...spit and tears as faces too close with protruding tongues to magnify concentration and strength get full impact of the mini explosions of dust and fragments as the old bindings finally snap. The rope was all that had been holding the canvas cover together and it falls as the ropes give way, solid and firm like walls, like guardians with body shields and spears in hand toppling, their ankles shattered, ligaments severed. Six feet of canvas tall, four sheets wide plus the covering from the top in all its acquired dust and age slide to the ground in a pyroclastic flow. The aged and dust alone make a ferocious noise as they spill and fall and for the first time in ages hit the ground. A cloud engulfs the place. Like a stone circle the mushroom cloud swallows up the crate for a time, swallows up the whole hanger in opaque. It is a while before the dust settles. It is sometime before the crate in all its decrepit splendour is visible. Strange markings. Each undecipherable from the dirt and mould. Is it patterned, is it coloured in splendid detail, is it rank. The old reed rope, the canvas and all the description of knocks, bangs and weather it endured on its travels through the ages, although extensive and old, antiquated, still all familiar. The crate though, not a mere crate. A box. An exquisite box. Container. Vessel. Object. Single piece object. Complete, without joins, without parts, one complete six sided block.
'...prisms scurried toward it, always just a glimpse away, off around corners before I could be sure I seen them. But when I reached the crate, and put my hand on it, I knew then.’
Another reported after seeing the crate ‘I never minded since’.
One young dock hand said he had handled the crate twice through the same port. He also said he was a much older man then.
...the sound it made on its travels and the reoccurring themes, people still remembering the melodies and still humming them to this day, and on hearing their melodies now and from so many different people of all ages from so many different continents, cities, towns and ports, the melody is always consistent and follows through. It is a continuous piece with only fragments heard by individuals over some considerable time, decades and decades. Piecing together these remembered notes from random individuals it becomes clear that this is a narrative. A constant. It is a symphony of sorts. Perhaps it the most intriguing element of the story. This is its voice, it is sharing. The hum it gives off now in the hangar and for the past twenty years is a dull flat tone, it underscores the melodies collected from around the globe from all those humans it touched on its extensive travels. The notes and melody, tempo and pace are delightful, but the sound, the actual sound its self is beyond description. It is the blue whale and the old barn door, it is the felled tree and an ass in a gorge, it is too a four stroke engine biplane and a balloon full of bees buried an inch underground, it is the sound of stretching after a full sleep, it is a meadow, it is tranquillity bay, it is the voice of angels, it is the supernatural personified, is all the elements succumbing to a vortex, it is the colours of a supernova in hyper technicolor in all encompassing surround sound, it’s a baby’s ‘a-goo’.
Some field recordings in addition to the actual 'hum' for a richer picture.
Dr. Christopher B.Sc. M.Sc.
released January 23, 2017
BDDJ glorified DJ Set featuring -
Colin Potter / Agnes Bernelle / Drew McDowall
Passengers / Cyclobe / West India Company
BBC Archive / Vince Clarke & Martyn Ware
Amalgamated Wonders of the World
Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark
Donnacha Costello / Maria Daniel
Black Sun Productions / Nirvana
Duran Duran / Thompson Twins
COIL / Nurse with Wound / UN:
Depeche Mode / Psychic TV
etc, etc, etc...
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