Short one this week. Last three 1500 word treatises left me word-dry, all bones that creak meager vowels which mean to but cannot properly represent music and its rude effects. May exit this one having left a similarly long trail, but if so, rest assured, it’s unintended.
Reinstated myself into the rush of Detroit techno last week. Felt my blood cook in ways long lost. Particularly wished to be a mere dot of rhythm in Jeff Mills’ sprawling invention of a brand new heartbeat, Mix-Up Vol. 2: LiveMix at Liquid Room, Tokyo—like acting as a punctuation mark in Red Harvest, intending to separate but regardless blasted by the heat of the surrounding words. By the surrounding onslaught of two records in maniacal sync, driven over a Benzedrine pulse.
JEFF MILLS: “SEGMENT 3″
A live record in which there are manifold mistakes which are singled out by detractors. But like Berry Gordy, or whatever they turned him into in that Jacksons movie made years ago, I love mistakes I love the sound of fucking up I love how a young Michael Jackson screams, “Just look over your shoulders!” as though by the sheer pained force of that voice the human body could contort in such a way to look over both shoulders simultaneously and see Jackson from both angles.
Maybe to others this is incompetence but to me when Jeff Mills fucks up as a DJ is when he is most compelling as a DJ, where for a brief moment everything slides off its intended curve and indulges in a sweet chaos synonymous with giving birth to something new.
Which is the intent of the DJ set. To morph seasoned visions into young eyes that constantly dart from object to object, endlessly seeking new sensory input. The flaws serve to make the enlightenment achieved seem worked for, not reached without the necessary bruises and cracks in the veneer.
They make techno, often accused of being soulless and mechanical, impossibly human.
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