Currently reading : Let My People Go

Let My People Go

17 May 2014

Author : jason-farrer

Diamanda for Devry Institute


My home is not your home for it is a House… are you coming in or not?
You may want to get out of the impending arctic meltdown.

After a leviathan of a weekend on Lary Levan Way, sunny day thoughts of soldiers fallen to a crisis formerly known as AIDS were lifted with new memories in the making. Onwards and upwards energy soon lingered with the spirits pulled . Later that night my emotions were reinforced by potent and wit drenched words of women … I’ll leave the name dropping for the following political element of this rant and just say it was a varitable UN gathering… that kind of NY weekend wrapped in wisdom at the dinner table on Mother’s Day… Hey.

A day of house classics in New York is a soliloquy of survival. A bit miraculous that they still exist somehow. Only two nights before this holy Sunday, rewind TGIF, I was trying to explain to leader of the new school (half of the evenings featured dj duo) and a very charming new acquaintance and prodigal protégé child of the Huxtable clan (his partner in crime) how badly the New York nocturnal landscape needed them on a city block sized, hard wood dance floor backed by a suitable system and surrounded by a mezzanine drenched in demons exorcized.

Growing up in the cruxt of the Chicago House movement has its own weight. Indeed the Midwest comes with a heavy cross yet not all is a loss in the bodacious belly of bread basket. Even though mine were tasking times outlined by episodes of “The Day After” and other Regan era hysteria the House Nation came repleat with shores of indemnity that provided diplomatic immunity between the gay world of disco, hip hop culture, as well as the nether regions – the new world’s, post punk / goth / new wave, industrial music movement. Our city harboring on the great lakes somehow sat as an epi center of centrifical force and music was our cultural passport as we were systematically divorced from the full richness of the New York art world by such tactics as the abolition of the National Endowment of the Arts following a certain Ohio group show of historical relevance. Nonetheless, despite efforts, Newt Gengrich just couldn’t get a firm grip on the latch key kids.

Feminism truly found its way to me on the dancefloor via remixes of Karen Finley’s Tales of Taboo. The black and white footage from the 1970’s of burning bra hippies had long withered to convenient liberalism in the smoke and lazer haze of post modernism. The optimism of the baby boomers idealisms were put to storage, stifled, and suffocating in the underground compounds depicted in Rhythm Nation. Manifests of Malcolm X lay sadly semi dormant as subtext in some sort of Wharehouse 13 cryogenic state. Curiously, the civil rights movement had become outmoded yet it hadn’t fully realized its way thru the “Macy’s process” or whatever “power”s that were and attempt still to linger in the neverland of twitterville where social media is wasted on a dead end road that quickly ends at

Somehow, it was our duty to bring these frozen specimens up in the freight elevators at club Shelter. Where was Ai Wei Wei in the ACEEEED hey day, anyway? We could have sorted all this in the first place back when we were being told to program these damned things in computation and design “labs”. Wouldn’t it have been more graceful to proactively syntax Miley Rey’s boo slandering and [if-then] to something more suitable to young Amnesty International council members. I can’t help but wonder sometimes if we couldn’t have been more socially active in CAD class. Am I brain damaged from permanent melatonin depletion or was the hashtag key supposed to fill in the gaping gap in the mentor process?

Anyway, in my solice, I’d curated a personal safe house in the parsonage basement and lined the walls with 12 inch crates. Walls and windows alike were wheat pasted with photos of bar code emblazoned track suits from i-D magazines, that I collected on bike rides to Halsted street, and collages of canned goods flailing from the windowsills in Caprini Green towards an incoming EMS vehicle. I suppose In my imagination there was always a graphic novel installment approaching deadline and it was going to find its fruition at 120 something bpms. My personal bomb shelter outgrew its psychosis but that illustrated manuscript seems ever pending and awaits useless negative space on Stan Lee’s inspiration wall yet manages to make its presence occasionally known when freaks like MXM feel like firing analog into the Marvelverse.

Contributing to this humble storyboard were ragtag crew of pre club kid / post half pipe punk geeks encircling to a cockeyed bodyrock funk mosh up of Nitzer Ebb, Fugazi, and Superman Tablets white label 12″. Indeed it was a dark yet happy house building in my humble city and London town, simultaneously … clearly… we had incoming emergency rations of Red or Dead backpacks and boots as well as very own Wax Traxx outpost to prove we were not alone albeit landlocked. By the time the Gulf War riots erupted after Public Enemy and Sonic Youth’s concert I had already decided it was time to pack up my Ultimo contraband and high tail it to the coastal land of Laurie Anderson performances and set up camp closer to European shores. Ed Pashke, as stimulating as his work can be was still only providing visual… let’s just say he wasn’t pumping Piss Christ and centerfold’s of Ronnie with KS spots splayed sexy in centerfolds of COLORS were letting me know the massacre was still going on. I had a long overdue engagement with cultural warfare and with Medusa’s reflection in my cap it was high time I strapped up my gladiators, sprouted wings, and migrate eastward into a new era.

Meanwhile, in Gotham I quickly found my sweaty blissful angry footing again in the constructvist clanging on the floor of the Sound Factory but for all its bitch tracks I have often wondered why the roughly 2 to 3 thousand men at the black party are not roughly stomping their Wescos to something akin to this Safehouse remix by Michael Magnan. Now that the ball children are slam dancing why haven’t they eschewed an affinity for such nostalgic prose as, “I’ll push her thumb backwards” in liu of…

I mean, Fuckin’ A, just pick one:

a) You have no right to your opinion!
c) Hey Girlfriend, its time for Gash. Mother, throw them fishies!
d) Step Off Mr. Glasses.
e) …

I don’t want to ruin my favorite bit but a certain line involving a certain nationalistic tune had me spewing coffee from my nostrils yesterday whilst I was attending to e-mails a la mode and rsvp’s … all that fashion bs that is just a messy fire without such poetic banter. I’ve made notes in my survival moleskin for frontline assembly to insure this pterodactyl (who still uses pen and paper) doesn’t get lost in the vapors amongst the “sinister yet crisp” wit of Master Blanks and the murmor of an encroaching generation of gay muppet babies… blessed be the children of the corn.

This fatale wordsmith is gangster everything psychopath stalking and the devil made Her do it just as he did Paris… Dirty. Mine eyes have seen the glory! and they see a Goddess giving birth to Tetsua the Iron Man thru her anus.

“Cunt House” Total Recall above courtesy of the Godmother of cyber punk who also just happens to have done as much, thru her support, for the gay community as Obama. When is this MC rubbing elbows with Jay and Bey IN THE HOUSE, anyway?

That’ll be the day when we all say…


Goodbye, art magazine cover crap. You’ll dance to anything by Public Image Limited. Welcome to The Terror Dome


Yes, all fours, lowly slave to the Rhythm.

Good boy. Gentlemen and Ladies, this is not your average old dog bone.


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