On either side of the room, the walls are lined by gigantic stacks of speakers of erratic assembly. Some look as if they have been repurposed from wardrobes, others from TV cabinets, their electrical and cathode ray intestines ripped out to be replaced by cone- shaped woofers resembling black eyes, a visual dead end. The air hangs heavily with a pungent smoke, rippling with pulses of intensity that oscillate from one wall to the other. A chemical clock waiting to switch. Lungs constricted, chestplates rattling, the throbbing body of the crowd holds its collective breath as one pressure wave after another surges through, jogging on the spot to mobilize the momentum in dance. Spectral voices of the DJ are echoed, reverbed into ghosts— lost in the viscous blobs of bass, the magnetic vibrations of a body snatcher. This is the masochism of the sound clash and its active production of dread.
-Steve GoodmanRead More