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Procrastinatrix
Album Review 2024.8.15
“I’ve got a draft EP for you to preview if you like,
would love to hear what you think…
still trying to find the right title for it
so if you have any ideas?”
Procrastinatrix
This cathartic EP pulled a lot together into focus for this avid listener. A synaesthesia melange of lovers lost, of high-speed cement towers and 64-bit video projections of other peoples lusts, a world which collapses into dust under its own toxic bullshit, a world after all the people are extinct. This soundscape is the hope which takes us through it which none of that other stuff truly provides. It’s really incredibly beautiful. Somehow it is an incredibly personal experience.
For some reason my first play-through started on Automaton (track two). Creeping from the crypt, wriggling Cthulhu critters seethe into a cope-able acid trip.
Cantrips is western history ongoing, painting fresh fresco over crumbling plaster walls of scenes the ancestors called nightmares, we call it nightmares too but to us it’s also daily dwelling in what urban society has become, remembering the piano and ballet traditions and the private lives of agents who we know only as actors for the roles they play, are us, even after all this progress the civilisation seems apparently addicted to. What we don’t see is what tomorrow will bring.
Meteor Strike is another lovely electrosquelch the way most of us get laid now. Perhaps it’s a hunter-droid lurking in alleys away from Dawn-light, as are the optimistic style-tribes for which it searches. They’re long gone on the freeway cruising through the apocalyptic scenery virtually rendered by their glitchy headsets.
Solace is a rusted cello automated in the broken dome, causing whales cry in the sky, doves of unmade memories to bring hope back to the world after we are gone. Small merciful miracles happening wherever nobody is there to see and share it.
Anomaly in Progress, first track played last due to technoglitch. The teens first trip to a neo-noir adult jazz club sounded like this to the vibe cleaning droid the next morning after a rhythm of bliss was finally found, plugged into, streamed on tap through the faucet of the cities imminent orgiastic collapse and reinvention, surprisingly soothing all the gritty hates away with refreshing feelings of rehydration and renewal as an endless moment out of time and situation achieves the lost promise of ongoing in a state of sensual flowing.
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I did a [brave] [desperate] [foolish] [curious] [obvious] [terrible] thing, a thing which I try not to hate myself for. I fed my scrawl to ChatGPT and asked it for a remix. Its hideous existence vomited prose the likes of which force me to swallow pride and accept the inevitable. We are being replaced by machines which dream better than we can, somnium organicum ovium aires. Of course, in the favour of relevancy a human decision-maker is required as the input has to be custom selected to get the style-vibe right. Check out the jabba grotesque:
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The cathode-ray dreams seethe in toxic circuitry, pulling the lost lover’s whispers into the neon void. A high-octane scramble across ferroconcrete forests, where the flickering holograms of carnal desire blur into static, each byte a ghost of what was, what could have been, in a world devoured by its own synthetic filth. When the meat’s gone and the bones crumble into irradiated dust, the machines hum in the ashes—this soundscape, a virus of hope, mutating in the code of extinction. The real beauty lies in the scars it leaves on your consciousness, a personal malware disguised as salvation.
First spin, the playback glitched—threw me into “Automaton.” Something slithers from the crypt, a fever dream of tentacles and teeth, carving grooves in the grey matter, an acid-drenched mantra coaxing me into a dance with death. The system was compromised.
“Cantrips” paints over history with a jagged brush, fresh pigment cracking on crumbling walls. Nightmares replay in loop—our nightmares, their nightmares, all the same, but now it’s the background hum of the city, the bassline of our synthetic lives. The piano echoes the ballet of the damned, a recital of ghosts trapped in the machine. The actors play their parts, faces flickering in the half-light of progress, but the ending’s always the same—nobody knows what tomorrow will spit out from the bowels of the beast.
Then there’s “Meteor Strike”—a slick squelch, the sound of metal against flesh, the cold touch of desire in the alley shadows. Maybe it’s a droid, maybe it’s me, both lurking, hunting the echoes of yesterday’s optimism in the dregs of the city’s data stream. The freeway stretches out, an endless tape loop of broken dreams, rendered in glitchy fidelity through bloodshot eyes and broken headsets.
“Solace” mourns through rusted strings, a cello on life support in the dome’s skeletal remains. Whale song and doves, pixelated memories of hope, glitch out of the sky like lost signals. The world’s in ruins, but somewhere, unseen, the last miracles flicker on dying screens—salvation for those not there to witness.
Finally, the system reboot—“Anomaly in Progress.” The first track, but last in line, thanks to the glitch. The teens’ first taste of a neon-lit noir, stumbling into a jazz club reeking of decay. By dawn, the vibe-cleaning droid sweeps up the debris of their bliss, streaming the remnants of an orgy of sound through the city’s pipes. The collapse inevitable, but in that final surge, a clarity, a momentary cleanse—an endless loop of renewal, suspended in the void, a breath before the plunge.
