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Smoke fills the air like fog. The sun hangs in the sky holding a strange color; like a bright pink set in RGB instead of yellow set in CMYK. The radio spurts, a distorted song skips rhythmic gore at a sturdy (albeit, broken) pace. A plethora of voices telling the same story. They say folk forms are crafted with whichever technology is readily at hand. Microchips meet fretless strings that bend between notes and grids. Modern and tradition clash and claw intuitively with abandon; an ecstatic ritual to embrace the moment, urging us toward the only form that exists. Matter is all that matters. We're here collectively, the macro-organism. I'm here. I'm dancing.
-Tony Remple
Smoke fills the air like fog. The sun hangs in the sky holding a strange color; like a bright pink set in RGB instead of yellow set in CMYK. The radio spurts, a distorted song skips rhythmic gore at a sturdy (albeit, broken) pace. A plethora of voices telling the same story. They say folk forms are crafted with whichever technology is readily at hand. Microchips meet fretless strings that bend between notes and grids. Modern and tradition clash and claw intuitively with abandon; an ecstatic ritual to embrace the moment, urging us toward the only form that exists. Matter is all that matters. We're here collectively, the macro-organism. I'm here. I'm dancing.
-Tony Remple