Dubstep Explained

It's not a film anymore, but an album of scraps and mementos, and to you and your friends it means one thing, but to someone with no bearing on the contents it's a film again. Cinema verité, in its truer form, I would guess.

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What up Fam! Older Live Mix we threw down back in the day, we liked it, you will love it – thought we better up something new...Loads of new tracks and mash-ups coming shortly! Have a listen and enjoy. Also, befriend/follow us on Soundcloud and Tumblr if you haven't already!

Walking into a smoke filled room a young, innocent man trips over a cardboard box, stubbing his toe immensely; exclaiming harsh rhetoric at the wall to no avail. Beyond angered by the placement of this box he tries a swift kick hoping to smash the motherfucker into pieces. He cocks his leg back as if he were Ronaldo getting ready for a penalty kick. The kick ensues, S-M-A-S-H! He feels a sharp pain run up his leg and through his lower back, he screams in shear terror as he looks down to see his ankle bone protruding from his foot. He falls to the floor inches from the box that just destroyed his leg causing severe pain and leaving him anguished and helpless. He punches thin air in anger, cursing the fuck out of that worthless waste of a tree. He looks to his left hoping to see someone as the blood has started to flow,...nothing. He looks right for anything,...anybody....nothing, however during this time he notices a slight glimmer peaking out of the cardboard, something shiny has caught his eye. He quickly drags his body and lifeless leg closer to the box, opening it as fast as he can. He gasps in disbelief, how could this be he asks himself...He looks up and screams with joy, laughing incessantly as he has literally just hit the jackpot. That box that broke the fuck out of his ankle was filled with 100% solid gold bars, literally straight cash homey as Randy Moss would say. Now, how does one carry nearly 100 plus pounds of gold out of this dingy room without being noticed while aiding a broken ankle that is bleeding everywhere. The euphoria ends and the pain begins, choose your own adventure...

Early morning overcast Slo mo summer drizzle Cool bite, early autumn Pick up girl, parents like you Drive 3 hour circle, share 3 cd's Small town is trusty quiet National park nearby Fun with waterfalls Towel in trunk, nice that that's there Get lost, find new tree Confess a bit At home, kitchen's clean Break out the italian ice Locate bookstore Make fun of fashion rags Gather friends into bunch Promote to family Bonfire met dusk Dusty smoke Stories curl up 

This is the sound of that day in 2004 when, because I didn't have class on a Friday, I caught a plane home on a day when everyone else was elsewhere. Airports in the morning are one of my favorite things, and if I could I'd dial back the color saturation on this video, and probably have fewer shots of the girl singing. I'd show pictures of the strange peace of empty airport cafes, the one guy pushing a cart down to Gate 6, the misty light of predawn finally falling on my muffin and coffee, the hope that home is only a spit away, and that the travel itself, like the ongoing echo of a flight announcement bouncing around the angles of democratic but not-yet-populated airport architecture, is a note that can be savored. As I make my way down the concourse halls, to where a uniformed lady will be ready to take the tickets of myself and seven others, I focus on being unhurried, on appreciating that flight should always have been about discovery and exhilaration, joy and thrill, our secret envy of some elusive avian truth. I'm grateful that Thomas no longer develops avionics for billion-dollar winged war machines, and is instead designing weather radar for commercial airliners.

This is the sound of being held. By someone you weren't expecting, because you need it, and you're just starting to get over the guilt but it's a long hill, you feel only a little bit better, but it's growing, and you don't know why, because in the little world in your head, the world's coming to an end, but when you look around, you see the same things, and you think "in 6 months, my issue won't even phase me" and that helps a bit, and then there are things like famine, strife, crap on a global scale you couldn't even begin to address, you're just trying to feed your kid, and that's all that seems possible right now, and it might not happen, but resources are out there, but why are the points of light so hard to connect? WTF is wrong with us? It's all there, all the ingredients necessary for a solution, and we're completely oblivious, because we think we're littler than we are, less significant, temporary, and we're resigning.  "We're... resigning," ... do you understand how anti-homo-sapien that is?  The person holding you reminds you that, despite all odds, everything will, in fact, be alright. It's said resolutely, and that's a difficult pill to swallow when it's so easy to be lazy, sad, and alone. The numbing is too easy, so it's just a matter of making it boring for us to reach for it, over and over like we do, being so unoriginal, never the revolutionary. It is said that happiness must be valiantly upkept, and someday, that effort itself shall be joy.

The night sky is darker tonight than ever, the jungle has hit a frenzied peak and your fleet is moving slow; making sure to mask sound and not stir up any noise or attract any un-wanted enemies that could leave the majority of your platoon 6-feet deep. There is a lack of water and your bodies dripping with hot sweat, dehydrating everyone from the core outwards, but you carry on. The bugs out here are the size of your hands, landing on you - one could swear it was a raccoon. Once bitten your body gauged out like a bit from an apple. Your mind wanders, caught somewhere in a daze between death and euphoria you have visions of your family, back home in North Carolina, your children swinging in the backyard of your ranch, your dog Ralph barking at thin-air, sitting down as a family eating sweet-corn that you can somehow taste. Channeling these visions into ultimate motivation as you struggle on, depraved, but passionate to get home; with seemingly no end in sight.

