Driving (in the) snow from Kempten. I was supposed to put saucers and blondes together, but the reversable rider of Skye said „NO!”, and off he went on a rollercoaster ride of thrift shop guitars, carrying the torch for Lady Biba. The 4 A.M. Lamp kept burning, and sociopaths were rescued from their shady caves, turned into rainbows and oh! Butterflies „above the nation”. That was the dream of the Woodstock generation, now wasn’t it?
Listen to the album while reading the text.
Drugs on war. Peace for fuck. The TV replacable eyes of narcolepsy, the tidal waves of Atlantis re-rising in the re-standing Baalbek megalith-os of Love, drilled into Sumerian skies of transformatory grace. There were no temples in the beginning, just staircases in the jungle, and death whistles blazing over Spaniard beards, which eventually put the whole conqueror thing in asylums. I shook hands with Chris Karrer, and off I went to another gig, this time on the airport, for the krautrocking children of a lost fantasy. It’s all in the Wood. Anonymous band, 2 drummers, carbon copy of the Duulian magic – NO SOUL. Suddenly Berlin, and the airport park, parking lot, P’Ark. There was this shady figure in robes of breakfast serving sound on dishwasher plateau. There was a party in the Underground Cart on the rooftop, far from Krishna Supermarkets, and the Queen was paying for everything. Somebody stole my only good tune. Telepathically coding „she she she” over napkins with new chords. Sirens flashing, colors roaring, Arthur Rimbaud laughing in the rearview mirror. What was the dream in 1968, cause I forgot where I put my acid, and then the years skipped to 2019, and 1969 was now half a century ago (Earth Time) from my original trip beyond Pluto. VOYAGER 1 BEAMS GREETINGS – but there’s no-one on the other side of this purely human errorenous line. Time is structural, we invented it – and those weren’t the dreams of any generation. Back to work in Via Kosmische, far high on Nepalese huts, arches of deconstruction, and Angus MacLise’s photo with the Reaper sharing space with Miss Stacia on the wallpaper. I guess he was a prophet, I guess she was a dancer, I guess I have some job to do. Now, what was the album about, saucers and blondes together, right, and friends, on the psychetropic wave of sonic exhaustion. Ambient. Sheer noise attack. Cough cough, Lady Biba crosses her legs on the fridge, serving naked lunch on golden stockings. Microtonal whispers of boy elevators, captured on tape in the magical summer of 2002. There are visions there I couldn’t capture in any letter, but I sometimes send one from VIA to the occupants of Earth Daze, and maybe they receive 1% of the message, and share doctrines with the Eye See Eye mock pseudogod high on the vinyl mount to punish me for trying. She last told me she worked in Dubai. The letter’s getting hazy, the dawn is over, clouds turn back from blood-red to chromeblue, and the prophet buries fool’s clothes in the lava lamp bathtub. There is a new day, and songs have to be written, wrong notes be sung, instruments be banged on, improvs recorded. Bring on the congas, Ditty, there’s a Joker escaping.
Adam Majdecki-Janicki. Poznań, Poland. Cosmic organic Lo-Fi music from the planet 93-105, and other sonic curiosities. Written, performed, and recorded by Adam Majdecki-Janicki. Since 2002. Artist photo by Yu Andriichuk.