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Right now I'm sitting here, listening to some metal and eating cinnamon toast. This is what we electronica producers do, you see. In fact, all the big names like Paul Oakenmakesshitmusic and Daft Cunt love cinnamon toast. They say so themselves.
"I love cinnamon toast," said Daft Punk in a recent interview. "it has teh cinnamon and doesnt afraid of anythin."
Now I'm listening to Massive Attack. God, I love me some Massive Attack.
Anyway, I got FL Studio finally. It's pretty awesome. Right now I'm teaching myself how to shot all the lazors, but I've got a few kicks already arranged and things are looking good.
How the fuck do I run a kick through a filter?
To celebrate my return to the few fans I've convinced myself I have, here's a snippet of MSN conversation:
WARNING: BAD TASTE INCOMING
What's drier than a dead baby?
*abrupt serious face*
A dead baby in the oven.
I wish my come was thick enough for this
-THIS PORNOGRAPHIC LINK HAS BEEN CENSORED BY ROBERT CULP'S NEVER DISAPPEARING SPIRIT-
Wouldn't you just feel great if Halloween came round
And instead of buying that cotton cobweb shit
You could just bust loads all over the place?
I certainly do
You know you want it, Shane
Right now, i just want some magical Chafing lotion.
People say they're producers. I don't like to say I'm a producer. It carries with it the image that you're just churning out sounds on an assembly line and hoping someone out their decides to buy it, and that's not what music is for me.
No, what I am is a composer, and I compose what I compose. I'd rather not call it dance or trance or dubstep or anything other than my music. I put time into it, I tweak it constantly, even after I upload the song, and I send it out into the world not in the hopes that someone will buy it, but in the hopes that it will connect with my listener, in the hopes that it will stir up emotion. This is what art used to be.
As artists, we try to connect with our audience on an emotional level. Art is meant to make you feel, to make you think, to make you understand. It is meant to lift you up and transport you into a new realm, where you will experience sensations you have never experienced. Art is not meant to be boring. It is not meant to be formulated. It is meant to be, and it is meant to document what we can only imagine.
This can be done without salary.
Alexander Stover is a genius who knows this. I've been a fan of his since I stumbled onto his website years ago, and it was the greatest discovery I've ever made. His thoughts on demanding pay for music can be found here.
Musicians, composers, artists, writers, filmmakers (some, at least), we are all artists. We are all free, and our art expresses a freedom that is our own, so why should we be paid for it? Why should we expect fame, or sexual favors? These things are fleeting and temporary, and they are nowhere near fair exchange for art that will last forever.
So what I demand in return for my music is a giant death ray, aimed directly at Scotland.
Oh, also, I made a song.
To get something out of the way, I made a new song and you can find it here.
Please, for the love of God, read the description and do your best to follow what it asks of you.
Also, I'm saving up for a proper microphone. That'll be fun.
If anyone has any suggestions as to what it should be, I'd like them.
To get something out of the way, I made a new song and you can find it here.
Go ahead and call it repetitive all you want.
In other news, I've been trying hard lately to get this Goddamn stand up thing underway, but good God you would not fucking believe
how fucking hard it is
Not only that, but it's gonna be a big ass file, what with so many different audio channels layered.
I might end up doing just two or three laughing voices.
But it will happen, you can rest assured.
The thing is, I have to keep starting over and over for reasons I'm too damn lazy to explain.
Anyway, remember that I'm a voice actor and all that.
Lately, I've been throwing into the audio portal what some will call rancorous shit.
What it's supposed to be is music.
Unfortunately, my musical potential is very limited because I only have the trial version of ACID xPress and they don't give you near enough shit to get started.
Also, the stand up comedy thing is underway. It's all written out and it's funny enough for at least a stoned teenager and his stupid friends to laugh at.
All I need to do is record and hope someone animates it.
But I would not hold my breath.
And if you don't want to see a bunch of rambling about ACID xPress then you should stop reading right about now.
What kind of fucking asshole piece of shit software company from the deepest depths of Hell decides to fork over a fucking trial version of some piece of shit music making software and says, "Oi, you, little boy in the funny shirt, you can have this awesome piece of music making software right here because it's the greatest one in the whole world and we want you to give it a shot so you can maybe buy it and impress all your friends with your thumpin' beats and whatnot, yo, oh and we forgot to mention that if you also want the little audio clips for actually making the music with you'll have to fork over sixty five fucking dollars because it's a God damned trial after all."
No, but it's not that bad because they can get you started and set you up with this nice little package of audio clips (mainly electronica or electronica related sounds) so you can make like three different songs and they'll all sound like shit anyway because none of the audio clips match.
All that being said, once I get the money to actually make purchase of the UK Electro House Audio Clip Pack as they call it, and you can imagine some big burly bastard screaming the name as though it held in its phonetics all the power of Greyskull, I'll be able to make some pretty decent music and I'll stop spamming the audio portal with rancorous shit, in your words.
So I woke up today and realized that my most authentic voice-impersonations are an overly aggressive African American and a lazy illiterate Mexican.
You know what's crazy, though, is that I actually prefer hanging out with blacks and browns.
Allow me to explain.
Wait for it.
I actually don't prefer anyone to anyone.
But I did have this idea to write like, a stand up comedy set.
And then record it.
And then listen to it a thousand times and laugh in a different voice every time, so it would sound like a comedy club.
And then post it here and have FrankNice vote it 0 because I know and he knows that he uses voice adjusting software and he doesn't like that I said so.
And if you aren't the one voting my shit down, I apologize.
But does anyone think that's a good idea?
I think it's a good idea.
