File spoon-archives/postanarchism.archive/postanarchism_2003/postanarchism.0307, message 73

Date: Sat, 02 Jan 1904 12:50:19 -0500
Subject: Re: [postanarchism] Reynolds: "Mille Plateaux: The Rhizomatic
The Futurologists
The Wire, 04.03
By David Stubbs
The world of electronica might have become overcrowded since their first
release a decade ago, but Autechre are still burrowing through microscopic
cracks into the cranium on their new Warp album Draft 7.30.  David Stubbs
meets the curators of this monthıs UK All Tomorrowıs Parties festival, and
finds out why their future sound hasnıt gone stale.
The world of electronica has become overcrowded.  With the expansion and
availability of hardware and software, and the relative ease with which new
music can be produced and distributed, weıre awash in a worthily colourised
sea of Ambient, avant Techno, blips and blissfully concussive beats,
reconstituted samples and soundwaves, not every digitally enhanced moment of
which seems absolutely necessary.
Given this creeping, blasé feeling of ennui, small wonder thereıs a
paradoxical nostalgia for the early days of Futurism, a hankering for the
days when electronic music was a remote and alien proposition, be it grainy
photos of Luigi Russoloıs pre-WW1 noise intoners or the 50s electronic
soundscapes of Stockhausen and Xenakis.  In popular music, the success of
groups like Ladytron is the result of a similar wistfulness for the earliest
days of electro-pop, when the likes of Kraftwerk, Gary Numan and Visage
projected a provocatively soulless, poseurly and effeminate affront to
"authentic" rock values; when the appearance of Steve Strange on Top of the
Pops somehow intimated that by the year 1999, gay robots would be our
masters.  That kind of opposition has largely been erased, but still,
thereıs been a faint sense of disappointment among those futurists today,
now that the future has finally arrived.
Autechre are an antidote to this saturation.  Without taking the
retro-futurist line, they have retained a sharp, distinctive gleam amid the
commonplace welter of 21st century electronica.  As well as their diamond
laser incision, thereıs an exhilaration about Autechre that hurtles both
them and the listener fast forward, a feeling that there are still virgin
areas of Techno-space out there that remain uncolonised, still new places to
go, new noise to make.
To the newcomer. Autechre might appear maddeningly cryptic, from titles like
"Pen Expers" and "Bine", to their sound, which has gravitated at a rapid,
exponential rate from their Hardcore beginnings to what many would regard as
the abstract, cerebral tendencies of their most recent albums.  Conversely,
thereıs a mistaken impulse to see Autechreıs output as something to be
deciphered, a series of codes which, if cracked, will enable a mystical,
Matrix-style breakthrough to some truth just beyond the jackhammer flamewall
of their highly evolved breakbeats.
Autechre deplore such attempts to get a handle on them.  As Sean Booth tells
me when I meet up with them in East London, on the eve of their latest Warp
album Draft 7.30, they believe their music is about evading all forms of
"meaning", signification or representation ­ hence its oblique twists and
turns and metamorphoses, its edgy, near pathological determination not to
touch down where anyone has trodden before.
"We are absolutely not trying to represent or duplicate anything at all,"
declares Booth.  "Weıre purely interested in being creative.  I like to have
space to wander aroundŠ  I donıt like to have to be tied to something.  I
like to be able to listen to something months later and have forgotten
things.  Which isnıt easy when you build a track around a theme or idea,
because thatıs the only thing people remember.  I like not providing that
basic template."
Autechreıs approach is strictly antithetical to most popular music, which is
essentially either nostalgic (be it retro-derivative, mischievously
postmodern or sentimentally redolent of bygone summers) or itıs written with
one eye on "classical radio" posterity, over-eager to familiarise itself
with you, become the stuff of future revivals, flecked with associations and
connotations.  Autechre, by contrast, make no such deposits in the memory
bank.  Their modus operandi is not unlike the theory of a purely
"non-associative" electronic music posited in the 1950s, except Autechre
wriggle free even of that definition.  There are actually allusions and
references in their work ­ itıs just that theyıre so obscure, only they and
perhaps a couple of their mates get them.
Still, once you get over regarding Autechre as a puzzle or problem, you can
take them for what they are: a cerebral joyride, for starters, offering
amazing liquid metal events in a temporal and spatial framework thatıs
always identifiable as uniquely their own.
