Our man sets forth for the deserts of Saturn; popping the clutch he remembers silver nymphs under an orange-streaked sky, drums beating beneath the earth, funkatron generators installed by a delegation of Afronauts setting the air on fire... honey-sweetness of Saturn caught in the throat, condensed to a scent, a vapor-memory like the spirit-clouds blowing across the quartz fields... stones ground to glitter in the mid-day sun, the tiny crystal people scurrying underfoot...
Switching the controls to autopilot, M-Funk detours through the Black Hole, time-traces tightening around the ship like a waterslide to nowhere—dimensions warping—gravity insulators shuddering—concept of ‘singularity’ a ruse to ward off gatecrashers... for luck our man rubs the statue of ISIS sitting above the control panel...
Time gels. Space contracts. The ship pulls into orbit around Saturn; M-Funk withdraws a holocard from the side-pocket of his neon gold spacesuit: an invitation. The Leopard Queen of Saturn requests his presence. The Seven Hundred and Fifteenth Greater Galacticonference: tents lining the desert; funkarchitecture erected from sheersound, beat-blocks stacked into vibrating cathedrals; tribes flown in from the Rings; artificial lifeforms vatgrown for Arkestration, biological instruments with drumhead flesh and fluted tongues—hydra-harps and living lyres—exquisite upright bass-creatures with sweet brown curves and tactile necks... crosscultural, crosspecies, deceased grandmasters rematerialized from the Shining Pyramids, planetary reps unveiling freshbuilt groovetech—
An alarm sounds through the ship—M-Funk taps a button and the face of Mood Control (designed to render funkable ideas brought to you by the makers of Mr. Prolong—better known as Urge Overkill) appears: rhythm section to the sensedelic spaceways and Chief Commander of Funkatron One—
~Funkatron One calling M-Funk, do you copy?
~Funkatron One, this is M-Funk. I am on route to Saturn as scheduled.
~M-Funk, shift coordinates to the Anglosphere. An unidentified threat has surfaced.
~Are they cutting the funk? our man asks.
~It’s much worse than that. Sensors indicate a Code 4AD: A region of inverse funkativity.
~Inverse funkativity? That shit shouldn’t be possible. It’s not even taken seriously as a theory...
~Our scanners have detected not only a total absence of funk, but a spatial and temporal depression in the funkosphere measuring -5 on the Worrell scale.
~But a depression of that size would mean that not only is no one dancing... but that they are somehow anti-dancing in an inconceivable nega-motion...
~Correct. If this inverse funkativity were to spread, it could result in the snapping of the Super Strings underlying cosmic harmony... and the tearing open of holes in the funkosphere, doorways allowing unfunky Red House Painters fans from other dimensions to crash our parties at will...
The face of Mood Control turns grim—
~For centuries the Human Funkstramentality Project has evolved human potential by weeding out clichéd dance moves. Its rigorous program of supergroovalisticprosifunkstication has taught civilizations throughout the universe that it is insufficient to dance primarily with hand movements: you must shake your ass. If the Super Strings are damaged, all progress will be lost. M-Funk, your mission is as follows: penetrate Anglosphere defenses to the heart of the interior, locate the source of the threat, and funk shit up...
*
Far in the future—across the galaxy—cross-sectioned from 4/4 time—the planet Scotland lies in a funk. Without funk, the planet lies—on its side like a dog. The asses are not moving. There is instead introspection and MILD BEMUSEMENT.
Somewhere on this satellite planet of the Anglosphere, Samuel Johnson descends a crystal staircase, his robe covered in sequins—the banquet hall of the Club arching above him like a gilded ribcage—
What is the Club?
An assembly of good fellows, meeting under certain conditions, with electronik musical accompaniment.
Johnson flicks a wall switch and a table assembles from fractured atoms—already seated are Edmund Burke, James Boswell, and Lord Monboddo—dressed in matching jewelled kimonos—space boots clacking—faces thin and white as eggshells—
After the ceremonial greeting, Lord Monboddo begins—
~I find that, of late, our personal style has grown cold and languid, like iced velvet.
~My dear Lord Monboddo, you have a great sense of convention, and thus a great sense of absurdity, Samuel Johnson retorts. Although our progressive theatricality is combined with punk energy, the audience is only rarely allowed into the feedback loop. The revenue generated from their passive attention allows us to purchase more specialized clothing.
~But if the audience should wish to take part in the spectacle...
Samuel Johnson waves a hand dismissively—
~Almost all absurdity of conduct arises from the imitation of those whom we cannot resemble.
James Boswell raises his glass in a toast—
~You are a philosopher, Dr. Johnson. I have tried too in my time to be a philosopher; but, I don’t know how, cheerfulness was always breaking in...
Johnson starts kicking rhymes—
~Boswell is pleasant and gay, / For frolic by nature designed; / He heedlessly rattles away / When company is to his mind—
~Samuel Johnson your rhyming is hype, Lord Monboddo exclaims, my own flow is not as tight.
~Now, on to other business... it seems that instances of auto-erotic masturbation have been occurring more frequently in the Club, or so I am told.
