually to start with the very building gave me deja vu, since it was a massive distribution centre, the type where one side of the building has loading bays which trucks back up to and inside there were huge empty rooms and tiny prefab office spaces, just like a distribution centre where i went to a few parties in london (tottenham hale). then the people reminded me of other people in various ways. in attitude, in action, in look, in gesture. maybe the drugs help, the same chemicals twisting faces in the same way over europe and driving evolution in new interesting ways.

base users do certainly develop this weird sort of reptilian tan. we can say for sure some sort of europe wide tekno fashion underclass is developing, i guess as tribes do. tekno sits in a grand line of cultual movements. the kids are always revolting. since the hippies anyway. so are we talking about some form of universal tekno resistance? in a sense yes, this is a brotherhood of sorts which can be nice to be a part of (things like meeting a french truck in eastern europe and bonding instantly because we are listening to the same mixtape) but then from another point of view tribalism is fake, it's a lowest common denominator movement, where people are afraid to be different and celebrate diversity. i guess that's the negative side of of all tribes. there is a uniform, there are facial piercings, bomber jackets, combat pants, mighty hooded tops, dark clothes and caps at jaunty angles which become more and more ridiculous as the night wears on.

but it does go deeper than that too. how come the gurl who looks like a drugged up czech punk i know, in the sense of having the same weird dreads, long grey german army jacket and big boots, also acts like her, drifting around the dance floor mashed up and encouraging men to molest her by bumping into them with the same far-away look in her eyes? isn't that a bit too weird? why do those speaker freakers hanging out by the stacks just like their tribal brothers in the czech republic manage to have high cheekbones and haircuts which actually make them look czech? yes, part of this is me bending my head on drugs and seeing links where the links exist because humans do resemble each other but i expect there is a bit more going on here. i'm thinking in terms of memes and affects: this notion current in the theory of ideas that ideas are virus-like; thoughtpatterns exist as electro-magnetic radiation; the brain is a transmitter and the signals it produces can be picked up by other receivers; and taking drugs probably helps this process either by making us more sensitive or anaesthetising us to it.

hooray for tekno parties, they're fun to go to and give you weird thoughts. and i don't have very much more to say than that.

except that we started off discussing doppelgangers and next time you are at a tekno party you should keep an eye out for your's.

you might stop the party

you might stop the party 

god i need to relax.

sam's up there blagging her heart out to the copper saying it's her fault she wanted me to drive and i'm thinking christ i hope they dont find the pills stuffed down my shoe. the breathalyser came back positive - no real surprise there, i'm fucken pissed, can't hardly stand up, nearly fell over when the copper asked me to breathe into it, but the whole fucken point is that the pigs cleared us out the building and told us to fuck off.

i know i'm pissed so i tells 'em and they dont care they're all moody at being up so late past their beddybyes and then they start waving their penis-substitutes about and growling so i says ok ok i'll drive the van but i'm pissed alright and they don't care and then we go fifty metres down the road and this fresh-faced traffic cop pulls me over and tells me he had reason to believe im driving under the influence.

christ he ain't half right there, i'm a pharmaceutical guinea pig - like the t-shirt says, testing in progress. if i'm selling pills i gotta take a couple to be a good advert and if i'm pilling i'll have a drink too. why not? i know my limits. someone shoved a tab down my throat and if i get offered k i'll do it, why not, it's no crime. these stupid wankers are the dangerous ones stopping parties and turfing out all these young aggressive moody drugged up punks with nothing to do except a bit of good old-fashioned english vandalism. i can hear them now doing a bus stop. the cop looks round a little nervous and holds onto his radio for support. sam is really bending his ear, he looks worn out and then i see some hoodies turn the corner up ahead.

tension mounts, neck hairs prickle. someone throws a bottle. the glass smashes beautifully on the rain smeared tarmac. just like we're in the movies. the cop bricks it. properly shits himself. to be honest, i would too, it's all about the numbers. so he's back in his car and his mate's reversing fucking fast and that just gets the boys excited so they're chucking bottles, rocks, anything which lifts and sam's got her arms around me laughing and kissing my neck. phew. we started a mini-riot.

i guess the drink drive charge gets dropped then. what next? the punks drift past us aimlessly and sam chews on her favourite thumb. there's another party but it's in acton and we're in hackney wick and not really in a state to get there. i've had enough rozzers for a week already and sam don't drive. crapper turns up and shoots the shit for a bit. he offers to drive but he's off his head too. he says he's not. but he is. he leans against the car and gabbles happily, the streetlights bathing him in a warm amber glow. maybe these pills are alright. i sell a couple to the bored punters still milling about and then i think why not a bit of music, so we crank up the speakers and play an old headfuk mixtape. that wibbles evryone out and i sit on top of the car, a little bit cold but enjoying the weirdness of this saturday.

someone says mainline are gonna turn back on, but i doubt it, they wouldn't risk their rig after a noise abatement. and if they did, we'd hear them anyway. this whole area is one dead wasteland. i wonder who complained about the noise. maybe the pigs made it up. i came up here in the day once, strange to see all these normal people walking past raved up warehouses and burnt out factories. i guess some of them are still functioning. it's a little bit sad all this decline and fall, but the tekno makes the desolation special. i feel a bit emotional. must be the pills.

they're beautiful in their own way all these roads - carpenters, roach, dace. they'll get developed soon, they have to, hackney is on the up, maybe a railway line will pass though here or yuppie conversions will regenerate the area. and in some ways that's good, it gives new life to a dead zone although i don't see why rich people should just come in and 'civilise' an area when most council housing is falling down.

