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"Coso" is a small dog, all fur, a bit goofy but likable. My best friend. Practically, he's a washing machine addict. When it's running, he gets hypnotized, stares at it, and listens. What mystery, what universe lies hidden in that swirling of colors and noises?
Staring at the washing machine in spin isn't bad, it makes you think. Organized chaos, a small programmable universe. Bodies, colors pick up speed, lose their shape. The mechanical noise becomes rhythmic. Under a domestic sound vibration, a new colorful form is born, living in symbiosis with the beat generated by the machine, a self-determined soundtrack of the daily life. It makes you think. "Coso," beneath that furry mass lies a keen mind that has captured the essence of the industrial? A new Genesis P-Orridge with a flea collar.
"f(x)" is a washing machine. It starts quietly, heavy, monolithic rhythm, sinister sounds take shape. The pulsations increase but the sound body doesn't change, the sounds bounce but don't dare yet, they turn, wait, and wait.
HERE COMES THE SPIN CYCLE. Sounds finally take shape, basses hit the stomach, pulsations grow heavier without changing form from the initial turn, vibrations possess us, crucified guitars, distorted human messages dance on the synapses. A post-rave sonic flow in a slow, continuous transformation, it could last for hours without changing.
Pupils dilate. On my washing machine dances an Armenian cubist with a rusty mechanical leg. "Dance, Dance, DanceTo The Washing Machine".
"Coso" smilingly hands me a bottle of water. "Would you swap your drum for these two of mine".
"Ring Around the Rosie". It could last for hours, a twisted spiral, always the same but different. The meaning, the purpose of this music? Why ruin everything looking for a purpose? Does a purpose have to exist?
Great invention the washing machine. "Coso," let's go grab some beers before the next wash.
"Coso," "Coso," let's go!
"Coso" who? , "Who is Coso?" my girlfriend asks, astonished.
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