Frank Zappaıs old saw about writing about music being like "dancing about
architecture" is among the most overrated quotes in the rock lexicon.
However, Autechre, whose music is "about" only itself, do present a
particular problem. Even the garrulous Booth and Brown clam up somewhat when
the topic of their music arises.  Thatıs partly out of a reluctance to give
away secrets, partly because it feels like a betrayal of its pristineness.
Descriptive passages which, for example, compare abstract sounds to the
noise of household objects, are helpful pointers, but hopelessly subjective,
like Alexander Rutterfordıs confounding yet meticulously exact
computer-animated DVD transcription of their track "Gantz_Graf" (2002),
which would almost certainly have made Wassily Kandinskyıs head explode with
rapture had he ever been able to see it.
Autechre might well strive to be reminiscent of nothing, but that doesnıt
stop some commentators, such as the Virgin Encyclopedia of Dance Music,
accusing them of being "complacent" for disregarding the sequential trends
of dance music.  Yet, initially out of necessity but later out of wisdom,
they have never confused futurism with faddishness or fast turnover of state
of the art technology.  On turning up to interview them in East London, I
feel obliged to apologise for my decidedly non-futuristic tape recorder, a
steam-driven affair held together by an elastic band.  I might as well have
turned up with a quill and parchment.  However, Booth and Brown are having
none of it.  Respect for the cassette.
We grew up in a music-swapping community," says Brown.  "Things would have
been really different if we hadnıt had cassettes, we wouldnıt have found any
other way into music.  And I like cassettes recorded music.  The events are
more dynamically intact, if you like.  And the cassette fuelled the whole
world of Walkman, music on headphones, the whole idea of being able to
listen to music anywhere."
"I was amazed at people who said they didnıt actually have a cassette player
any more," adds Booth.  "Everyone adheres to this idea that youıve got to
throw an old bit of technology away when something new comes along.  Why?
When do you decide that somethingıs obsolete?  I mean, Iım not saying I
drive a Morris Minor, butŠ"
"Vinylıs the best format.  CDs are all or nothing," opines Brown, warming to
the theme.  "They skip and glitch.  Say you buy a CD and you canıt actually
play it ­ thatıs it, itıs gone.  Whereas you could build your own record
player with sticks and needles and paper combs.  With digital, once youıve
lost the power source, youıve lost everything."
It always struck me as ironic that dance music, which is driven by such a
strong technological imperative, is still obliged to operate through the
relatively ancient format of vinyl, for DJing purposes.  "I donıt see that
the technology being new has any bearing on whether the use of it is new,"
argues Brown.
"We have slowed down in our uptake on new stuff," Booth continues, "purely
because spending time checking out new things distracts you from becoming
properly acquainted with the things youıre already using.  Weıve always used
roughly the same toolset during the years but the amount of new stuff youıre
exposed to increases exponentially.  We were seriously compromised
economically earlier on.  We had to buy hardware, there were no plug-ins or
anything like that.  Weıve tried to stick to our guns and grow at the same
rate mentally, without being led astray by new technologies."
"Thatıs how we were moulded," Brown cuts in, "starting out with no cash and
having to spend a year and a half with the piece of equipment we had,
getting to know it inside out before weıd both chip in to buy something
Booth reprises, "I wouldnıt mind if everyone had to use the same three tools
to make music because ultimately itıs down to your imagination."
The accusation of complacency also implies that Autechre are oblivious to
the rest of the contemporary musical universe, that their reluctance to
allow outside influences to permeate their sound implies indifference, even
contempt towards their peers.  However, theyıre manifestly steeped in modern
sounds, their tastes reflected in their curated line-up of this monthıs UK
branch of All Tomorrowıs Parties festival.
"It was smart getting asked to do All Tomorrowıs Parties," says Booth.
"Itıs an opportunity to put something on that we would have no choice but to
go to.  The wish list was easy.  Weıve found as itıs been booked that loads
of the artists are into quite a lot of other artists.  It should make for
some good music.  Weıre looking forward to seeing Curtis Roads and Mark E
Smith in the same place."
The line-up also includes fellow Warp travelers like The Aphex Twin and LFO,
as well as mavericks and pioneers like A Guy Called Gerald, Cannibal Ox and
vant garde perennials :zoviet*france: - "I like the way they imply music,"
enthuses Booth.  Veteran electronic composer Bernard Parmegiani is also
slated to appear in the unlikely setting of ATPıs campsite, amid the crazy
golf, beach activities and go-karting.  However, Boothıs pairing of The
Fallıs Mark E Smith and digital music pioneer Curtis Roads is apposite.
