July 25, 2014
What's Alpha Cop like?
Like a group of weird contemporary* folks gave up working on the community supported garden and started a cyborg production facility in Bahama with plans to expand with a new co-op somewhere in Durham, posing as a food truck, sponsored by Viewers Like You and the Santa Fe Natural American Spirit Medical Sciences Division. Not the slightest bit concerned. Not sold out. Bought wholesale into the reality of industry eating itself for breakfast, lunch and din-din. Living in the sugary sporadic confection of hip martyrdom. Rejoicing in the somber noise of insanity.
Like that time after seventeen straight days of fourteen hour shifts, when six and a half minutes of intense concentration resulted in one migraine, three panic attacks and two epiphanies for these intrepid slackers. Break out the fiddle and pick up the Tele. Pluck. Cry a little. Capo the bass. Scream too much. Laugh at stupid flesh, moles and horsehair. Play. Shove metal into Ken dolls. Pull nylon hairs from Skipper. Fuck Barbie. And her flaming single-wide trailer in the background.
Their stimulating approach to rock drew me in and then more cigarettes had to happen as I processed my ping ponging emotions. Appreciate the sound's ability to reach through walls. Still listening. The audience. Is the void semicircle in front of the stage necessary? The floor is lava. Obviously. Static and stunned. Nodding in a combined effort. Like that was enough gesticulation for one night. Why aren't they dancing? Thrashing about like so many tadpoles? Cyborgs. Apparently. Whiskey and noise. Noise and bourbon and cheap beer. Sex legs. He said "Fuck up more often." Don't listen to me. Listen to them. -- Mork N. Sirl