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The cute guy looked me up and down a bit. 'U gonna fuck shit up?' he said.

I was chewing on my guitar pick and going over things like 'did we set the beats for the shouting song at A or B?', and 'i hope this open space won't mess up the acoustics', when he directed those words to me. White rectangular space, metallic skulls, an exhibition vernissage, a small town in the north of the country. I didn't know what to answer. 'So, you're gonna fuck this shit up?' he repeated and rolled his eyes around the room, the white plastered walls and murmuring audience. 'Well,' I answered. Then I thought about it. Was there something to violently shake up, a harmony to distort? When we, Gam and I, met at a postgraduate art institute in the deep south of The Netherlands, our getting together in a studio space and wiping off the dust of instruments from our adolescence felt like adding structure to a situation: we craved noise. An echo. So we plugged in and whispered into a microphone. Then we started singing, slowly, repeatedly.   Writing, remembering, visualizing. Playing (a)live. Ah! It felt as if another world had attached itself to my known world, I inhaled twice as much oxygen and spoke with an enhanced vocabulary. We were small, sculpting from the back pocket of pop culture. The edges of poetry. Trash! O how we loved the word trash, an alibi to be unpolished, to slowly find our way in between shitty equipment and frozen voices. Our music (the writing, exploring, recording, playing, screaming, having discussions and being frustrated) revealed what it itself was about: the unpredictability of creation and about not being vain. At all. Some years passed and although our once so familiar context has shifted somewhat, we continue to work and play together. Or separately. My response was: 'The moment I start looking for drama I make a fool of myself*.'


*White Leather Jacket