"What Al-Bassam and Tynan theorized was that the government may have targeted parts of the Apple devices that it “doesn’t trust”: pieces that can retain bits of electronic information even after the hard drive is obliterated.
"The track pad controller, they said, can hold up to 2 megabits of memory. All the different “chips” in your computer — from the part that controls the device’s power to the chips in the keyboard — also have the capacity to store information, like passwords and keys to other data, which can be uploaded through firmware updates. According to the public documents from other members of Five Eyes, it is incredibly difficult to completely sanitize a device of all its content. New Zealand’s data deletion policies state that USB memory is only destroyed when the dust is just a few millimeters in length. “This wasn’t a random thing,” said Tynan, pointing to a slide displaying a photo of a completely destroyed pile of USB chip shards."
Yeah, so something else I've been meaning to blog about for weeks, but work-life // blahblah:
This falls roughly in a similar category to the Salarymen css (unfair comparison, I know, but both in same-similar rough ball-park) – of what I called (sorry) “Cagean Focus-Field”; ie it alerts you to outside 'world' / environment...) – but, mainly, mostly similar in it being fucking great. Some fun here using a creaky floorboard plus foot, then some seriously tight / eye-muscle tightening oscillations (if you listen on headphones, it really does cra-a-a-a-awlll around deep inside yer head); only slightly more disturbing when it shifts up a pitch or two.
Trying to figure out what he's used / where he's found these (this) sounds, then deciding it really doesn't fucking matter. I don't need to know.
“Nice” isn't the word I'd use to describe it – feel like I'm being brainwashed LOL– but grooving on the idea of not knowing / being surprised. Think about it: even in the 'underground', how often are we, you know, really surprised; how much of what we hear has been socially 'codified' / mediated on some level?
And fuuuuck, when it goes down into a subtone. Ooooof.
Bumps and rustles behind the sinewaves, like someone rummaging around in a cupboard. Ear-panning.
A car goes past, but is it on the tape or outside my ears / room / house?
Wine-glass (taps). Tinnnngs.
A slow bellhop summonsing via pushbike bell. Timmmmmmme at the bar in the 19Hz Arms. Or just Time.
Fake Tibetan bowls: a teaspoooooooooooon on a charity-shop glass. Rings // Tones.
Blood, breath. Just your body and ears.
The world: an illusion. A mistaken fascination with all that is outside ourselves.
"Silence, begone!!" (Cage's banishment; his Grand Trick, his de-illusion).
On the other side (of the tape): disembodied bodies & voices, the footstep recast as an illusionary (sic) In & Around & Near & Away: a comingandgoings-ing, a presentation of the illusion of a 'space' from... somewhere else, from somewhere temporally 'Before', from some other Other beyond the tape, beyond Now, beyond ourselves.
The creak returns – beautiful in its brilliant simplicity, its use – implied 'rhythm', implied 'space', implied 'movement' – but, you know, we all do this in our heads without realising it every day; it's called... Life: the decoding of visual / audio / linguistic illusions, the making sense of the world – and music (or whatever the hell this is) like this reminds us what it's like to be cast adrift, sat alone in the ocean of our own senses, audio-cues and landmarks suddenly heightened or distant or presented without, say, visual verification n cross-referencing...
But I'll stop now before I disappear completely up me own arse; and, but – oh! – that CREAK, that bloody glorious genius of a creak (and the Escher-like appearance / re-appearance / dis-appearance of steps in and out of sonic-frame)...
And it ends on a typewriter (w traffic backing-'vox'), manual-keys being pecked at. Sheets of paper being turned. Poignant gaps between the taptapatappitytap / ratchet-and-return, a not-quite-beat.
Life: it's music to my ears.
Some of my favourite-ist ever releases sound like a few friends jamming thru borrowed amps n shit while sinking some small bottles of lager or dark beer and sharing a couple Js, because, basically, that is exactly what they are. Basement Friendship. Fuck the moaning Anti-'Amateurism' // “this music lacks ambition” Brigade: this is where the real work gets done. Everything else is – as wonderful as it might sound in head and ears (; and as much of a fan I might be of SARM WEST or Steve Lipson's 80s-Prog-Pop engineering) – artifice.
Playing this tape a LOT, round n round – snap the tape back in and Replay, you old fucker – last couple days while painting Kid Kid Shirt's bedroom skirting-board (non-huff paint, btw, kiddies) – “Dad, your music sounds weird,” yells 11yr-old younger sister / My Other Daughter from out on the landing b4 retreating to autotunepoptasticgoogletabstreamzone – and, yeahr, I deeclare this css: dead good.
Screw Punk Rock: music endlessly declares its own Year Zero, day-in / day-out, and this, dear reader, is merely part of its eeeeternal basement-facing self-reinvention; a constant re-routing of The Real from the ground-up.
