[what] Venera

[who] James Shaffer, Chris Hunt, with appearances from HEALTH, VOWWS, Alain Johannes, Deantoni Parks

[when] Now

[where] DTLA (tracking); ATL (assembly)

[how] improvisation & sculpture via: granular synthesis, paulstretch, drumbrute, modular system, pulsar23, Ibanez gtr+pedals

[why] LA-based James Shaffer and Atlanta-based Chris Hunt converged in early 2022 in Downtown Los Angeles while working on songs for singer Xhoana X. Their kindred interest and backgrounds in dramatic texture, electronics and experimentation inspired an improvisation-based recording process which seeks to explore a sonic universe defined by evolving atmosphere, cinematic noise and select collaborations with other artists.

[why.2] “(in our mind) is a **collision of puzzles** combining towards a unified assembly of the ecstatic abyss, a nested sensitivity within the intensity programmed in the fleeting final seconds of a deadly, perfect, alien thing before being destroyed”

[?]

“Into the circle triangling,” a doom-looped vox narrates. “All we have been is now divided.” You know you’ve heard these words before. Traced into your brainstem like acid pins.Each thought fields its own tombstone. You wish you could remember how it felt to live.“Into the triangle circling,” the vox replies, forming a loop, “All we could lose is now decided.”

You can’t remember where you got the tape. The only markings on its spine are now illegal, since they remind you of a time when there were people who had names and roles to play:

You press the tape against your face and close your eyes. You feel it fit into a place in you that once forced open will never close... Thru spiral corridors in time… Inscribed w/cryptic tablature meant to redefine corporality... All the rending air inscribed w/lore of composed by corrupted software, warez, bots... How many sides comprised the moment’s hologram? How?

When you try to think to parse instructions from the signal the record skips to its end, restarts. Then you are a part of something you wouldn’t have been able to interpret w/o dissolution: An unwinding maze w/o walls or halls or hull or any exit. The tape is reading your brain, you think. It seems to want or need to know you. To recompose you, end to end, and dust to dust.

“Grown apart,” another vox emits. “Too much damage. Grown Apart. Too much to salvage. ”You try to pull the tape out of your face and see your many faces slip right off w/ it in a pile. Then there is light. You can’t think of anything besides the light. You can’t think anything.