Bad habit arising. Writing is a lot harder when not wallowing. So much concentration required; I’ve been giving up and making noise instead. Tape loops, guitar pedals, amplifiers. Making noise is how I hedonistically neglect what I really should be doing: writing.
I used to think noise was medicine, but now I’m not so sure. Writing is the real medicine, and noise is a drug – a cold, numbing drug. It was medicine. At least, it was until I upped the dosage. Now it’s all I think about. Sweet, sweet feedback. The need for earplugs. The analog vibrato of warped tape. All endorphins, it’s all in the moment, no real payoff, only setbacks. Whammy bar, reverse reverb, fuzz.
NOISE. EROTIC FUCKING NOISE.
Rusty hinges echoing in a cavern.
If that doesn’t give you a hardon, that’s probably a good sign. I recorded and published four albums in the past two years, and each one has been successively noisier. My last album, Distorted Transmissions, barely even has any guitar on it because I became so obsessed with tape manipulation that I used it as the primary instrument during the recording process. Any guitar that actually made it onto the album was extremely distorted, having been run through old cassette players and into effects pedals to the point of being unrecognizable. I’ve come to accept the masturbatory nature of my music, because I know that nobody wants to hear it except for me. But, then again, nobody really wants to read my shit but me either. Actually, I don’t even want to read my shit. Well, fuck. Thanks a lot.