PRINT December 1996



THE RANDOM PLAY button on my six-CD player is my own personal DJ. It’s free-associating discreet pieces of information, but that’s as bricolage-y as we’re going to get. I want my music to tell me something, not reflect my environment back at me in freaky fractals, and I’ve stacked this deck so the player will deal me meaning in spades. 1-2-3-4-5: 3 the machine stops and makes a joke, “Beep! Mark, it’s the wicked witch of the west, your mother.” It’s “Voice Mail #3” from the Rent soundtrack; talk about disrupting the narrative! Then the player goes meta on me—guitars like jackhammers and a voice, “Turn on the radio, naw, fuck it, turn it off.” Rage Against the Machine.

The buzzsounds of the year were recombinant and abstract, ambient and illbient, electro, techno, postrock, postdance, and postmeaning. But me, I don’t play that way. I’m a linear girl, and I want to hear some songs. So random

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