the Stabby Dancers

At ten p.m., or a few minutes past, we stepped out of the street, up the stairs, and into the middle of a friggin' nightmare. The filthy, undead creatures were everywhere, the room was thick with them, all staggering about, their dead eyes scanning the room for warm, living flesh to feast upon. This was going to take caution and skill; things could get ugly at any second.

I had come prepared: my face had been smeared with enough greys and blacks to pass for putrefying skin, and I had spent the day mastering my undead stagger and unholy moaning. My girlfriend wasn't so lucky; she was clearly still among the living and would need protecting. The door was being guarded by two wild-haired monsters whose clothes and faces were in tatters. They gave me only a cursory glance - my disguise had suceeded in fooling them - but eyed my companion hungrily, clearly suspicious. I grunted that she was with me and was not to be harassed, and they went for it. We were in.

As we entered, I scanned the room. My God, what words could describe the scene we beheld? My blood chilled as I saw that the creatures had reshaped the room in their own image. It was as if the place had been reworked by Hell's interior decorator. Terrible scenes and postapocalyptic grotesqueries hung from the ceilings and stood piled upon each other. They stood about in groups, awaiting the rituals they had gathered to witness. The anticipation was palpable, even among these Godless things.

And yet, among the living dead, other still-living friends were found. Some had come as protectors, armed and ready to hold back the legions of the undead should they rise up to attack us. These were the brave souls who had come to appease the resurrected beasts with sounds both sweet and chaotic.

The first of these were a crew of rugged minstrels who called themselves the Atomic Machetes. The moment their beastly noise began, i knew this would be just the thing to please the brutes (the creatures, i mean, not the band). Aggressive, exuberant raunch poured relentlessly from their guitars, as their vocalist belted out sounds (i can only assume they were words) to match. The creatures who had gathered here up until now had been standing or sitting in loose-knit packs of two or more, and i had begun to worry that they would soon grow restless and set out in search of living victims. But when the music began, they were immediately drawn to it like suicidal moths to that oh-so-irresistable bonfire. They stood gazing up at the performers, their attention held as if by mesmerism. Even i, whose blood still flowed warmly in my veins, had to admit an admiraton for the band's unyielding charisma and keen riffsmanship. Loud, too. So very loud.

The next performer to risk a grisly death to keep the beasts occupied was a mysterious poet known only as Collide. He had come ready for anything, and showed no fear as he strode to the stage, pistol slung low on his hip and everpresent shades hiding his eyes. Manning the stage with him were a motley assortment of soldiers. As Collide's complex and cunningly catchy rhymes fired out of him with gattling-gun speed, strange and unnatural sounds rose from the instruments in the musicians' hands, filling in the spaces around the words like syrup filling waffle squares. The undead horde drew closer, but the musical warriors refused to back down, firing off line after line, song after song, to distract the monsters from their murderous hunger. Despite my fear, i found myself standing among them, sharing their desire to be closer to the odd mix of Collide's lyrical rat-a-tat and the masterful sonic fluidity of his accompanists.

And then it happened. The man, the visionary, the evil genius who had called all these people from their graves to him with the force of his will and the lure of his song, like some postapocalyptic Pied Piper, leading the dead safely away from the living...took to the stage.

The man goes by many names: he is jeTprojecTlabs, T leChe, Mimic, and a handful of other aliases designed to keep his true self, his true mind, safely away from the clutching, grasping hands of the undead masses that flock to him. But behind the myriad faces and phases is a single soul. Though the stage was crowded with bodies and machines, they had come together at this moment to form a single entity, known as the Broken Boy. They moved and shouted together, haunted sonic electronics blurting and bleeping in time with sweaty organisms in the chaotic harmonies that are jeTprojecTlabs's signature sound. Buried beneath the layers of grimy grooves and shattered beats are simple, honest songs about love and sorrow, and the truth of it all seemed to touch something inside the cold dead bodies all around me. They moved more freely, more joyfully, than i would have thought possible. They looked up at these musicians not in dead-eyed fascination, but with what seemed like genuine affection, appreciation, even kinship. What spell was being cast - Giraffecycle.com

WHAT WAS THE STORY HAS CHOSEN IN YOU AFTER YOURS BELT NAME?

This way many link a lot of tales… jeTprojecTlabs were a scientific extrapolation of jeT (which which I have become bored of and THEN started the Australian links to use it). I am also T.LeChe (Coolification of my real name)… Bizarre Guy (needs no explanation) and MimiC.. Which pronounced Meh Mic that now as Mimi a c become pronounced of I. Better keep were, and my female side shows.

YOU HAVE NO MATTER WHAT DECLARATION? IF THAT, WHAT IT IS? IT DETAINS? IF IS NOT, WHAT ISN’T? IF THAT, IS QUICK.

No declaration of the task. I do this because there I can differently little carry be suitable to do be, or. I probably it cold bad and hongerie, beg for a dinghy to die (See Fig 1.1). I assume my mission declaration am - to push and my binnenverlangens and feeling thru music, video and Internet. Die out then drawing at trousers, sleaves of several punt-bookers and rock promoter.


Fig 1.1: Beg For A Dinghy To Die (Photo credit: Ms. P. Aint)
ARE SORTIROVANY YOU HAPPY COLOR?

The colors killed my Papa.

IS THE COMPROMISE OF YOUR MUSICAL CHAIN THAT HAPPENS, OR YOUR INITIAL HOPE AND TRIES THIS EXECUTED GENERALLY SUCCESSFULLY?

My hope is carried out… I am never in demand compromise them… I am very happy, am my music still personally brew of love and dig.

THE SONG IS COMPLETED, OR LEAVES?

Be as no chair. As soon as you can in this sit it to be done. My songs get to a point where I think, “Yes. I am called that.” I could make up with that that plays, or that makes me the material of the wannaonderbreking. Then I can put on CD. *Game it on stage. But really never finished. I still fuck round with old songs.

- WaVELengtH

:::NOTE - This CD in review was all the work of Troy Chenier, allthough It was reviewed as a compilation.::::

New Brunswick conjures up different associations for different people, but electronic music is normally not one of them. Subvert Contra Promotions is doing its best to change that perception. This five-track sampler showcases the diverse talent of the electronic artists that call Subvert home. Jet Project Labs opens the disc with "Guts Enough?," a beautiful airy tune built around a plucked acoustic guitar melody. The sense of serenity, however, is soon shattered by the following JPL track, as a bass drum-heavy intro clears the lane for "Breath," an introspective electro-folk hip-hop track in the vein of DJ Krush. The aptly named Mimic, on the other hand, specialises in pop star impersonation - "Brit-ne-Speared" and "N'sunk" are skewed electro versions of "I'm a Slave 4 U" and "Pop," respectively, replete with pitch-shifted vocals and distorted broken beats. The Weird Guy closes the comp with a decidedly un-pop sound collage piece entitled "Lorraina, I, LSD, Shoe Gone Blues," in which rapid-fire spoken word samples are spewed over a backdrop of dissonant synth chords. Thanks to Subvert, people will never think of New Brunswick in the same way again. - !Exclaim Magazine