Wandering through Sainsbury’s in the brightlight aisleways of the packaged meat: soft pink horror pressed against cellophane, sculpted curves of fat on bone. Suspended from the ceiling are the yellowing, skin-blistered cadavers of the next batch, the eyes gone, the mouths rictus-wide around bright red apples. As we claim our moist prizes, weight displacement triggers the suspension mechanism and the bodies descend a little, down into the fine mist of the chilled air. No one stays still for too long. There are superstitious whispers about the supply chain.
A soft voice over the loud speaker system urges us on in supplicatory song. We sing because everyone else does.
To be honest, I always thought Tortoise’s third album was a bit middling, but I gave it a couple of spins yesterday and definitely enjoyed it a lot more than the true celebration of mediocrity that was Olympic closing ceremony. At least I didn’t wake up to visions of Russell bastard Brand singing “I Am The Walrus”.
“Your girl smells chung when she wears dior” by Hype Williams
“What if their tracks only made sense as a series of notes to self, left on a fridge door and held up by magnetic elephants, a shorthand the rest of us only get to read later when it’s become old news?” - Kodwo Eshun