~Mr. Johnson, I do indeed masturbate, but I cannot help it, James Boswell admits.
~That, Sir, I find, is what a very great many of your countrymen cannot help. If possible, conserve fluids and conserve the primal matter of the cosmos—retain and enamel the funk for the adoration of the masses—the funk must not fall into the hands of the underclasses. Subliminal seducers, we shall never dance.
From the back of the hall comes a low, processed hum—the doors swing open and something large and metallic trundles into the room: handrails of precision-molded plastic, a flashing monitor-face of mechanical malevolence, side-speakers stabbing the air with synth-sounds: the voice of an unfunky computer intelligence speaking all in caps—
WARNING WARNING UNIDENTIFIED FUNKSHIP HAS BREACHED PLANETARY DEFENSES.
The Club remains unruffled. Samuel Johnson rises to address the intruder—
~The ground-level defense systems will deal with that. Return to your station and wait for us to inspect the anti-funk.
TAKE CARE, SCOTSMEN. THE ANTI-FUNK IS UNSTABLE AND LIABLE TO COLLAPSE IF NOT REGULATED.
~We are aware of the hazards. Now return to your station and leave us in peace.
The machine trundles into reverse and withdraws through the halldoors... James Boswell speaks—
~The Renegades are becoming unpleasantly wilful...
~But perhaps what it said is true, Samuel Johnson replies. We shall monitor the intruder on the security network...
The top of the table slides back to reveal a telescreen monitor beneath a layer of glass, surveillance terminal of the eyes in the sky—orbital relay satellites circling the planet, electronic informants to the Secret Police... the Club peers down and sees...
...M-Funk, chronic argonaut extraordinaire—blunted on hyperreality—prime stealth agent of the Altars of Boom—our man himself, in the process of penetrating the planet (in the espionage sense), his timecraft weaving through the scum-grey mists of the Scottish border to the center of operations in Glasgow, all sensors locked onto the source of the anomaly, recording fluctuations in the funkosphere... our man begins his descent and a cowboy in a flying car—salesman of the spaceways, dealer in counterfeit technologies, pirate audiogear and blackmarket surgeries—pulls alongside him and opens com channels—
~Howdy, pardner. Can I interest you in any top of the line headphones, walkmans, iPods, neural audio implants, Victroloid subspace resonators? High-quality portaplayer installations, all at discount prices.
The denpa-kei gimmick. The Christ-in-the-desert routine. Insulated listening, handcuffs for your ears.
The Adversary: “Be an individual. Don’t you know that communist dance practices limit your freedom? Why shake asses in public when you can compile your own playlist? Why submit to the tyranny of the DJ when you can make your own soundtrack for life? In fact, there’s no need to ever leave your room.”
<
Pulling low to the surface of the planet, M-Funk magnifies Glasgow on the viewscreen and takes in the first line of Scottish defense, mindless ranks massed around the city’s perimeter: bonewhite vampires, anemic anemone: genetically engineered medusas, their tendrils caressing the air for stray traces of funk... as the timecraft draws near, these living vacuums leech its engines, causing sudden systems failure... M-Funk seizes his instrument case from under the console, presses the eject button and leaps to freedom, the rainbow pattern of his parachute outlined against the slate-grey sky... cresting the forest of pale wavering tendrils, our man looks down on the city of Glasgow: its autofac arcologies, silvershining temples of industry; its boxlike offices and their drone clone workers, cybridized civilians sleepwalking the streets; its Club-funded rally-rooms, upraised stages for funkless fascists: a panorama broken by flames as the timeship crashes over a courthouse, clouds of dust and smoke obscuring the sun long before M-Funk’s feet touch the ground. Alarms sound.
Our man lands in Queen’s Park and makes his way north, the streetlamps overhead floodlighting the fog, bleaching the faces of the gathered crowd. Even in this place of leisure there is no rest and little movement.
<
“The funk cannot be kept a secret. The principle of oxymoronic infiltration. Stealth agents of the Altars of Boom do not sneak, creep, or spy. Instead, they announce their presence directly to any hostile or unfunky elements. Cause funk not only moves, it can remove, dig?”
The soundsphere rises above the streetlamps, jeweled facets prisming the glare of hospital-white halogens, speakers blaring funk into the crowd—previously paralyzed citizens responding instinctively, military postures relaxing, a visible vibration animating their tentative movements, primitive dance steps emerging as M-Funk...
...is set upon by uniformed officers. The second line of defense: the Glasgow Police Department, teletrained mutemen swarming like wasps, sound-dampeners deadening the air. The funk is canned; sign language takes over.
<
<
Before M-Funk can react, a figure in a silver cape makes its way towards him, the police parting before its obvious authority—
~That won’t be necessary, constable, James Boswell says, I believe we owe our visitor a more sympathetic reception.
Boswell extends a heavily ringed hand—
~You are M-Funk. My friends and I have been watching your arrival on the security network.
M-Funk accepts Boswell’s hand and completes the Pass Grip™—
~You’re James Boswell. Instead of assbanging at clubs, you spend your free time writing about the life of Samuel Johnson.