I think it'd be a great idea to have some fat-sounding chick in the background laughing harder and harder every time.
Until finally there's just like twelve minutes where she's trying to breathe.
Just wheezing and gasping and
OH MAW GAWD
DID YOU HEAR N***A
DID YOU HEAR WHAT HE SAID
HE WAS LIKE
ORANGE YOU GLAD I DIDN'T SAY BANANA
The point is, I'm going to do that, and I would very much appreciate if someone just decided to animate it.
..and I would like to do it for people.
Ever since I was a small child, in the poverty-stricken villages of Calcutta, I have dreamed of coming to the fine country of America and doing the voices and the scripts.
While wrestling for my bread in the fields of Ohgnisisd, I would often practice my trade, shouting things like "I'MA FUCK YOU UP, SON."
Or, "I'MA FUCKIN' RAPE YOU TO DEATH, PUNK ASS."
When such vile ejaculations forced my people to exile me to the desert of Arizona, I took shelter from the harsh sun in a cave owned by Robert Culp, where I was allowed to continue the practice of my trade.
In the legendary Cave of Culp, my talent grew and flourished, and I became at one with the dialect of illiterate gangbangers.
And now I want to do it for animators.
But there's a catch:
Actually there isn't a catch.
So I just added two voice acting songs as a means to demonstrate my mediocre talent.
However, in the first link (Mr. Darrel of the 313), there's a short story written by myself that you probably can't understand because my voice is terrible.
So I'll write it here.
I now present to you, Mr. Darrel of the 313.
The process of pimpin' is far from easy.
Any country club member in Naval Valley can tell you this.
By my recollection, it was a warm summer evening and the grass had just been trimmed. The fresh smell of plant hung in the air.
Benjamin, my life companion, he was busy fetching my putter. I myself was looking over the field, making sure the sandboxes had been properly combed; and then I saw him, standing near the woods, dressed in a white coat and basketball shorts.
His name was Darrel, and he was reppin' the 313, bitches.
Darrel told me in a rather unsavory tone that he was there to snatch up all the duckets with assistance from his fine-ass honeys, n***a.
"Quite," I replied.
He informed me that his business strategy was to insert his honeys into the country club in a manner most subtle, so that they may prey on the unsuspecting men within.
When I informed Mr. Darrel that such an act was illegal, he simply shook his head and assured me, "Naw n***a. It's coo'."
Mr. Darrel then told me that he was thoroughly strapped, and if any old n***as wished to give him the time then the clock would strike six, as in six feet under.
Rather than pursue such a fruitless and mundane conversation, I wished Mr. Darrel of the 313 a good day and good luck with his endeavor, and returned to Benjamin.
Benjamin, flustered, asked if we may finally begin the game, and I looked back over my shoulder as the man who seemed destined for failure.
"Indeed, we may," I replied. "Indeed, we may."
The next day, which was by my recollection warmer than the day before, brought me a great surprise.
Mr. Darrel had returned, and he held in his company several women who seemed of very ill repute.
As I approached him, Darrel chose to shout at me that the unsightly women with him were the aforementioned honeys, and that I may have any one I so choose.
"Cream of the crop," he declared. "Cream of the mothafuckin' crop."
When I reached him and his companions, I told him that I must politely decline his offer of my very own pick of the pussy.
I told him respectfully that if he were to attempt to march his troop of what I mistook for homeless, cesarean*-scarred clowns into the fine country club, he would be met with rather impolite opposition.
But Mr. Darrel simply told me that he was a soldier, prepared to bang until the day he died,strapped to the teeth, a self-proclaimed pussy because you are what you eat.
One of the clowns began to imitate the sputterings of Father;s pristine condition Model T**, to the rhythm of a sporadic drunkard, while Mr. Darrel of the 313 followed the primitive tune and shouted in deep tones:
Mr. Darrel then pushed past me, the clowns followed him closely, and he declared that them duckets was his.
The story, as told by the patrons of Father's restaurant, is as follows:
Mr. Darrel and his company of poorly-covered clown women burst into the country club and begin shouting inaudibly.
Mr. Darrel then proceeded to shout things like step right up, your pick of the pussy, and cream of the mothafuckin' crop.
When one of the security guards politely asked Darrel to step down from the table, he produced from his waist a gun and informed the room that he knew just how to swing a gat.
They say, on that warm summer day, Mr. Darrel fired the first shot.
They say that as he fell, he wore a smile on his face.
Indeed, they say that Mr. Darrel of the 313 was the hardest n***a around, and the the 313-whatever it was-would respect him forever.
And to this day, I remember Mr. Darrel's wise words:
Give me them shoes, bitch.
*Cesarean, as in a c-section.
**..sputterings of... Model T, she was beatboxing.
Months ago, I uploaded a song onto Newgrounds titled "Fast Classical Guitar - Ar-something."
It was shit, and it does not reflect the kind of music I make.
My work can be associated with the trash compactor of the late Jeffrey Lionel Dahmer.
Full of discarded body parts and other waste products, it holds in its essence a rag tag group of bits and pieces that don't belong anywhere, but are somehow in just the right places.
Kind of like articles of rubbish that have been thrown into a trash compactor to be compacted.
See the resemblance?
Anyway, I wanted to make this post to let whoever cares to read it know that I play the bass, and the annoying shit you heard in the background of Let Me Fuck You in the Anus (not the annoying voices) was actually me attempting to rape the hip hop genre as hard as I could.
And since I play the bass and have access to the internet and have Audacity and a microphone and shit like that, I am currently whoring myself out to any collab efforts that may or may not come my way.
That is to say, if you want the best basslines around, I'm your guy.
So that's that.