Roadıs exploration of granular synthesis (published last year in a hefty
volume called Microsound, by MIT Press) represents a different, academic
approach to electronica from Autechreıs, but there are shared interests
there too.  Theyıre both, for example, immersed in electronic music that
operates at a subatomic level.  The Fallıs Mancunian contrarian
obstreperousness, however, is also a key component of Autechreıs make-up.
Strange but strangely logical are the forces that propelled Autechre to
where theyıre at today.
Brought up in the northern English town of Rochdale, Sean Booth was
acquainted very early on with the joys of mixing and taping.  "When I was
really young I heard ŒRevolution No 9ı by The Beatles," he recalls.  "I used
to love Sergeant Pepper and Pet Sounds.  I didnıt know the first thing about
making records.  And my dad told me all about multitrack tape recorders.
Heıd got it into his head that The Beatles were the first ever group to use
multitrack tape recorders.  I was given my first tape recorder at 11 and
taught how to do edits and stuff ­ so I knew about editing tape.  Iıd record
stuff off TV and do funny little vocal edits but I wasnıt trying to make
music or anything."
Picking up on the electro-funk scene inaugurated in 1982 by the likes of
Afrika Bambaataa, Booth ran with a "tagging" crew, making his mark around
Rochdale with his own brand of graffiti art.  "I did that for three or four
years," he relates, "achieved a really obscure, peer-based notoriety and
then got bored.  Tagging was just a social thing, at a time when I was too
young to get into clubs.  But I could meet my peer group.  If youıre tagging
buses, you might tag 30 buses a day but the only people who take any notice
are other taggers, so you really are marking out territory."
The parallels between tagging and Autechreıs later musical approach are not
so far fetched ­ keeping a step ahead, compulsive creativity for its own
sake, outdoing the already done.  A meaningless pursuit, maybe ­ but not a
mindless one.  Booth denies that he was indulging in mere juvenile
delinquency, drawing this distinction: "the worst thing for a tagger is a
smashed up bus shelter," he states.  "Youıre waiting for a bus, not only are
you getting wet through because thereıs no windows but you canıt tag either.
Thereıs nothing worse than real, property-destroying vandals."
By 1984 he was hanging round funk import shops in Manchester like Spinning.
"It was the first time Iıd been in a shop where virtually everyone was black
and everyone was taller than me.  I was a freak for going in there, living
where I was, no one I knew went in there."  Brown, meanwhile, was making up
tapes of early hip-hop like Run DMC and Man Parrishıs "Hip-Hop Be-Bop (Donıt
Stop)" and "Boogie Down Bronx".  "I eventually bought the originals," he
says, "but ended up preferring the tapes I grew up on, even if they were
second or third generation versions, because it was etched into me that
Introduced by a mutual friend, Booth and Brown immediately struck up the
symbiotic, almost telepathic relationship that exists to this day.  The
wordshapes they began to use as titles for their pieces from the mid-90s
onwards are culled from a sort of private language between the two of them.
"We donıt discuss the music in conventional terms," says Booth.  "Itıs a
case of presenting each other with musical ideas and seeing if the other
likes them, or if theyıve got a better idea.  Weıre brutally co-operative.
Weıre all over each otherıs works.  The first time we collaborated, I took a
tape round to Robıs and he did a hatchet job on it.  But we were fairly
synchronised to begin with, so that was OK."
"And weıve known each other a long enough time to be honest," adds Brown.
"We couldnıt get away with not being honest any more.  We can tell from each
otherıs tones of voicesŠ"
If Autechre were conceived in a moment of epiphany, it was when they
listened to the Mantronix megamixes and found themselves drawn to the
lightning-fast edits and remixes of The Latin Rascals and Chep Nunez.  The
essence of these records, they discovered, was in the treatments.  "We were
always waiting for those bits and we were always thinking, itıd be great if
music was like this all the way through, this cut-up," recalls Booth.
