TechNET was, as the review in the same issue of Alien Underground (self-ironically) stated,
“Some kind of glorified techno flyer passing itself off as a bulletin of the digital underground, argueing for techno as the locus of a new counter culture. Has too much bass gone to their heads? or are these pretentious scribblings encouragement for a tentative optimism, flight lines guiding us to a politics of desire, slippery messages concerning beautiful thought patterns possessed of the art of disappearance, theories of identity that liberate the soul in the dance of all possibilities.” We’re hoping to add other texts some time in the future, here are Elements Toward TechNET Track 3
The mind/body dichotomy preferred in the academies assigns a primitive status to the movement of bodies… but what goes on in dancing minds? The inability of total escape (even on drugs you know where you are, perhaps a little more so) makes of a minute a month… a slow percussive tracking shot. You are where you are but the place has changed. …Arc light… sensuality… bodies enwrapped in bass… You dance your way out of time and space. New view. Is this the way of total selfishness? Only an exhibitionist can dance without the crowd…. or one intensified with the after echo of collectivities. Vandals dancing in the street. Is this the carnival, the feast of expenditure, the space of excess of which the anthropologists speak? 1978: Saturday Night Fever is pilloried by punks. 1980: The Fox.
Motor-emotive. Who knows what happens when we hear the sounds… what is this strange attractor that can penetrate the body and reverberate inside the rib cage. Is this the possesion of church-goers warned us against? I don’t want to know what happens, leave me out of it, I don’t want this spoiled by concepts. Do we hear the stirrings of a collective consciousness… its first violent manifestation… or are we entranced by the sound of blood pumping through the ear canal? Hearing voices… loosing grip… but connected.
Inside the Crowd
Anonymity is the key. To be alligned and arrayed with everyone… to be cut through and enlarged by all that input, all those mute articulations. No stars here. Whole populations rendered static by the dead end of product… no more process-push but the formulaic of full-frontal photography. Singled out. Captured. Careering.
In the Intesification Zone… mind flip fuse… becoming OUT in unparalleled terms… lost and refused re-admittance… resonating into the trilectic morph beat… operating by exhileration… escaping from gravity… the speed up… Read into the non-verbal pulse pummeled by strobe lights… cross the threshold into countless doorless room… alter altered states… the mind shifting into dissolution, cut through by assemblages of sound… no family, religion or state… no abecedarians.
Only withmachines can we recognise that most information is data trash. Only with machines is it possible for the bass to sound languid, tight and round at the same time. Only with machines can we simultaneously re-invent and destroy poetry. Only with machines can repetitious sound blocks clash to create unanticipated nuances. Only with machines is it possible to become the all pervasive ghost mob.