It's vague and cold at 5:30am, standing overlooking the cliffs of the Patagonia region in southern Chile; your mind races through all of the extensive journeys compiled thus far in your short life-span. Ranking them from most epic to most severe, from the time you broke your ankle hiking through the hidden rainforests of Peru, scaling 10 miles of sediment before finally receiving treatment and spending months recovering and rehabbing only to tweak it 2 days later, to the time you met 3 of the most gorgeous people on the shore of Papua New Guinea and intensified into one of the greatest nights of your life. All of the sudden your mind kicks into a new gear and you are seemingly watching a well-documented cinematic mind-flick of your journeys, speeding through events, slowing on amazing occurrences and friends met along the way. Your brain racked with the ecstasy and enamored by the speed of the reflections, your trip to Maui, ZoOoOoM off to Belize - then the beaches and clubs of Ibiza. Finally after hours in your head, stuck in this amazing daze - you look at your watch, 5:35am time to continue the journey...

This is the sound of a low-lit arena where two chainsaw wielding Child's Play® Chucky® dolls are in a cage going head to head in a grudge match to the death. Slaying arms, never blinking – all cold deathly stares, slinging plastic everywhere without a single feeling. Flying fake Red-Orange gingerish dyed horse hair everywhere, oshkosh b'gosh clothing being torn to rags and shredded through the teeth of the chainsaw. When the match ends there is nothing necessarily left, just two heads and a tornado-esque scene of thrown about doll parts, baby toys to some. Question is, who really wins if there is no feeling, will there ever be death? Do machines have feelings?

The sky is a deep purple and the air is frigid as you head towards your car after a rough night of gambling. You just lost your entire savings on a full-house that was trumped by a four-of-a-kind on the damn river, some Rounders shit right there you tell yourself, but that will never bring back the 15 g's. You finally get to the door of your car, but can't locate the actual keyhole and struggle for what feels like hours, hands freezing from the air and chills rushing up your spine in the pitch black. After 15 minutes of what feels like vault breaking code shit you have finally struggled your way into your driver's seat, sitting you attempt to start the car. Another struggle ensues as you wish you had one of those kitsch key lights that all of the major beer companies and distribution centers give out for free, alas you don't and again, what feels like an eternity passes. As you finally get the car started you look out into pure blackness and notice a nostalgic reflection that takes you back to a bitter-sweet memory of your youth growing up in North Minnesota, a time when being outside, grilling and being at the lake was better than anything in the world. You sink into your seat pondering what could have been if that flop would have gone your way, maybe you could have afforded that lake place to raise your kids, maybe one day they would have this same reminiscence...

This is the sound of shifting planar dimensions. This sounds like eating a bunch of star jelly. This sounds like pitching a slo-mo faberge egg fastball into a concrete banksy, wildly rejecting his remix of Ellie Goulding's "Lights" because, though catchy like a rash, pop vocals have no place in duhstup. This sounds like losing your compass in a maelstrom that has too many umlauts in it. This sounds like not being so upset about that. This sounds like cutting the dubplate of Mother Nature's "The Very Best of Earthly Rain". This is the pleasurable of sensation of forgetting what time it is.

Needless to say, today is a new day, and once again, you are inevitably going to cross paths as you see him stumbling out of the pub about 50 meters away. You think of something witty to combat his incessant bullshit with, but quickly realize he is crying, inconsolably so that he is nearly falling over with each pace. Your heart quickens as your empathetic humanism starts creeping deep within, he is 10 paces away now, what shall you do? You make eye-contact, assuredly he must recognize you, however he appears to be in no mood to candor back and forth. Within that instance he falls forward slowly, making you catch him like a goalkeeper on your favorite football club. With considerable haste you gently aid his fall, however instantaneously he hops onto one leg and Bruce Lee kicks you square in the bullocks. You hunch slightly forward (you just got royally nutted) to which he responds with a Tyson-like uppercut straight to your jaw, knocking you 'the fuck out.' The only thing you remember from your brief encounter was when he walked away and uttered the phrase "Swish!" To which still dumbfounds you to this very day...C-H-O-O-N

From mud you were born, and to mud you shall return! That’s what your father told you when you told him you were dropping out of law school to pursue a career as a hot dog juggler. He seemed angry; you don’t know why. But to this day, when you’re tossing those tender meat-sausages into the air, the excitement is tinged with a sense of unknowable regret… And occasionally, while trying to fall asleep, you think you hear a voice whisper in your ear, “The hot dog doesn’t fall far from the hot dog tree.”

This sounds like an ancient street monster tellin' me: "Relax, it's the weekend, chap. Even if you're working on a Sat, there's still love standin' pat." This is a sound for all my homies that live in different states, homies I never see anymore, I feel you; this is for all my homies I done never met: soldiers, cubicle jockeys, minimum wagers, the lost and the so-found-they're-lost-again. This sound goes out like a bassweight boombap, pourin' one on the curb for lost homies. This is for you, homies; may you get another chance to grill in the out-of-doors, consuming perfect loaded hotdogs, your skin once again sunkissed in the light of new futures.

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This sounds like the smell of vapid magazines in the morning, glossy aberrations of hypercolor american illusion. You run your fingers over the environmentally unsound plastic-coated paper, cooing at the rag, telling it that only or much less than half of America really cares about what it has to say, that is to say if it's saying anything worth being said at all. It questions its own existence. The glossy is discarded, read 4 times in busy bathrooms as a last resort because there was nothing of any greater substance nearby. But the bald Britney on the cover, moments ago so shockingly "new", becomes a dream we're not sure happened, more forgotten than the word itself suggests is possible.  The creases in the cover lend no virtue, only half there, and a beautiful 46-year-old janitor lady removes the object.  Later, a gust rips the rag from its location, and it is carried by the wind to a supreme ending, shred completely, completely, sucked into a jet turbine. A man trapped on planes by a job he's growing to dislike sees only a vivid spray of confetti by his window, and he laughs.