With the brutalist minimalism of hip-hop, the sleek sheets of sound
emanating from Detroit and those Mantronix megamixes still bouncing around
the house, the 1980s were glad times for the teenage Booth and Brown.  But
things were about to go awry.  "I got really annoyed when De La Soul came
along in 1989," groans Booth, "and everyone said how brilliant it was.  But
I just thought, how lame is that?  You sample some white music and suddenly
youıre cool?  Itıs the only way a black guy can get any sort of success
these days.  They were loved by the indie press when they came out but I
thought 3 Feet High and Rising was a low point.  It was really up itself.
Plus my mate Ged met them in Manchester and they were cunts to him."
Another problem was in seeking out British hip-hop role models.  "We didnıt
have any major commercial examples to follow," says Booth.  "British hip-hop
was hung up with the idea of authenticity, which tended to mean
American-sounding.  It was daft, you were chasing something you couldnıt
They took some solace in the likes of Meat Beat Manifesto and Renegade
Soundwave, although retrospectively, I suggest, they were at the tired, tail
end of the Industrial funk noir aesthetic of groups like Cabaret Voltaire
and Chakk.  "But precursors to the whole Big Beat scene," retorts Brown.
Howver, Manchester was about to become swamped in baggy denim, as Happy
Mondays and Stone Roses flooded the scene and the airwaves, drowning out all
competing local musical possibilities.  "It was a party we werenıt invited
to," remembers Brown.
And so the spurned pair took to their bedrooms.  "I suppose we were given
the opportunity to fester in our own space, keep in a really small circle,
outside of the big volcano that was Manchester in the late 80s," reflects
Brown.  With the burgeoning Acid House grooves burbling through their
headphones, however, they bided their time.  Their first musical efforts met
with the sort of befuddlement Autechre have had to get used to from certain
quarters over the years.
"Weıd take stuff into [Manchester independent record store] Eastern Bloc and
theyıd just stand there, looking confused, saying, ŒWhat is this?ı" says
"I think with our music it was a case of ŒKeep it to yourself, guysı,"
expands Brown.  "We had loads of people telling us not to bother because it
was a bit odd.  It wouldnıt have worked in a hip-hop context."  But look at
[British] groups like Hijack and Gunshot, the hard time they were having.
And they were major full-on hip-hop bands."
Hardcore became the catalyst for Autechre, as Booth attests.  "It was part
of what we grew up on," he continues.  "Clubs like conspiracy, Thunderdog in
1990, 1991 ­ they were proper, dark Hardcore clubsŠ that was the start of
Jungle, hearing breaks starting to be cut imaginatively.  I know Jungle,
drum Œnı bass, the press scene started coming in about 1994 ­ but a lot of
the electronica kids had already been there, you know, Aphex and people like
that, before theyıd worked out what category it was supposed to be in.  Our
first release [1992ıs "Cavity Job"] was on a Hardcore label, a proper
Hardcore 12" played on pirate radio.  We had to make it, really, in order to
get a deal, we had to make a balls-out Hardcore track.  The B side was a bit
more adventurous but thatıs why it was the B side."
Following a nightmare deal with a small independent label, Autechre took the
seemingly unlikely step of approaching Warp in Sheffield.  If today,
Autechre are emblematic of the label, back then it was principally home to
LFO and Nightmares on Wax.  Their first real exposure came with Warpıs
Artificial Intelligence compilation in 1992, which included the likes of The
Orbıs Dr. Alex Patterson, Speedy J, Black Dog and The Aphex Twin, under
various aliases.  These artists thrived in the "comedown" zone that
prevailed as E-fuelled partygoers chilled in the haze of the dawn.  Autechre
realised they were part of such a movement, making music aimed as much, if
not more, at the head as at the limbs.  "We were all completely unaware of
each other," Brown points out, "but we realised how much [we] had in
common."  And their sound was still relatively organic, albeit bolstered by
what Brown calls "massive samples", as their AI contributions "The Egg" and
"Crystel" showed.
Autechreıs earlier albums ­ Incunabula (1993) and Amber (1994) ­ were
terrific adventures in homebrewed Techno but not radically dissimilar in
method from the work of their Warp contemporaries.  With each subsequent
release, however, they took an increasingly remote turn, moving away from
both the blissful pastures of the chillout zone and the wildfire, staplegun
rhythms characteristic of the "Intelligent Dance Music" brigade.  The Anti
EP was a rare show of solidarity with the dance scene, a piece of musical
satire against the 1994 Criminal Justice Bill and its risible injunction
against "repetitive beats".  That was the last time Autechre were "about"
By 1997ıs Chiastic Slide, their sound had taken on an increasingly
disorientated, even mechanistic approach ­ "Iım quite into the idea of
engineering being beautiful," declared Booth back then ­ that not only
defied all critical reference points but seemed to exist outside of nature
itself.  Crucially, however, there was never any doubt that Brown and Booth
were doing all the work ­ not the machines.  With each successive release,
they tested both their own curiosity and that of their fans, culminating in
2001ıs Confield, their most exacting, micro-surgical album to date.
