California High Desert, United States
Email: loopyc [at] loopyc [dotcom]
Virtual improvisations, synthesized soundscapes, rhythmic transient electronic hyperrealisms, imaginary stringed things (MIDI Guitar/Spectral Guitar/Modeled Bass), DSP performances, gestured noise, expanded palettes and conceptual machines.
The message most difficult to transmit is that without redundancy. Will I recognize the sound I want when I have heard it? Will I want the sound I have heard when I recognize it? Will I recognize the sound I have heard when I want it? Will I have heard the sound I want when I recognize it? Will I want the sound I recognize when I have heard it? Will I have heard the sound I recognize when I want it?
All improvised music compositions, instrumental pieces, are strongly illustrated by the freedom they concede to the interpreter. In this ‘broodcast ‘ the composer acts on structure, scraping away the note’s duration, leaving strewn sound fields as the wreckage of the rackage. Collected, unfinished and indefinite magnetic speculum messages…and massages. I am not before or after a work that asks to be rethought in any given structural direction. These are tracks full of improvisation patterns and digital rots, drunken in the ability to unbalance any order therein. Ganjasynths, multi-impaired experiencial mental allness. intuitive precisly worn illbiences. whore-pitched movements. textured flux. intersected fragments. flocking, forking, fucking rhythms. glitchy echoes of sonic guilts. deeply diving, electrical ills… Templemotors, re-approached surfaces. pixelated sonic gazing. human voices. inhale. inhabit. mirroring upwards. hidden. revealed. remixed intro-versions. incanted memories. setting fire to ghosts and smelling their past. melancholies of uncertain dreamed discharges. ecstatic plastic desiring. post-manifesto play. precious ear dirt. grooves of gravel and graves. dismantled foreboding and forbiddens. weaving, waving wheezing surroundings made of deaf faith. beyond the beliefs and blights of sight and mirrors. Sound Porn, hammermothers. With palettes fueled and fooled… Rhymezones. text-ures, phonemes, and menomes of the species in, around and between the LCD light. Malady finding melody, brooding hands, sums, arcs.. rhythm returning, retuning? winded, wounded tempos. dead-beat? Half mass of the start up chime. Happy MAC! another license for us to continue this re-habition Within the scream room…he/ we / continues / continium. The journey’s journal written in aiff’s. a persistent concatenation of, on sounds, collected us, corrected Oz? semiotic narcotic?? wakeful dream furniture constructed by the blind in a room lit by RAM, making your seat from anything you can sit on after. A box of voids, before Myth and after math. Populating the everyday signals with cold meats (cold meats start no fires). The embryonic idea-fluids wax smooth tension, spreading our satellites again. Then begins the trepanation that becomes synaptically dry bone dronings, opening the skull to the stealing rhythmic tone crimes sitting just outside these heads…being made hole. The trepanning cycle closes with melodies molting into glisses of summer lawns, noises of wakings, and wreckings of trip stops, before… …return to tempo space. Then the moths came, the last Uni-verse burns. …and just when we think, have we made a sound?… “Shut up, he explained.”
Loopy C is Chris R Gibson