Badass split / double live-set:
“Good evening, my name is Neil Campbell,” says Neil Campbell, and the audience quickly slides sideways into a sound.jungle of whooping, chirruping bird-calls, whirring, scurrying loopage and fractured one-phrase homily-poe/ms (live or pre/recorded I couldn't tell 'til – no, wait...) and, er, mumble-muttered moaaaaan-drone vocals.
It's like a Victorian cotton-mill has been translocated to the Amazon or a hot-house in Kew (a Herzog-like culture / location shift documented on CDr): chugging engines and lathe-belts; rattling mechanisms of unknown origin and purpose.
Somewhere along the way, steam goes out of fashion, things become... electrified. 1910, 1921... the years flash by outside our bubble.
Factories shut down. Cars now run on weird electrical gasses. Circular-saws appear, doorbuzzer-like kazootronics accompanied by drunked (chocolate) monk vox and Schwitters style vowel invocations. Classy shit, man.
Dylan / Blood Stereo's piece also starts w/ aviary electronics – tropical bird-house calls and twittering frequencies. Something calls to us from inside the foliage; a man blows into a vacuum-cleaner hose. The sky darkens. Mummy, I'm scared.
Bass tones (someone w emphysema puffing onna large trombone-analogue unable to find a note); a perv on the phone; helium-birds dancing on the telephone wires. Then everything wuh-wuh-warps and starts to sound aquatic... we're swimming through frond-forests of sea-weed now, not lost in arboreal undergrowth. Wobbly bath-tub sonar depth-sounding // sea-bees buzzing as they swim past us in school-swarms// cleaning up cutlery in a turquoise-domed sub-surface cafe. Someone pours a huge jugs of milk into the emersion-heater, saws their way through a rusty bulk-head.
Submarine crew psychosis! Oxygen Pete! Man the pumps!
A monkey with smokers cough.
“Bloody weird night,” said Neil. “But good weird, not evil.”