((man, the batteries on the tape-player just wore 'emselves out, so the music nodded'd-off in a suitably Eccojam // Vaporwave sloooowexit from its own spare-room micro-economy; well, one of the players was Bart Sloow, so should I be surprised?)).
*inserts fresh batteries*
First track, side one, starts relatively unpromisingly (to ye unbelievers, I'm sho') – just a group o'pals trying to figure out the 'rules' of today – it don't quite work (bashin' the drums and shit), but a few minutes into the jam they settle down, find each others' measure (it's how it works, see?) and the good shit sloowly unfolds. If it sounds like Silvester Angfang (Mk1) it's because / in spite of the fact that this bunch includes a coupla (funeral) folks / pals from Sylvester Anfang II. (Confused? You will be). After an initial burst of restless franticness n equipment / mettle-testing, this wiiinds down into a niiiice dirgeful waaay-post-VU methodronepsychgrooove: bootifool graveyard-bothering miserabilist minorchord nod music (with titles to match!): bloody LOVE it. There's one or two moments where the postponkghosts of PiL or Crispy Ambulance emerge for a mo or two, but it mostly echoes NY lofts 66-71 w some bongo-free euro-commune jams thrown in. A couple tracks sound ((unsurprisingly), like disk two of Yeti; or that fabulous (untitled) Siloah album (tho nothing could really sound that good – but they try...).
The real magic unfolds on Side Two. Damn you, you Flemmish, crypt- and barge-dwelling bastards: the music unpeeeeels itself like rotten wallpaper scraped away revealing a secret world behind yr own rusting wallhung radiator. It's like The Borrowers, except they all look like fucking tiny John Cales and are ripped on half-forgotten forestdrugs known only to elderly, 80something Russian mushroom-picking haags. The Mark Fishers of this world might find this sort of music emblematic of some form of passive 'defeatism' – a retreat from the World's 'real' challenges – but I think it is the exact opposite: a sloow resistance that circumnavigates the years; a secret baton that is passed across the generations with a nod, a glance and a Minor Third chord. “Don't care if you don't get it...”
Magic is made daily in bedrooms and cellars and spare rooms on borrowed drums and barely-understood guitars. Magic is made, constantly, with our hearts and thoughts and heads, through shared sounds, grins, meals and big hearts; it is skinned-up hourly on gatefold covers, glimpsed thru YouTube clips of half-forgotten German / Dutch / Danish / Welsh bands...
It doesn't matter if you don't 'get' that.
"Recorded outdoors during lunch breaks in various traffic circles and street corners of Washington DC”... well, I believe 'em! Posted a Bandcamp widget of one of the tracks a few weeks ago, but I ended up liking it so much I bought a tape. Thought it was a newie, but now see it's – d'hur! – 2013.
“Jeff Surak & Gary Rouzer: tapes, objects, etc”
The tracks on this are endlessly inventive: all sorts of pings and strango clickings and clangs in evidence – a performance technique that I shall name and henceforth refer to as "rummaging". Listening to a bit right ( lost track of which track...) now that has some distorto-tape warpage worthy of one of Angus MacLise's temple pieces. There's some nice radio manipulation going on too – you'd think I'd be well bored with that now, here in 2015, but – nah – radio is starting to sound more n more exotic, the deeper we go into the digitally-clean quickstreamin' post-internet world. Hmmm, now garrrblgrabllbuhled voices and a sound that resembles a Kenwood mixer whrrrrring at 470rpm – helium cake-mixage, no – wait! - is that tween-station radio noise? I like that I don't quite know.
And underpinning everything is traffic noise, street corner conversations, found cafe chat n clink. The cars sound very... English. Apart from the cop cars; them, not so. God, this bit sounds like a air-raid! People running for cover from some enormous rotating wooden spoon in the sky.
((Like the way these pieces act as a Cagean Focus-Field (not a Frame, of course, 'cos it's already got sound in it) – it makes you more sensitive to the sounds in the world around you; a few mins ago was listening in the garden and noticed a neighbour clanging on a piece of metal (I'm making it sound like I've got Test Dept living nxt door) leaking into the headphone mix; then local Yeovil traffic noise joined that of a Washinton st-corner; and, er... wood-pigeons. So, maybe you could sub-title this The Infinitely Variable Mix (that's kinda Cagean, right?); though, isn't all (pre-recorded?) music like that, really? It's only when we remove the artifice of drums and melodies and shit and overtly signpost something as a 'field-recording' that the effect is suddenly heightened – we then allow ourselves to hear the world. To notice it.))
Yeah, there's a bit with a creaky, hesitant-sounding harmonium and other parts sound like some delay-manipulated drone snuck into the building – all from the "tapes", I guess. Though I like the idea that those sounds were native to the streets of DC.
Yeah, it's good.