More than just a platform for his own music, Exit Records is the fruition of a lifetime goal for Darren and has developed to encompass styles beyond strictly drum & bass. Exit Versus plays host to dBridge’s collaborations with other artists and the first three singles have seen him cross swords with the likes of Commix, Concord Dawn, A.I. and Fierce. Exit Aptitude by contrast focuses on individual artists at the top of their game and includes specially commissioned artwork in a limited edition vinyl package. Previous volumes have included luminaries such as Calibre, Survival, Rufige Kru and Instra:mental, each providing music with integrity and longevity and enhancing Exit’s reputation as a label with the strictest quality control. In 2008, Exit released dBridge’s first solo LP ‘The Gemini Principle’ to widespread critical acclaim with several tracks showcasing his talents as a vocalist as well as a producer, a sure sign of a confident artist not afraid to stamp his own personality on his music. With the standard set high, Exit followed up with albums from Survival LP and Consequence in 2009 and has a wealth of music to come in 2010, including singles from Alix Perez, Abstract Elements and more from dBridge himself. dBridge has continued to forge links with creative producers in and outside of drum & bass, most notably with the Instra:mental duo. The ‘Sepia Tones’ EP on Darkestral included a pair of collaborative tracks (‘Translucent’ and ‘Detuned’) and dBridge’s own ‘Wonder Where’ opened the account for Instra:mental’s new label, NonPlus+. Together as Plus Ultra, they present the monthly Autonomic podcast series which explores their influences across all genres and styles as well the freshest sounds in drum & bass and dubstep. A huge success so far, the podcasts have gained worldwide acclaim with over 60,000 downloads of the latest installment. The trio is currently working on a number of further studio projects, crossing a range of tempos and including other producers such as Burial and Skream. dBridge has also recently worked with another of dubstep’s frontrunners, with ‘These Words’ appearing on Martyn’s debut LP ‘Great Lengths.’ In 2009, dBridge has been representing for the A Bunch of Cuts collective at their new London residency as well as opening his own residencies for Club Autonomic at Fabric and Rinse FM. Breaking new ground by playing at Berlin’s new home of techno, the legendary Berghain club, he’s also been touring clubs and festivals the world over, including Japan, Australia & New Zealand. Look out for more in 2010 as he takes to the road alongside Instra:mental to promote the release of their upcoming mix CD for the prestigious Fabriclive series. Constantly exploring the potential of drum &bass and staying several steps ahead of the rest, dBridge is showing no signs of letting up just yet and remains one of the leading lights in independent underground music.
this is http://pastebin.com/vBMjpX3S "CATHEDRAL" by raymond carver i wouldhave posted it here but its too long so i tried to split it up and the formatting spazzed out idk but its good and you should read it, its a story about some people watching tv with a blind guy and they get mega baked 420
heres also as a bonus a draft of a dumb story that i wrote and it is gonna get changed
Jonny turns his head away from the Greenway gate, which moves softly in the wind, and fixes his gaze on the floor. The Greenway. Must have had some sense of humour calling it that. God knows who thought it would be a good idea to build a “multi-use pathway” directly above the sewer that ships all the shit out of East London. Jonny knows everywhere that the Greenway passes through: how they’ve done it up all nice where it skirts round the edge of the Olympic Park in Stratford, all shiny metal and well-tended grass; the route that it takes to slip round the back of the hospital; how, to cut right through the middle of Plaistow, it runs directly alongside the cemetery. He knows every path, every road in the borough.
It’s dark, and the guttural smell of the sewage treatment plant drifts over on the breeze. Clusters of floodlights hang above the empty car parks like alien spacecraft. This is Beckton, the place where the Greenway ends, and, logically, the place where all the shit in East London is shipped out to. Beckton is famous, marginally, for this; also, for hosting a nondescript strip of brand-name megastores, now primed and ready to sink into decline since Westfield opened. Jonny walks, hands stuffed into his pockets, down a path that weaves between the shopping parks. A metal fence, poles driven into the ground and topped with spikes, runs along each side. Weeds have burst up through the cracks in the edge of the concrete and curl inconsiderately out onto the path. There’s something inescapably odd about the retail parks at this hour, Jonny thinks: the stores shut up and dark with no people, the parking lots with no cars in them, the signs still burning names and logos into the night.
Jonny walks out along the main road through the retail parks. The sky is clear, and a half-moon hangs above the rusting ironwork of the gasometers. A van is making a late delivery to the Sainsbury’s across the road. He stops suddenly and looks out across the empty stretch of concrete to his left, the parking bays marked out by neat white lines. Stores, dead for the night, line up: a B&Q, Pets at Home, Staples. On a whim that he cannot entirely explain, Jonny turns off the pavement and walks out across the car park, the tarmac freezing and hard under his feet. He finds himself leaning against one of the floodlight poles in the dead centre of the lot, orange light washing around him. He pulls out a cigarette, lights it. As he breathes out, he watches the smoke curl out of his mouth, its wispy fingers reaching out and then dissolving into the cold night air.