Confield provided the blueprint for their latest work, Draft 7.30.  It feels
more fluid, accessible and shapely than its predecessor.  Still, with its
crunched and shredded textures, arrhythmic beats, the hothouse ping of
particle bombardment, and amplified recordings of millipedes shuffling
across glass, the musicıs impact is astonishing.  Thereıs an almost
claustrophobic sense that Autchre are pawing and scratching at the very
outer edges of whatıs possible, as if the known musical universe is as
constricting as a chrysalis: youıre stuck by the sheer minuteness of detail.
Like the Incredible Shrinking Man, you can make out the very molecular
structures of these sonic surroundings.  Listening to it on headphones,
youıre aware of tracks like "Xylin Room" tunneling through the nethermost
regions of your cerebellum, beavering away to unclog the wormholes of the
Draft 7.30 has itıs less extreme interludes.  On "theme of Sudden
Roundabout", you can just about make out faintly recognisable shapes.  There
are passages of film noir-ish tension but also an intimation of light and
warmth filtering through its mental thickets.  Autechre are one of the few
groups to have emerged from the Techno/dance world whose music approaches
the experimental regions of musique concrete.  Yet there are reconisable
loops and recurrences, a certain feverishness which dispels any air of
scientific or academic aridity in their work and betrays their dance roots.
Whereas some concrete composers leave you with a lingering feeling of
bubbling test tubes and algebraic equations, with Autechre thereıs a
bristle, a buzz.  You can imagine them at work, on the balls of their feet,
surrounded by piles of old hip-hop 12" singles, brewing up these sonic
storms and going mental as Scissorhands with the editing.
As for the duo themselves, their reflections on Draft 7.30 are vague and
hesitant.  "It feels a bit more open again," offers Brown, while Booth adds,
"Itıs not thrust in a particular direction."  The downside for Autechre is
how the "openness" of their sound allows for contradictory reactions.  Like
anyone else, theyıre eager for feedback even as theyıre sometimes dismayed
at the lack of consensus.
"Every time we have an album out, we get conflicting reports," despairs
Brown.  "Thereıs one strain of opinion, then another one comes in reinforced
numbers.  Mostly, weıd been hearing that this one was more accessible than
Confield.  But then someone comes along and fucks it all up and tells us
that they think itıs the coldest, hardest work weıve ever done.  ŒConfield
was so warm, what are you up to?ı"
"Weıve had it all," sighs Booth.  "More accessible, less accessible,
cleaner, dirtierŠ In the end, you get completely confused.  Itıs like, what
does the world think?  Itıs just snap judgements.  It does take our music a
few weeks to sink in."
Unlike many in the world of electronic music who are hard pressed and
ill-equipped to convert their soundlab experiments into some show of
creative work being done, Autechre thrive paying live.  For them, it isnıt
just a case of pushing a bit of software into a machine and pressing the On
button.  Their live shows are spontaneous, creative affairs, done on the
fly, each freshly minted permutation of sound, rhythm and texture expiring
in the moment of its creation.  As Booth once said, "The only music thatıs
really futurist is that which hasnıt been created yet."  They generally
insist on playing in near complete darkness, again to minimise unwanted
visual associations and focus concentration entirely on the quicksilver
motions of the music burrowing deep inside your head.  Autechre have even
talked about achieving telepathic communion with audiences.
"In a club the ideas donıt get a chance to be edited out, so what youıre
getting is much more raw," says Booth.  "I donıt want to go off on one about
emotion or the subconscious, but thereıs obviously a different cognitive
process going on.  Itıs the same as when we jam in the studio, really,
thatıs what got us doing it in the first place.  Loads of the tracks we were
doing back when we started were unedited live recordings, we just thought it
would be good to take that way of working outside.  At All Tomorrowıs
Parties weıll be working as Gescom [Autechreıs alter-ego project, involving
a crew of anything up to 20 people], which is great because itıs always
different people, so itıs challenging and liberating at the same time.  Itıs
about the most unroutine organization weıve ever been a part of."
