In the future, we’ll still be in thrall to the past, still looking back and longing. We’ll still be unable to understand the terrible now. We’ll read and re-read Simon Reynolds’s Retromania (really must get round to that; it’s on my Christmas List. The irony of not reading it yet is killing me) and we’ll use it as a guidebook rather than a warning. Then, in 2033, Planas will be born and, in the confusion caused by the First Animal Rebellion, we’ll confuse it with retro-cool, will raise it, will make it good.No one will mention Emperors or Clothes.
We’ll see the pilfering (from Burial, from Massive Attack, from Rustie – Christ, Rustie was only last year!) and yet we won’t see it; it’ll hide in plain view and challenge us to not see it as swerve, as reconfiguration. Time will bury these sounds next to each other, as if they co-existed all along. In 2033, there’ll be no way of seeing the join without assuming some alchemy. Others will listen to Planas and form similar shapes, setting every producer on a bad trajectory, a soulsucking spin into oblivion. Pop will eat itself but by then even that whored phrase will just be a dimly remembered prayer.
This record cannot be allowed to exist, in any time. You’ll see recommendations for it all over the place (my demo came with gin-slicked praise all over it, from good people soon to be lost to the cause), people are already looking forwards and hoping to catch up with the future. Don’t believe a word of them.
Oh, and before I forget, Ferraro.