Quite suddenly, as the smoke dissipates in front of him, he notices again the pools of light cast by the floodlights, the neatly painted bays, the shops all closed up, the sharp fence poles in the distance where the path runs, the sewage works beyond — the absence of anyone else — and there it is, right there, in front of him, eyes flashing like flakes of glass in the orange-tinted darkness, the long, slow curve of the neck and back, the delicate slenderness of the legs, the head held high and, sprouting from it, the antlers, tall, graceful, symmetrical. The stag is at least twice Jonny’s height, and it casts a long shadow over the concrete. He sees more flickering green eyes, shadowy outlines moving between the megastores, as the deer slowly move out into the centre of the car park, congregating around the huge stag. Jonny feels a breath of wind and his cigarette sputters out. Here is what will happen next:
A van is making a late delivery to the Sainsbury’s across the road. The last box will be loaded out and carried away. The driver will guide the van through the empty parking lot, will pull out onto the main road. The driver will blink and suddenly it will be there, he will be there, in the middle of the road, arms outstretched, eyes gleaming in the headlights like an animal’s. The driver will slam on the brakes, too late, will hear a sharp thump. The driver will stop, shaking, sweating. The driver will get out of his van, will look around, call out, but will not find a body. There will not be a body. There will only be Jonny’s teeth, glowing white against the dark surface of the road, spread across the tarmac in a knowing smile.
these days i think i more like ME & LP which is what the guitarist did after they broke up but theres probably only going to ever be one ep and its like 15 minutes total which sux
even if she is in the midst of a show that is becoming more awful every episode and a fandom that wants to do unspeakable things to her (by which i mean make her vote for lyndon larouche)
Comments
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"Franklin-san, we do not want to anger them, ya?"
heres also as a bonus a draft of a dumb story that i wrote and it is gonna get changed
Jonny turns his head away from the Greenway gate, which moves softly in the wind, and fixes his gaze on the floor. The Greenway. Must have had some sense of humour calling it that. God knows who thought it would be a good idea to build a “multi-use pathway” directly above the sewer that ships all the shit out of East London. Jonny knows everywhere that the Greenway passes through: how they’ve done it up all nice where it skirts round the edge of the Olympic Park in Stratford, all shiny metal and well-tended grass; the route that it takes to slip round the back of the hospital; how, to cut right through the middle of Plaistow, it runs directly alongside the cemetery. He knows every path, every road in the borough.
It’s dark, and the guttural smell of the sewage treatment plant drifts over on the breeze. Clusters of floodlights hang above the empty car parks like alien spacecraft. This is Beckton, the place where the Greenway ends, and, logically, the place where all the shit in East London is shipped out to. Beckton is famous, marginally, for this; also, for hosting a nondescript strip of brand-name megastores, now primed and ready to sink into decline since Westfield opened. Jonny walks, hands stuffed into his pockets, down a path that weaves between the shopping parks. A metal fence, poles driven into the ground and topped with spikes, runs along each side. Weeds have burst up through the cracks in the edge of the concrete and curl inconsiderately out onto the path. There’s something inescapably odd about the retail parks at this hour, Jonny thinks: the stores shut up and dark with no people, the parking lots with no cars in them, the signs still burning names and logos into the night.
Jonny walks out along the main road through the retail parks. The sky is clear, and a half-moon hangs above the rusting ironwork of the gasometers. A van is making a late delivery to the Sainsbury’s across the road. He stops suddenly and looks out across the empty stretch of concrete to his left, the parking bays marked out by neat white lines. Stores, dead for the night, line up: a B&Q, Pets at Home, Staples. On a whim that he cannot entirely explain, Jonny turns off the pavement and walks out across the car park, the tarmac freezing and hard under his feet. He finds himself leaning against one of the floodlight poles in the dead centre of the lot, orange light washing around him. He pulls out a cigarette, lights it. As he breathes out, he watches the smoke curl out of his mouth, its wispy fingers reaching out and then dissolving into the cold night air.
Quite suddenly, as the smoke dissipates in front of him, he notices again the pools of light cast by the floodlights, the neatly painted bays, the shops all closed up, the sharp fence poles in the distance where the path runs, the sewage works beyond — the absence of anyone else — and there it is, right there, in front of him, eyes flashing like flakes of glass in the orange-tinted darkness, the long, slow curve of the neck and back, the delicate slenderness of the legs, the head held high and, sprouting from it, the antlers, tall, graceful, symmetrical. The stag is at least twice Jonny’s height, and it casts a long shadow over the concrete. He sees more flickering green eyes, shadowy outlines moving between the megastores, as the deer slowly move out into the centre of the car park, congregating around the huge stag. Jonny feels a breath of wind and his cigarette sputters out. Here is what will happen next:
A van is making a late delivery to the Sainsbury’s across the road. The last box will be loaded out and carried away. The driver will guide the van through the empty parking lot, will pull out onto the main road. The driver will blink and suddenly it will be there, he will be there, in the middle of the road, arms outstretched, eyes gleaming in the headlights like an animal’s. The driver will slam on the brakes, too late, will hear a sharp thump. The driver will stop, shaking, sweating. The driver will get out of his van, will look around, call out, but will not find a body. There will not be a body. There will only be Jonny’s teeth, glowing white against the dark surface of the road, spread across the tarmac in a knowing smile.
surely fake
"pink pie", he looks about 12 and has '1986', and its too perfect