Born in 1970 and 1972 respectively, Brown and Booth were just too young to
catch the first wave of electro-pop which [is] presently so fashionable to
simulate.  They were toddlers when Kraftwerk arrived on the scene.  They
came upon most of their futurist ancestors retrospectively, and their
attitudes towards them are not always reverential.  As one of the
surprisingly few contemporary electronic acts who sound like theyıve docked
in, or at least sniffed around the space stations established by the 50s
electronic pioneers, what do they make of the likes of Stockhausen, et al?
"We first heard Stockhausen in 1991," frowns Booth.  "But I didnıt really
click with it until I heard Tod Dockstader a few years later.  Stockhausen
fell foul of his own theories really, really quickly, I think.  Heıs done
three, maybe four worksŠ Kontakte, Gesang Der Junglinge among them ­ but
compared to Stockhausen, Tod Dockstader felt very soulful, more fat and
warm.  I do rate Kontakte, the original two-track tape, not the one with
extra percussion and piano, that is.  We didnıt think about concrete for
years, didnıt really know what it was.  But then when I understood what
serialism was about, and this anti-rhythmic stance it took, I went cold on
it.  It seemed just as bad as people taking a purely rhythmic stance.  It
was like, Iım anti-you and now Iım stuck here.
"A lot of composers from that era talk so much crap," he spits.  "Ligeti and
Xenakis from that era are my favourites, I suppose and Tod Dockstader.  Also
Edgard Varese ­ Poeme Electronique in particular."
Autechre reject academic dogma, but theyıre not anti-intellectual.  Booth
praises the fractal nature of contemporary pirate radio, its permanent,
relentless outlaw stream of new and freshly recycled beats providing a
contemporary backdrop to Autechreıs own work.  Needless to say, they deplore
the tyrannical homogeneity of mainstream dance music.
"I understand it," he concedes.  "When youıre listening to music with a
fixed structure, say basic verse and chorus, itıs all about catharsis and
anticipation.  The loop changes, youıre in a new loop, you assess the loop,
then your brain relaxes for a few bars, till just before the next change
when you start paying a bit more attention, getting a bit more hyped up and
then you capitalise on that.  Itıs tension/release, tension/release.  I
donıt like films that are predictable and I donıt like music thatıs
predictable.  I donıt need that kind of security.  There are so many
possible permutations, so many types of music, so many things that youıd
expect music to be more varied.  It stands to reason."

Richard Singer:

> I don't know; I always thought that Atari Teenage Riot and other digital
> hardcore was pretty reminiscent of hardcore punk rock. But
> I'm old (41) and a bit removed from the differences and fine nuances
> within youth cultures. Maybe that's not a good excuse, since I'm
> exactly the same age as this Szepanski character...  But I also live in the
> U.S., which seems to be ironicaly techno illiterate.
> From what I can tell, the vast majority of the anarchos here (still) tend
> toward different sub-genres of guitar punk or folk music.
> I've tended more and more toward global techno and globally influenced Goth.
> Maybe I'm just following in the footsteps of the hippies who got into World
> Music once they reached middle age.  But I really like finding things
> outside of the usual Western rhythms, structures and niches and hearing
> sounds that transcend or even ignore the barriers between different cultures
> and even different eras.
> Anyway, yes, that was a fun article.
> Richard
> Common Wheel Collective:
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: dr.woooo <>
> To: <>
> Sent: Sunday, July 27, 2003 3:59 AM
> Subject: Re: [postanarchism] Reynolds: "Mille Plateaux: The Rhizomatic Music
> of Frankfurt, Germany"
>> After a tough week at work it is great to listen to some dark-hardcore, or
>> gabba. I always thought the rage and chaos of it was a good way to blast
> out my
>> frustrations. i was into it before 'politics' proper, ie. getting involved
> in
>> radical politics and the anarchism.  this was a fun read, and gives me
> some
>> artists to look up.
>> thanks
>> Quoting "J.M. Adams" <>:
>>> Mille Plateaux: The Rhizomatic Music of Frankfurt,
>>> Germany
>>> by Simon Reynolds
>>> (taken without permission from the wire 146, april
>>> 1996)


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