April 25th, 2017
Datacide is a radical magazine covering the overlapping areas of countercultural noise & beats and (anti-) politics, critical theory, and post-situationist practice. The things that matter right now.
We have been around for a while. The first issue came out in spring 1997. It didn’t come out very often, but in recent years activities have picked up. In 2015 we published a complete collection of our first 10 issues, a big tome of 364 pages in A4 format and a massive word count, bringing together a unique compendium of the countercultures associated with hard electronic dance music.
This week the fourth printing came back from the printers.
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This year we step up the publication of the magazine to twice a year, with 68-76 pages and a colour cover each time. Since 2015 the magazine is amended with the publication of a yearly ‘Almanac for Noise & Politics’ in a pocket book format of 104 pages.
We are also planning several book releases, covering datacide issues in depth.
Luckily printing technology has developed in recent years to a point where it is possible to print small runs for relatively little money, giving a lot of flexibility to small publishers, including those with a radical or subversive agenda.
But digital technology not only made a number of things easier in the production process (such as printing small runs cheaper), it also has changed the ways how people interact with cultural production. This has thrown media outlets from the smallest size to the size of corporations into turmoil and putting many out of business.
Datacide is one of the tiny ones, but even we are not operating on an economically sustainable level. But we firmly believe that what we do is of crucial importance. For this reason we want/need to call on our readers to support these activities:
You can subscribe to datacide by sending EUR 15.00 (or more) to us for a subscription of 3 issues. Please state which issue you want your subscription to start with. You can include back issues in the subscription, issues 11-15 are currently available.
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You can donate money via paypal to info(at)datacide-magazine(dot)com
If you don’t have or don’t like to use paypal, write to the same address and find out about other options.
You can advertise in datacide. If you have anything to sell or to promote, consider putting an ad in the next print edition. Write for our very reasonable rates.
Attention record labels or book publishers: We usually will accept records or books as payment!
Attention zines: we are interested in ad swaps!
You can donate stuff which we can sell!
Got records, books, anything of interest you don’t want anymore?If you think you have something for us, let us know.
We set up an ebay account of which all proceeds go towards making the next issue – and more – happen!
Last but not least get your records, books and coffee from Praxis Records & Books!
Datacide can not exist without the solidarity and support of its readers!
April 24th, 2017
Die Menschenhauttrommel (The Human Skin Drum) was first published in Flash Team Report (Vision 18) and reprinted in the Almanac for Noise & Politics 2016 as a companion piece to the article about the Vision label and to show a connection to the present, namely the release of ‘Skin Craft’ – RIND & NOL, works by Alex Buess and Daniel Buess on Praxis in 2016.
April 1st, 2017
Osha Neumann, son of Franz Neumann and stepson of Herbert Marcuse, member of the Motherfuckers; lawyer, artist, and author of the book Up Against the Wall Motherf**ker. A Memoir of the ‘60s, with Notes for Next Time. Interviewed by Adrian Mengay and Maike Pricelius in 2010, first published in datacide fifteen in 2016.
AM: In the 1960s you were a member of a radical political group called “Up against the Wall Motherfuckers” based in New York City. Could you explain what the Motherfuckers were?
ON: The Motherfuckers were a small group that formed on the Lower East Side in 1967. The Lower East Side of New York was a predominantly Puerto Rican ghetto at this point. It had been the entranceway for immigrants for many, many years. It had been a Jewish ghetto before the Puerto Ricans moved in. We have been called many things. Some people called us ‘a street gang with an analysis’. Ben Morea, who was one of the key figures, was identified as an anarchist. Others of us did not particularly identify either as anarchists or as Marxists or in any of the traditional political categories. We considered our base to be what the media called hippies – dropouts, freaks, countercultural youth who swarmed into this ghetto around the time when we were forming. It had been a place where the beatniks had been before the hippies, and then the punks came afterwards. It had cheap, cheap rents. There were squatters mixed in with the Puerto Rican population. At that point our base was, as I say, these hippies primarily, although attached to us at various times were groups of young Puerto Ricans, who would come to our events and our demonstrations.
AM: How was life in the Lower East Side? And what exactly did you do as Motherfuckers aside from organizing demonstrations?
