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Vore Complex: A Curious Overview

Updated: May 22

A B C D  E  F   G   H  I   J  K   L   M  N   O   P    Q    R   S    T    U    V    W  X   Y    Z

0 1 2 3  4   5   6   7  8  9  10  11  12  13  14   15   16    17  18   19   20    21   22  23  24   25

1. V    C   =

  21   2

1b. decimal addition total = 21 + 2 = 23

1c. single digit addition total = ((2 + 1) + 2) = 5

1d. decimal addition total + single digit addition total = 23 + 5 = 28

1d2: (a). single digit addition total = ((2 + 3) + 5) = 10

1d2: (b). single digit addition total = (2 + 8) = 10

2.    V    O     R     E    C     O    M    P     L    E    X 

     21   14    17    4    2     14    12   15     11   4    23

2b. decimal addition total = 21 + 14 + 17 + 4 + 2 + 14 + 12 + 15 + 11 + 4 + 23 = 137

2c. single digit addition total = (2 + 1) + (1 + 4) + (1 + 7) + 4 + 2 + (1 + 4) + (1 + 5) + (1 + 1) + 4 + (2 + 3) = 50

2d. decimal addition total + single digit addition total = 137 + 50 = 187

2d2: (a).  single digit addition total = ((1 + 3 + 7) + 5 + 0) = 16

2d2: (b). single digit addition total = (1 + 8 + 7) = 16

3.  (1 + 6) = 7 (H)

4.  Make (H) visual-steganography pun: '|-|'

4b.  Make '|-|' alphabetic steganography pun. : '(I)"?"(I)' 

4c. Make "?" = a string literal

4d. (I) = 8

5. Make non-dependent|-|’ numerical steganography pun: ‘1(0)1’

5b. 1 + 0 + 1 = 2 (C)

6.   (1 binary) to decimal = 1 (B)

6b. (11 binary) to decimal = 3 (D)

6c. (101 binary) to decimal = 5 (F)

6d. (1001 binary) to decimal = 9 (J)

6e. (1010 binary) to decimal = 10 (K)

6f. (1111101001 binary) to decimal = 1001

7. Pitches on a scale:


0 1 2 3 4 5 6

At least I healed (for a while) as much as I could by torturing my throat through a bizarre, inaccessible, disturbingly scary, utterly uncompromising cathartic diary and sonic autobiography on abuse and pain disguised as an 'oldschool' Electro-Industrial music project which I titled "Vore Complex". Aside from acting as an introductory multiple-choice cryptogram, the title summarises an intricate aggregate of interwoven themes concerning various highlighted aspects of hyper-consumerism and overconsumption and the bourgeois futility of 21st Century Western society, all Keynesian mass-production, globalist advertising, atomization, and the cult of the TV, and with a certain aghast disdain - bordering on consistent pessimistic cynicism, more cynical then than now - for a world increasingly made fake, shallow, and ultimately disappointing, all numinous spirituality, intelligence, beauty, and love sold-out or torn away, to a backdrop of lost friends, thwarted dreams, and my then severe Autophagia. Aside from this basic thematic framework, one may have to plough through a great many about obscure war crimes, human trafficking, and the seedy doings of many a Western government, managed from a perspective that is both campy in places, and also exceedingly grim.

I gave a copy of one of my 32 Vore Complex albums to a previous Pakistani psychiatrist who informed me that he didn't listen to "immature 'Heavy Metal' noise", and name-dropped Rachmaninov at me, whom he had encountered musically at a recent conference. You just know he listens to ethnic Islamic music at home though, if he listens to music at all, it generally being an obsessive habit of Europeans, much as white musicians are not particularly favoured by the barbarity of the music industry’s comprehensive anti-European black Rap interests. I've heard that Middle Eastern and Bengali stuff playing quietly in some of their private upstairs offices at least. I assume someone intimidating and influential had tipped him off about the Russian composer at that staff conference and he was keen to sound the part, as he otherwise came across as a moron and could barely speak English outside of his repetitive professional jargon. As I find always occurs with others, he had made the usual mistake of assuming I have any legitimate interest in looking for pleasure or civilizational high cultural worth in degenerate music entartete, unaware that what I composed for bitter catharsis and what I listen to for pleasure and appreciate in my own home are entirely non-overlapping.

