https://www.beatport.com/track/fallacy-zero-t-remix/9314856

Bert H & All Mode - Fallacy Zero T Remix [FOKUZ]

As far as we know “Piano Monkey’s” are parasitical guides sent to Earth via comets from distant galaxies far far away in an eldritch form similar to “Cordyceps spores” they defy conventional understanding.
Akin to a quantum particle capable of occupying multiple spaces simultaneously, and occasionally eluding human perception altogether, they are known to digest mycelium and mimosa, these enigmatic musical alien-beings cloaked in human form: are hell bent in cultivating a grand ego to catalyze their mission of harmonising humans through multimedia to reshape the world!
Untameable and anarchic, Piano Monkeys are resolute in their pursuit of creating harmony among humanoids by any means necessary which often includes trying to hi-jack the earths protected media empire via film, music and social media. If identified do not approach report immediately to your local cinema usherette.




Warning: under no circumstances show a mirror in the presence of a piano monkey humanoid as they are universally known to be bored of Mirrors and may embark on a long political diatribe that could energise a humans frequency beyond historical boundaries causing all sorts of problems in the space time continuum…”

Send me some Eth if you like:

0xa2156f5fCa3614420159FAc7a8a85d1BCdb9a01a

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.            “It’s not like I’m using,” Case heard someone say, as he shouldered his way through the crowd around the door of the Chat. “It’s like my body’s developed this massive drug deficiency.” It was a Sprawl voice and a Sprawl joke. The Chatsubo was a bar for professional expatriates; you could drink there for a week and never hear two words in Japanese.            Ratz was tending bar, h is prosthetic arm jerking monotonously as he filled a tray of glasses with draft Kirin. He saw Case and smiled, his teeth a webwork of East European steel and brown decay. Case found a place at the bar, between the unlikely tan on one of Lonny Zone’s whores and the crisp naval uniform of a tall African whose cheekbones were ridged with precise rows of tribal scars. “Wage was in her early, with two joeboys,” Ratz said, shoving a draft across the bar with his good hand. “Maybe some business with you, Case?”            Case shrugged. The girl to his right giggled and nudged him.            The bartender’s smile widened. His ugliness was the stuff of legend. In an age of affordable beauty, there was something heraldic about his lack of it. The antique arm whined as he reached for another mug. It was a Russian military prosthesis, a seven-function force-feedback manipulator, cased in grubby pink plastic. “You are too much the artiste, Herr Case.” Ratz grunted; the sound served him as laughter. He scratched his overhang of white-shirted belly with the pink claw. “You are the artiste of the slightly funny deal.”            “Sure,” Case said, and sipped his beer. “Somebody’s gotta be funny around here. Sure the fuck isn’t you.”            The whore’s giggle went up an octave.            “Isn’t you either, sister. So you vanish, okay? Zone, he’s a close personal friend of mine.”            She looked Case in the eye and made the softest possible spitting sound, her lips barely moving. But she left.            “Jesus,” Case said, “what kinda creepjoint you running here? Man can’t have a drink?”            “Ha,” Ratz said, swabbing the scarred wood with a rag, “Zone shows a percentage. You I let work here for entertainment value.”            As Case was picking up his beer, one of those strange instants of silence descended, as though a hundred unrelated conversations had simultaneously arrived at the same pause. Then the whore’s giggle rang out, tinged with certain hysteria.            Ratz grunted. “An angel has passed.”            “The Chinese,” bellowed a drunken Australian, “Chinese bloody invented nerve-splicing. Give me the mainland for a nerve job any day. Fix you right, mate…;”            “Now that,” Case said to his glass, all his bitterness suddenly rising in him like bile, “that is so much bullshit.”             The Japanese had already forgotten more neurosurgery than the Chinese had ever known. The black clinics of Chiba were the cutting edge, whole bodies of technique supplanted monthly, and still they couldn’t repair the damage he’d suffered in that Memphis hotel.            A year here and he still dreamed of cyberspace, hope fading nightly. All the speed he took, all the turns he’d taken and the corners he’d cut in Night City, and still he’d see the matrix in his sleep, bright lattices of logic unfolding across that colorless void…;The Sprawl was a long strange way home over the Pacific now, and he was no console man, no cyberspace cowboy. Just another hustler, trying to make it through. But the dreams came on in the Japanese night like livewire voodoo, and he’d cry for it, cry in his sleep, and wake alone in the dark, curled in his capsule in some coffin hotel, his hands clawed into the bedslab, temperfoam bunched between his fingers, trying to reach the console that wasn’t there.             “I saw your girl last night,” Ratz said, passing Case his second Kirin.            “I don’t have one,” he said, and drank.            “Miss Linda Lee.”            Case shook his head.            “No girl? Nothing? Only biz, friend artiste? Dedication to commerce?” The bartender’s small brown eyes were nested deep in wrinkled flesh. “I think I liked you better, with her. You laughed more. Now, some night, you get maybe too artistic; you wind up in the clinic tanks, spare parts.”            “You’re breaking my heart, Ratz.” He finished his beer, paid and left, high narrow shoulders hunched beneath the rainstained khaki nylon of his windbreaker. Threading his way through the Ninsei crowds, he could smell his own stale sweat.             Case was twenty-four. At twenty-two, he’d been a cowboy, a rustler, one of the best in the Sprawl. He’d been trained by the best, by McCoy Pauley and Bobby Quine, legends in the biz. He’d operated on an almost permanent adrenaline high, a byproduct of youth and proficiency, jacked into a custom cyberspace deck hat projected his disembodied consciousness into the consensual hallucination that was the matrix. A their, he’d worked for other, wealthier thieves, employers who provided the exotic software required to penetrate the bright walls of corporate systems, opening windows into rich fields of data.            He’s made the classic mistake, the one he’s sworn he’d never make. He stole from his employers. He kept something for himself and tried to move it through a fence in Amsterdam. He still wasn’t sure how he’d been discovered, not that it mattered now. He’d expected to die, then but they only smiled. Of course he was welcome, they told him, welcome to the money. And he was going to need it. Because––still smiling––they were going to make sure he never worked again.            They damaged his nervous system with a wartime Russian mycotoxin.            Strapped to a bed in a Memphis hotel, his talent burning out micron by micron, he hallucinated for thirty hours.            The damage was minute, subtle, and utterly effective.            For Case, who’d lived for the bodiless exultation of cyberspace, it was the Fall. In the bars he’d frequented as a cowboy hotshot, the elite stance involved a certain relaxed contempt for the flesh. The body was meat. Case fell into the prison of his own flesh.             His total assets were quickly converted to New Yen, a fat sheaf of the old paper currency that circulated endlessly through the closed circuit of the world’s black markets like the seashells of the Trobriand islanders. It was difficult to transact legitimate business with cash in the Sprawl; in Japan, it was already illegal.            In Japan, he’d known with a clenched and absolute certainty, he’d find his cure. In Chiba. Either in a registered clinic or in the shadowland of black medicine. Synonymous with implants, nerve-splicing, and microbionics, Chiba was a magnet for the Sprawl’s techno-criminal subcultures.            In Chiba, he’d watched his New Yen vanish in a two-month round of examinations and consultations. The men in the black clinics, his last hope, had admired the expertise with which he’d been maimed, and then slowly shaken their heads.            Now he slept in the cheapest coffins, the ones nearest the port, beneath the quartz-halogen floods that lit the docks all night like vast stages; where you couldn’t see the lights of Tokyo for the glare of the television sky, not even the towering hologram logo of the Fuji Electric Company, and the Tokyo Bay was a black expanse where gulls wheeled above drifting shoals of white styrofoam. Behind the port lay the city, factory domes dominated by the vast cubes of corporate arcologies. Port and city were divided by a narrow borderland of older streets, an area with no official name. Night City, with Ninsei its heart. By day, the bars down Ninsei were shuttered and featureless, the neon dead, the holograms inert, waiting, under the poisoned silver sky. --Reprinted from Neuromancer by William Gibson by permission of Berkley, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 1984, William Gibson. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. 
Hooked on the rush from each time i play in front of magical people.
Deep minimalist.

