Skylab
#1

And what if on the Trip-Hop scale, the Trip side weighed significantly more than the Hop side?

And what if the pulsating metropolitan anxieties of Massive Attack transformed into the surreal beat of kaleidoscopic alien hearts?

And what if the sinuous smoke wreathes of Portishead were not those exhaled in elegant Night-Clubs, but those deformed and hovering in an exotic opium den?

If that were the case, the pieces would be like dice thrown onto the carpet of a constantly evolving and transforming sonic turmoil. They would constantly spin on themselves, continuously displaying the different faces of a schizoid attitude.

There would be a myriad of details that, like space dust, would obscure the view from the spaceship, as we would pass through long psychedelic tunnels astride skewed little poems pervaded by extraterrestrial syntax.

The rhythm would be shattered and recomposed, daring sidereal enjambements would continuously break the development of distichs. We would have sampled choruses that would appear and disappear in the blink of a “bubble-synth,” and the harmony would be combed for play and unkempt by method.

We would have untuned pianos giving way to crooked slide-guitar lines, a sick tribalism would surprise us in acidic jungles where the curses of screaming monkeys would be spat out by hysterical clarinets. There would be colorful electronic insects, large and elusive like kites.

A confused and disordered palette of colors randomly squeezed out would be continuously illuminated by the dance of a cold cobalt blue flame that has chosen the wind as its dancer.

If all this were to happen, we would have Skylab, we would have a Trip-hoppiaceo.