~I’m pleased my reputation precedes me. Now, what can I do for you?
~Funkatron One has detected a funkosphere depression in the vicinity indicative of inverse funkativity. To prevent imminent Super String snapping, protocol demands immediate funkatization of the planet. I will initiate assbanging in the streets, speakerships will be dispatched through the Black Hole, and U-Min will be called in to educate the populace on popping and locking.
Boswell’s eyes widen in mockshock—
~Inverse funkativity? There’s nothing like that here. We keep a close eye on things, and if there was a depression of that kind, we’d know. Why don’t I show you around, and you can see for yourself?
Billions of years later, when the Akashic Records—music-memory of the universe, molecular vibration as symphonic orchestration—are decoded and translated into prose through the invention of the Akashic Turntable, the universe-wide Overscene, descendent of the Chosen One (Starchild), reads a description of what followed:
True to his word, Boswell—Johnson’s foppish biographer and second in command of the Club—took M-Funk on a tour of Scotland, a society organized according to the principles of a perverse virginity, a subjugation of all natural groove elements effected through the subtraction of funk. Everywhere this subtraction was apparent as a static negative space, a fine and lingering etiolation. The sun set towards noon, but cast no shadows—because shadows are proof of presence, and decay the counterpart of growth. Instead, a sickly white light adhered to all surfaces, so that the faces of the buildings seemed brittle and overexposed. An office worker crossed the street only after looking both ways in the proscribed fashion; a child’s hand turned with practiced care a page of Johnson’s biography. Everywhere these pedantic ritual motions moved the citizens about like terms in a familiar equation. M-Funk was reminded of certain decadent planets where dancing had been abandoned in favor of lawn bowling—there was the same lack of spontaneity, the same well-calibrated sterility enforced as a matter of course.
~So you see that we have left nothing to chance. There is no funkativity; there is no inverse funkativity. You will have to take your search somewhere else.
The two of them circle back to Queen’s Park, where Boswell hands our man a holocard, its flickering rim encrusted with jewels—
~If you still don’t believe me, feel free to attend our rally this evening. I’m sure it will be an informative experience.
M-Funk turns the card to the light and reads the directions to the Club’s staging ground; by the time he looks up, Boswell has made for the nearest transmat booth. Pocketing the card, our man scans the area. One hour until the rally, enough time to dance the truth loose. But first: what’s that tied to the birch across the street? A red and white yarn martenitsa... and, close to the edge of the park, a series of orange Christo gates. Coincidence? Or not: M-Funk breaks for lunch at the nearest KFC and finds a one lev coin in his change. Bulgarian culture grafts, creeper-vines crawling across the Scottish context. But: invasion or collaboration?
Our man feels his mobile phone crawl out of his pocket and climb up his shoulder (vintage 2005 AU model, a sentient telstroid lifeform from a paralleloverse of organic communications technology, the size and shape of a salamander); he listens as it reads out his newest message in the voice of Herbie Hancock:
~M-Funk, this is Funkatron One. It is imperative that the inverse funkativity be neutralized at once. Stop playing with your dick and funkatize the goddamn planet!
M-Funk flips the coin and intones:
~Funkatron One, this is M-Funk. Have uncovered evidence of Bulgarian infiltration. Need more time to kick the mission to ignition. Put speakerships on standby and dispatch a basscadet contingent for backup, keyed to the usual frequencies.
~If true, situation critical. Bulgaria was active before in Proxima Centauri. The ocean of milk on Parker’s World. The chocolate manatees with funk glands—the Bulgarians sent out motorboats. Grind up the manatees, stir up the water, what do you get? Chocolate milk. Funky chocolate milk. Generate hurrica
nes and you have a steady tidal power source. Mobile factories massembling Bulgarian artifacts, culture-bombs shipped through the time zones to influence the musical development of nascent races towards the keening monotony of the Bulgarian folk song. Risk of stultification high. Therefore, take all chances and proceed with extreme impudence.
On the way to the rally M-Funk encounters several young girls practicing synchronized hand movements, pale children in pleated skirts and silver hair ribbons, little Vivian Girls with wide-set eyes and prim thin lips; at the sight of our man these corseted indoctrinettes react with indifference—
~James Boswell told us we are too ice hot to dance and should instead practice para para moves and write about events in the life of Samuel Johnson.
~Don’t be taken in by the Boswell Hoax. Johnson’s life has already been chronicled. There is no need to talk up more shit about his cat. Try these Funk Supplement Bars. This shit will help you shake your body body, move your body body.
~What do they taste like?
~A little bit peanut butter, a little bit chocolate... all funk.
Further along, another group of girls stands peering at a rectangular pillar surmounted by a glass case; our man looks inside and sees a lump of sedimentary stone, its sanded-off side bearing a chiselled inscription:
_______________________________
TONIGHT!
SUPERMANIFESTATION
OF
THEE CLUB
A New Milestone in Scottish Paralysis
In which shall be debuted
ANTI-FUNK;
A development unforeseen in the days of olde.
It’s like dancing in reverse!
Except not in reverse
Dadaoism (An Anthology) Page 7