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J.W. Goethe

Female DJ Love to mix an eclectic multi genre of techno hard dance trance house and jungle/dnb 💜

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With his first release in 1999, London based Irishman Cian McCann has long since established his place in the scene. From his early days in Dublin with the Bassbin label, to working with the likes of Calibre,4 Hero, Klute, Alix Perez, Icicle and Noisia, he has never stood still. 

2008's Cheap Shots LP for Total Science's CIA Records was a high point, with the lead track "Walk Away" bringing fellow Dubliner Steo to the worlds attention. 

Also a noted remixer, Zero T has retouched artists as diverse as Dillinja, Slam, Goldie, Sabre, Lemon D, Lenzman and Lenny Fontana.

Zero T's discography reflects the diversity that his DJ sets have always shown, ranging from full vocal smoothness to more rolling, dance floor styles. 

You are as likely to find his music on labels like Metalheadz and Shogun as on Soul:r or Signature.

2010 saw two milestones reached. The launch of Footprints; Zero T's own label, and compiling and mixing FABRICLIVE052 for the esteemed London venue.

After a short period away from the scene, 2014 saw the return of Zero T as a producer, remixer and DJ with a Metalheadz debut and a spate of collaborations with the legendary Fierce on the highly regarded Quarantine.

2015 saw the long awaited sophomore album, this time coming on Dispatch Recordings, entitled "Golden Section”, along with a glut of appearances on Shogun Audio, Soul:r, Fokuz and Spearhead.

2016/17 saw more releases on Quarantine, Metalheadz, Integral, Spearhead and Horizons, along with plenty of remixes for the likes of Lenzman, Noisia, Gerra + Stone, SATL and many more. 

The last number of years have also seen Zero T touring extensively in the UK, Europe, USA, Australia, New Zealand and Japan.

2018 saw the release of the third Zero T album ‘Little Pieces’ on Dispatch Recordings, featuring guest appearances from Steo, DRS, Stamina, Villem and Beta 2. He also released an EP on Lenzman’s label The North Quarter entitled "Baby Grand", collaborated with Phase on Metalheadz and GLXY Shogun Audio and delivered another batch of remixes for Metalheadz, Dispatch and several other labels. 

2019 brought a debut solo 12" on 31 Recordings, a remix of Goldie, an extended EP with Beta 2 on Metalheadz, an EP with Steo on Integral, appearances on both V Recordings and Metalheadz 25 year anniversary LP's and much more!

2020 highlights included another EP on The North Quarter, a debut on Sofa Sound Bristol and the usual raft of remixes and guest appearances.