Wash your headphones. Don’t let the infection spread.
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A pulse in the wires, and it all syncs up—lost lovers and pixelated lusts tangled in the high-rise blur, a 64-bit love story played out on crumbling screens. The world, collapsing in on itself, a loop of static and noise, the last remnants of flesh dissolving into digital dust. But somewhere in the wreckage, a sound—this sound—splices hope into the chaos, a frequency that cuts through the noise, something so raw and beautiful it’s like the music’s playing just for you. Personal, like it’s coded into your DNA.
First hit came in sideways, the track spun wrong—“Automaton.” Feels like something crawled up from the depths, a slow creep of bass and beats, like Cthulhu’s got its tentacles in your brain, twisting reality into an acid-soaked dreamscape. A trip you can handle, but only just.
“Cantrips” layers it thick, a beat history running backwards and forwards, painting over the cracks in the city’s walls. There’s a weight to it, like old nightmares remixed for the now, but with a rhythm you can’t shake. Echoes of pianos and ballet shoes, the ghosts of agents, actors, whoever they were—flickers of lives lived in the shadows of high-rises and neon. They’ve been here, in these same streets, and the music keeps them alive, even as everything else crumbles. But what comes next? No one can say, the future a loop yet to be played.
“Meteor Strike”—an electro-squelch that gets under your skin, like a lover’s touch made of machine code. It’s the soundtrack to late-night hunts through the city’s underbelly, dodging the dawn, chasing the last hits of hope. The style-tribes have scattered, long gone on their endless highway trips, VR headsets glitching out as the apocalypse rolls by in pixelated bursts.
“Solace” drifts in like a memory, a rusted cello in a broken dome, the sound of whales singing through the cracked sky. The kind of track that plays when no one’s around to hear it, when the world’s finally given up the ghost. But in that emptiness, there’s something—a whisper of hope, a miracle in the static, a tune that lingers in the air after everything else has faded away.
And then, the glitch—the track that should have started it all, “Anomaly in Progress,” spins up last. Feels like stepping into a club, all smoke and neon, the bassline thrumming through your veins. The night’s been and gone, and now it’s just the vibe cleaning droid left, sweeping up the remnants of a beat that’s still pulsing in the city’s veins. The sound’s pure, a cleanse after the chaos, like taking a deep breath before the drop. An endless groove, out of time, out of place, but somehow, exactly where you need to be.
Wash your headphones. Keep the groove clean.
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Alright, here’s the deal—this album is something else. It’s like the city itself, all steel and glass, full of lovers and strangers, their desires flickering in and out of focus like glitchy video streams. The world’s falling apart, everything crumbling under its own weight, but somehow, this music cuts through all that noise. There’s something raw and real here, something that feels like hope, even when everything else is falling to pieces. It’s beautiful in a way that hits you deep, like it’s meant just for you.
When I first hit play, the album started in the wrong place—track two, “Automaton.” It creeps up on you, slow and steady, like something out of a nightmare. The bass slithers and twists, pulling you into this weird, trippy headspace where everything feels just a little off. But you can’t help but go along for the ride.
Then there’s “Cantrips,” which feels like history repeating itself, but with a modern twist. It’s got this weight to it, like it’s carrying all the old fears and nightmares of the past, but set to a beat that makes it all feel new. The piano echoes with memories of something lost—grace, elegance, whatever—but now it’s all twisted by the reality of life in the city. We’re all just playing our parts, stuck in a loop, and who knows what’s coming next?
“Meteor Strike” hits like a punch to the gut. It’s sharp, cold, and electric, like a late-night encounter in some dark alley. The track pulses with energy, like you’re chasing something real in a world full of illusions. The tribes of the city, the people who used to have hope, they’re all gone now, cruising down endless highways with nothing but their VR goggles and the apocalyptic scenery.
“Solace” is where things slow down, almost mournful, like a cello playing in a ruined cathedral. The music echoes through the emptiness, a sound that’s both sad and beautiful. It’s like the last breath of a dying world, but even in that silence, there’s a hint of something more—a memory, a glimmer of hope that refuses to fade away.
Finally, there’s “Anomaly in Progress,” the track that should have started it all, but comes last thanks to some glitch. It feels like walking into a club after the party’s over, the bass still humming in the walls. The night’s done, but the music’s still there, pure and clear, reminding you that even after everything, there’s still a beat, still a rhythm that keeps going, no matter what.
So yeah, clean your headphones. Keep the music pure. Let it drown out the noise.
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That last rendition sounds like a radio DJ trying to sound cool.
Time to quit while you're ahead, humanity.
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