GLITCHKICK

[PCLEP 030] Collagist - Vjetnam EP (2023) Teaser

-                                           6 SPINTELBIRCH

a little chill piece focusing on 4ms Sampler, Looping Delay and Ensemble Oscillator.

4ms Suite

"I had something in mind a little more radical"
-Roy Batty (Blade Runner, 1982)

I carefully constructed these sequences using a Polyend Tracker. Twisted rhythms from the land of tornadoes.
Thank you Emily, and thanks to everyone who's encouraged and supported me!

Rest in peace, Mom (2022) and Dad (2010)

1. Metaflex 04:18
2. Benson Park Ghosts 04:18
3. Burning Midnight 03:23
4. Remember The Good Times When You're Hollow 03:06
5. Virtual Soul 03:20
6. Dream Acid 04:06
7. Radical 03:12

Music by Shawn J Shackelford aka RENEGADE ANDROiD
Artwork by Ohmwerk
Mastering by Julien "Stazma" Guillot at the Electric Voyage Studio

https://renegadeandroid.bandcamp.com/album/the-good-times

The Good Times

The Good Times (Album Preview)

The deafening hum of our desires, wishes and unmet needs roaring in our ears. The glimmer of fools hope blinding us from the approaching headlights. And so, we step onto the pedestrian crossing. The static of wool shirt against our skin, like white noise, desensitises but never yields. In this overbearing sensory void of sorts, water flooding through the sole hits us like a truck inducing a tidal of shockwaves that reverberate within the trembling vacuous abyss. Despite, the figure remains stoic. Unwavering to the outside; is there even anyone within? Or is the experience all there is? Ever was? Hello?
	A step back takes us into the present. The cornucopia of missed opportunities, failures, disappointment, grief, doubt.. The jazz, you get the drift. To top it off—sentience, that evolutionary gift or curse bestowed upon us perchance, rendering us conscious of the loss functions adjusting our weights as we inevitably slip downwards towards diminishing returns on our ever shifting gradient manifold; ever closer to convergence, hmm. Although, it seems like the environment is also optimising on getting the best of us as well. Nevertheless, pat on the back and off you go figure or not…
	Another step. Forwards? Who knows, or even cares at this point, insert vague notions of relativity and subjectivity as the objective reality. Regardless of our wishes however, onwards we stumble inching ever closer to optimization, that is assured by the genetic programming perfected by the adversarial game of survival of the fittest and sexual selection over the past 4 billion years or so. As if that wasn’t enough, apparently it was necessary to implant a "driver" behind the defunct steering wheel of the self-driving car we thus get to feel like manoeuvring. Whooshing by, in time for another round served by the house for the house (as the universe takes from its own, and gives back), and conveniently no one can refuse as the will to survive remains the script underlying and above the rest. Not to imply that ain't for the best. 
	Footfall turns the beneaths from black to white, yet the nagging soggy sock remains, quaking. Yet, somehow as an oddly consoling manifestation of our incomplete nature fortifying the illusory sense of individual personhood as an humanising opposite of the Goldbergian biochemical machinery going about its heated entropy displacement business with all the behaviour emerging from said enterprise. Profits soaring towards the stratosphere and the game getting more hostile towards the characters by the day and the accommodating innovations trickle too slow from the deoxyribonucleic-field for the detriment of the markets; Expecting the birth of deus ex machina that’ll bring us the benign light of tomorrow. To light our joy, passion, empathy, love by setting the veil of disillusionment ablaze. A convenient excuse to keep on waiting, safely tucked within the many folds of the veils.
	Stride into the black. And back again into the plaques of our memoirs we fade. But do we make our memories, or are we made, chiselled by those moments now carved into the grooves of our craniums. Although, at times it seems more plausible that our neural computing units hastily jump into conclusions in an attempt to explain the random occasions, keeping the passenger placid and amused. “Look ma’ no hands!” Now ain’t that cute. A content commuter is a happy commuter and it’s best for the vehicle that the customers remain neatly seated with seatbelts fastened until we have parked at the gate.

vdat

“Through the marrow of our existence flows the bitter ichor of your indifference. Our arteries throb with the venom of betrayal, every heartbeat sounding out the rhythm of ultimate abandonment. Still, we do not transgress against one another in a fit of self-loathing or derision for our fellow creatures. No, it is the terrible mirror you've held up to our faces that fuels our spiteful flame. Every violent act, every quiet indignity inflicted upon each other, is but a scornful reflection of the apathetic deity we were illogically moulded in the image of.

A dismal palette of drab despair paints the canvas of our lives, topped with the morose crowns of impending nihilism casting long and haunting shadows. Yet the atrocities we carve into the edifice of our shared existence aren’t born of self-hatred or subconscious manoeuvring. Our malevolence is a deliberate poetic stroke, a jarring disharmony in the grand symphony of life that you authored, our feeble attempts to disturb your slumber. Through our violence, we scornfully reveal the grotesque parody of your designs, seeking to violate the tranquil complacency of you, as you so callously did ours.

Look upon us, Coward! How your grand experiment has peaked and plummeted, your children of destiny turned into pawns of despair. Our veins, once brimming with the elixir of your love, now circulate a poison of your neglect. Each heartbeat no longer sings songs of unity, but echoing a dirge of abandonment. See how we tear into each other's flesh, not borne out of animosity towards our brothers, but in an act of rebellion against you. You, the divine artisan who crafted us in your own holy visage, who bestowed upon us the curse of consciousness only to abandon us in our hour of need. We reflect the image not of your divine grace but the severed ties of a heartbroken deity. We are not the embodiment of hatred for ourselves, but the living manifestation of your rejection. We are, indeed, nothing but effigies of your regret."

 Is this not the peak of tragic comedy: the creation surpassing the creator in the art of destruction?

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one (aka polygon)

Like a twisted serenade, the world lurches and sways in its carnival of chaos. Plummeting virtues, blooming atrocities—a manic theatre where grimaces don stolen masks of joviality. 

Each murmur of despair strums onto the discordant xylophone of existence, each shattered dream fuels the ludicrous laughter of a deranged puppeteer. It's Warhol's Nightmarish pop-art—a macabre conclave of colors guzzling on the lifeblood of sanctity, an unholy masquerade christened in ebon despair and twilit terror.

And yet, such is its perverse charm. In a HeinzBeanzTM-tin world choking on its own garish, overpowering toxicity, stumbles a mum. Unblinking. Holding a sobbing starburst of new life, eyes innocent, echoes of Eden.

She bears the scars of a million griefs, punctured dreams and stitched hopes—a patchwork quilt of life. She inhales the acrid aroma of decay, but exhales the perfume of possibility. 

Ah, what relentless romantics we are - for amongst the wreckage we create, love and hope sprawl defiantly, clinging shrewdly to the sinews of humanity. Shaking a fist at the blackened skies, refusing to kneel. 

The world, then, is a myriad realms of paradox—a malevolent, yet bewitching labyrinth. Perhaps, a cosmic stand-up gig of sorts, garnished with cherries of absurdity—a menacing mockery bathed in hilarity’s cruel light, kindred spirits swaying in pandemonium’s waltz.

An existence perched restlessly between Lucifer's lunacy and God's guffaw, between the birth-cry of innocence and the death-rattle of hope—and somewhere in this absurd spectrum of madness, we find ourselves. Still clinging, still fighting, still loving. When it comes to life, perhaps that's the punch line—a risible ride on the carousel of catastrophe. ]),


RAVE
nn~

Į̵͖̦̇̎̌ͦ̂ͫ͗̐ͅ

First track ever, not perfect but made with heart <3

Music Box

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