Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Fondle or Smash Part One: Face of Feeding Maggots

There is a feeling before the performer steps upon the stage. There is a desperate moment, a yearning in the soul to propel one’s self beyond the normal realms of experience, to catapult out into the unknown. The mind struggles tirelessly against itself to bypass the mechanism of conditioned instinct and attempts to search instead for those dimensions our hunter gatherer forefathers dismissed as uninhabitable, the sparse and lonesome frontiers stretching out beyond Huxley’s doors of perception. It is upon this exploration of hereto uncharted country that the young magician longs to embark and the artist desires to record.

The stage, as always, remains sparsely adorned. In the foreground there is a small wooden table. Suspended in the background, a large silver disk rotates four feet above the floor. The words “Fondle or Smash!” are crudely scrawled across the back wall in red lettering. Upon the table are four small wooden boxes and a large mallet hammer.

After a time, the performer who has been sitting somewhere in the crowd, observing the expressions and listening to the conversations of his audience, chooses to make his way to the stage. This seemingly insignificant detail is perhaps a cunning ploy, to, from the outset, place his public on their guard. Even now as he begins to speak, their tiny minds are already at work, deciphering the meaning of such an “outré de entrée”.

“Sons of Abraham, I mean you no harm!!
Daughters of Dionysus, I pledge my love to thee!!
Children of Eden, let us be free!!”

“The hour has commeth and I stand before you that I may be your portal of truth, a window for thine soul, an instrument to help thee peer inside and know thine true self like never before!
Will you now, as you stand upon the precipice, take my hand and allow me to lead you over the edge and down into the fault below?
Will you be ruled by me, even when the siege walls are almost breached and famine lies down at night to sleep beside your family bedstead?
If the veil is lifted from the bride, revealing a face of feeding maggots, will you still kiss me?
Man hath no greater horrors than those which inhabit the cold and solemn mountains of the soul.”

These questions are designed to excite an unwavering interest and simmering horror of apprehension in the performer’s audience, establishing a foreground within which a number of items may be introduced.

“What I propose to undertake tonight is a journey to the centre of the inner self to find the hidden workings of the real mind, to arrive at the one truth which is undeniable and perfect, my only instruments: a spinning numbered disc, a mallet hammer and the four wooden boxes on the table behind me.”
Each number on the disc corresponds to a wooden box. Inside each box lies a truth for one of you here tonight in the audience. The question is whether it is better to embrace that truth or to smash it into a million pieces. The choice, as always, will be yours.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you will please allow me to tear the veil from your collective eyes, I shall by means of self hypnotism and mind control, visit an extremely dangerous trance upon my being, that I may encounter the spirits of the recently departed and the long time dead.”

With these words the performance may begin and strangely familiar trance music emanates from the speakers on both sides of the stage.

“What is love? Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me no more” a deep foreign voice calls out over the music before commencing what can only be described as some from of nonsensical mantra, “Bidi-Bidi-Bidi-Bo-Bid- a-Bom….Bo-Bid-a-Bom. Bidi-Bidi-Bidi-Bo-Bid-a- Bom… Bo-Bid-a-Bom.

The performer too, after a time begins to replicate this diabolic chant, his voice building in strength to an almost deafening crescendo until the he is finally unable to resist the rhythm and breaks uncontrollably into a disembodied techno dance of insanity. The microphone slips from his hand, hitting the stage floor with a vociferous thud


  1. In your collective face r.meehan.

  2. My collective face twists themselves in anticipation of an interrobang!? There it is.

  3. This sounds like the worst magic show ever. I was half expecting the unveiling of the Mammoth Woman, or something equally bizarre.

    But no.

    Low grade techno-pop.

    Oh joy.