ON: We lived largely communally, in crash pads or houses we had. We put on free nights, we gave out free food, we had feasts, we had a free store where people could come and give away things for free, and various other institutions. We published lots of – at that point – mimeographed flyers and then some pages in an underground newspaper that was published in the Lower East Side. After only a couple of years, actually, the situation began to change, both internally and externally, and the Lower East Side, the counterculture, although subject to the stresses of survival and repression from the police, had been still more or less free and joyous. But it got a harder edge. The drugs changed from pretty good acid to heroin, crack and speed. Gangs moved in – biker gangs – to contest with us for the turf, and also our rhetoric changed.
MP: How was the interaction between the Motherfuckers, the black community, and the Puerto Rican community on the Lower East Side? [Read more →]
March 29th, 2017
The jungle foliage became a mist of green, the sandy floor a streak of brick red. Jamaal’s bare feet kicked up a cloud of dust as he tore down the road. There wasn’t a pigeon in the nest faster than him, but today he was late. He checked the timer on his wrist, he had thirty minutes. It was the short cut through the Itinerant Terminal, or he could kiss his legs goodbye.
Tarpaulins flapped on top of makeshift dwellings formed from planks of wood and pieces of corrugated iron; kids dressed in rags batted a hover ball back and forth with glow gloves that had seen better days. A group of ten IT’s huddled round an old laptop while two women peddled hard on a static cycle power conversion system. Jamaal ran onwards, these were not his people. He looked at outsiders partly through jealous eyes with their liberty to roam, but more than not with a sense of sadness. Yes, they might be free but they were generally hungry, homeless, and susceptible to the elements: vicious sand storms that rose from the West and acid rain that rolled down off the Eastern mountains.
The Terminal disappeared behind him and the path narrowed as it snaked round the side of a steep hill. At the top of the bend stood Shila, a thin girl, one of her front teeth missing and a look of mischief on her face. She was dressed in clothes made from rubbish, the faded logos of long since dead multinationals printed across dirty white straw.
“Where are you going all in a hurry, eh?” she asked.
“I don’t speak to Termites?” he replied.
Shila stretched out a finger and pushed it into his port. A flap of skin that shielded a socket mounted on his stomach. He slapped her hand away.
“Do you even know what message you’re carrying?”
“It’s not for you,” he told her.
“You don’t know what it is, do you?”
[Read more →]
March 28th, 2017
Nights out dancing, for all their intensity, leave few visible traces. Immersed in a multi sensory environment of noise, lights, encounters, movements, we emerge with only memories and half-memories. Of course there is a material culture of associated objects – items of clothing, flyers, vinyl – but much of it is ephemeral and on its own tells us little. Once everybody has gone home, the haunted dancehall refuses to give up its secrets.
So perhaps it is not surprising that we turn to the novel to get a sense of what it was like to be there, in different times and places. We turn to F. Scott Fitzgerald for the parties of the Jazz Age, to Colin MacInnes for 1950s London, or even to Jane Austen for the balls of regency England.
The electronic dance music scene that exploded through acid house and rave in the late 1980s and has mutated ever since now has its own library of fictional representations, much of it dating back to the period in the 1990s when the scene in the UK reached its somewhat overbloated commercial peak and publishers like everybody else were trying to get their share of the dance music pound.
The writers of such fictions may not always be reliable narrators – were they participants or voyeurs, or just chancers looking for edgy material on which to build a career? And the perspectives they offer are inevitably partial – as in many domains, male writers seem to be over-represented compared to female, and white voices more dominant than black. But these stories and novels undoubtedly tell us something even if in some cases it might only be how those in the literary world perceived what other people were getting up to at night. There is even an argument that the better writers have got closer to the reality of the experience than more conventional historical accounts. Sarah Champion, who edited the 1997 Disco Biscuits collection of short stories, asked: ‘how can you capture the madness of the last decade in facts and figures?… the true history is not about obscure white labels or DJ techniques or pop stars. It’s about personal stories of messiness, absurdity and excess – best captured in fiction’.
Places and spaces
In fact, much of the content is barely fictional at all with writers frequently referring to (then) actually existing clubs and parties – an obvious device for grounding a story in a specific context, as well as for the writer to indicate that they know what they are talking about.
[Read more →]