Ataxophilia by Canned Meat

The human species crawled out of the African continent, and brought its percussion with it. All people know percussion, all have an ontological rhythm tattooed into the wrinkled pilots of their skull. The drops of water from leaves, the pitter-patter of running game, the trills of mating birds, the slow shifting of tectonic plates. Listen to it: the millions of years of percussion. You can feel it when someone places their hand on your chest as lust courses through your veins: ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump.

All things have percussion: a collapsing building, a million people dancing to traffic lights, trampling cigarette cartons and condoms underfoot. The pale-skinned conquerors set foot on untamed soil, and they heard it off through the trees: percussion of the new spring, percussion of war, percussion of the mating ritual.

All things have percussion, and all things collapse. Ataxophilia. When atomic bombs rip the soil into the air, flinging it like a child’s doll, the thoom thoom thoom of crackling energy sliding skin off bone and turning centuries of architecture to dust will sound a new rhythm. When the sun consumes the terrestrial planets, when all quarks snap and fall to pieces, you could hear it if you were there. Through chaos, new rhythms are born. This can only be an over-exposed, hasty polaroid.

Sirach 7:40 In all thy works remember thy last end, and thou shalt never sin.

Music for aliens, outsiders, time travellers, visionaries, and pilgrims in a fallen world.

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