shit i seem to be getting more lucid again, that ain't good. i gobble a few more grinners and wonder where sam's got to. she comes back with dom, he's in a bit of a state. no surprise there. seems like some cunt's nicked his jacket and dom can't remember where he lost it. he always does this. but then this big skinhead comes over and gives him the jacket back, says he saw him drop it round the corner a minute ago. dom's pretty screwed by this information and it makes me laugh watching the gears in his brain slowly turning. sam's all stoked to see people being nice to each other and she stands there giving me the wink until i get the hint and give the big bastard some gurners. now he's smiling too. everyone's happy except me, im thinking about profit margins although i know the uncomfortable truth is i've boshed too many myself to care. it's gonna be one of those weekends, if only we could get home. i wanna be in my nice warm bed, all cosy and snuggled up to sam.

she's giving me a dirty look now, i hate the way she can see straight through me. could be worse though. dom grumbles off, bouncing off lamp-posts and there's more business to be had, looks like most people can be fucked to try to get to acton. i still can't be arsed, so i lock up the car and pull sam off towards this building i saw a few weeks ago. it's over by the canal and i think it's worth exploring. sure enough, the gate is hanging off its hinges and we saunter in, a little bit afraid because there's not much light, then we find the stairwell and gain our confidence as we climb. we chase each other up whooping and banging on locked metal doors. the door to the roof has a crappy padlock on it, a few kicks and we spill out into the night sky, stars hanging around us and london spreading her legs like a dirty bitch.

there's the telecom towers and tower blocks in camden. over there is probably stratford. sam thinks she sees her uni but im not convinced. she's swinging her arms about and leaning into me, singing into my eyes. we kiss and it feels great. sometimes i think i'm doing all right. we find an airconditioning vent to perch on, shielded from the wind by the lift shaft. we talk about what were gonna do in our new squat. sam has big plans for the living room. she's thinking cushions and drapes, i'm saying it all sounds very nice, but we'll see what the dumpster god provides coz i'm fucked if i'm spending money on it.

then we start talking about benny, he's this guy we know who topped himself a few weeks back. took lots of acid and they found him swinging from a rope in his room. shame really, nice guy, little bit weird, too quiet, but nice, real nice. its fucked us up more than we thought. sam cries a bit, i stroke her hair and think of things to say but don't say them. and then suddenly it's dawn. the sun just popped up and its six thirty already. i love dawn's early light. i'm staring at bleached out concrete babylon, shame we don't have no music up here. so that was it. goodbye 98. start the year as you mean to go on so they say. well, i'm already draining the last of the water on two more gurners. doubledrop is the way forwards.

we are the future.

i stand tall before london and piss onto the road below.

The Party

 

first published in Link

thousands upon thousands of bubbles float through the room, colliding, 

popping on the heads of extravagantly decorated dancers, gusting gently 

above them in the breeze but the men and women coiling around each other 

in time to the rhythmic thump of the beat are too preoccupied to notice 

 

some have their eyes shut others smile you take another glance around and 

the mirrored walls only serve to magnify the decadence someone brushes 

against your thigh, when you turn they are gone, you feel a breath on 

your neck, now she is whispering into your ear words you can scarcely make 

out wait did she say there is nitrous oxide in the air conditioning? 

certainly the atmosphere is heavy, pregnant with expectation, pungent with 

incense, devil weed, jasmine, other odours whose names hang insistently on 

the tip of your tongue, just out of reach 

suddenly in the corner of the room, there is a commotion animal yells of 

pleasure or of pain, possibly both

peacock feathers are waving above the heads of the crowd and more bubbles 

cascade down from the ceiling 

you push towards where the noise is loudest sweaty bodies press against you 

and light hands sweep across your back

the music is quicker now, the relentless drumming augmented with a tinkling 

melody drilling its way into your brain

a brief silence, then the thump starts again, faster than ever

dancers catch themselves standing still, shake their heads with a glimmer of

a smile rotating their hips in outrageous gyrations, arms waving

 

up ahead is a mass of limbs, it's getting difficult to pass 

reluctantly you can feel your inhibitions being shed you start to press 

a little back against these lithe athletic bodies

on the left is a massive speaker, towering above you, twice your height, 

pumping out the irresistibly funky beat out of the corner of your eye, 

just for a second, you see it oozing the moo before your brain can begin 

to process what that means, two elves have attached themselves to your 

legs and begin to pump them up and down you want to fight but it seems so 

much easier to give up, give in, then you think of the cardinal's warning 

and with a wrench wipe the smile of your face. 

the elves know they are beaten 

for now  

a trapeze artiste in a dazzling emerald jumpsuit swings down from nowhere and 

whisks you off over the dancefloor the people below reach up and you trail 

your fingers over their outstretched palms 

free 

you cannot help but smile, the music is inside you now orders seem from another 

world one that is dead and forgotten here is life, energy, dance, movement 

swinging across the room you notice the mood man standing over to one one side, 

innocuous, wires coming out of his head his face is crinkled with concentration 

sweat beads on his brow and glistens in the strobelight 

a small frown and imperceptibly the music starts to change, its getting louder,

an addictive squiggle worming up from the mix, what's so wrong with a dance anyway? 

a tribal tom tom beat thuds to your stomach you throb with the music

like a reflex

the crowd bobs rhythmically, a sea of heads connected by invisible nets

 

fishing for what?