We were The 17, a vocal project that has no audience only participants. A human ring around the financial district where one person after another would scream the word MONEY.
Waiting for the scream to come around, you are left thinking about the pre-crisis office architecture surrounding you, the consensual hallucination that art and banking is, the power of the voice and the trust involved in such a performance. When the scream comes to you it is more of a football chant or rural command, not singing, not melodious. As it passes it feels like the unity of a dance party, solitary individuals united by a moment. The energy of communal experience, a line that passes through acid house, singing in taverns, mosh pits, sport chanting and choirs. The voice – the very first thing and the very last thing.
The White Room was the first ‘grown up’ album I bought. The mythic qualities of the KLF seduced me. Masked pop stars. Sample heavy production. Symbolism and shadow. Read Drummond’s book 45. It’s a self-help text for me, in the same hallowed territory as my viewing of Tarkovsky’s Stalker every six months. Two weeks ago I came across a plastic-wrapped copy of 45 at a small departure lounge shop in Sandakan airport Malaysian Borneo. Sitting amongst Malay fashion and beauty magazines, looking solitary and bemused, it was some kind of omen. I made a photograph of it and took it with me to Amsterdam.