Also, as seems reasonable to note in context, I couldn't imagine this bare, puffed-up overseer gaining very much from the complex sublime drama, vivid harmony, and intense textural poetics of that brilliant, violent, late-Romantic master's frenetic, technically daunting Op. 39 piano etudes. Does he fling them on in nonchalant reverence as he's hastily mass-sigilising his unrecognisable name-squiggle onto the standard spaces of a grey, industrial block of Mental Health Act Section 3 request forms, grunting over the desk to retrieve the stiff, rubbery egg and mayonnaise sandwich he had his secretary deliver to him from the patients' canteen next-door, feeling so very, very real? As it stands, much as he’s correct on the primitive vulgarity of the sounds alone, I see he couldn't look past the nasty noises of my project and notice - not even for a polite minute or so - what I attempted to express in the subtext.

VC is not a sound I imagine anyone would ever listen to if they didn't want to either console themselves following their own hellish lives, or just wonder what stressed me out. It's firmly modernist, dissonant, and expressionist, but not the sort of thing you could dance to in a disco or club or play on a radio. I made a conscious, concerted effort with the time-signatures, verse and chorus phrasing, and drum beat rhythm-patterns to try and dissuade the milquetoast underground dance scene from commercial reactions, even before the samples and the lyrical themes were noticed, and despite the Gothic Industrial Techno superficiality.

I’m very sure I messed up my ridiculous superenciphering logic following the initial sonic and chromatic steganography, and a few metadata experiments (as is the standard understanding!), and the polyalphabetic substitutions and key rhythm repetitions, in some of the instrumental melody work as well, conveying abstract numerical and binary analogues, with a little chaff on top. I had to memorize the book cipher externals also, somewhat of a long-term pain. They’d be best instead to linger with what is merely the obvious, but I had forgotten that they're all activists these days anyway. I was never too interesting in making it super-smart, as it’s very much ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ these days in modern cryptography, and I wanted something a little more obscure and anachronistic, on the off chance that older techniques by human effort have been forgotten to some degree, what with all the post-quantum textbooks and pseudorandom computational reliance.

A last, benighted trip to London's Slimelight Club in 2018 to test marketing potentials in an environment I was fondly familiar with as an immature adolescent established the futility of my work resonating with this withering crowd regardless. I wasn't sure what to wear either as I tend to dress in conventional attire, with hair shaved short or combed back or into a side-parting, and black synthetic office shoes or reserved ankle boots, all dark cotton long-sleeve shirts and suit trousers, or navy blue work-wear, usually with my 3/4 length Crombie thrown over the top, or various high collared military peacoats, and my dark grey M65 field jacket, or indeed the occasional Hawaiian or floral short sleeve. I'm sure I look rather geeky in my glasses.

I wearily exchanged a home business card with someone as I stood in the queue, struggling to initiate and maintain polite conversation with her but determined not to stand there waiting in silence, and was passionately informed at length about the revolutionary artistic genius of VNV Nation. I knew I was damned at that point.

Quite a lot of the established Vore Complex songs are closer to archaic war dirges and Balkans melody laments, an audible Slavic darkness in the slower tempos and instrumentations, all ponderous drums and horns and organs, or something resonating Wilfred Owen. Huge philosophical and spiritual poems, from another age. The themes are realistically macabre, and very harrowing.

When it comes to my own musical tastes, much of the 20th Century is shied away from by me, at least once atonal composition, Jazz, and hideous postmodern Dada start to pop up, and anything goes. Blues and Rock music infuriates me beyond compare. I've taken a particular fondness to Alexander Scriabin's Symphony No. 2 recently, as well as some of his mystical works, and Josef Suk’s A Summer's Tale, but most of the time I’m trying to relax myself to the delicate string quartets of Bedřich Smetana or reading against the side of Józef Wieniawski’s Op. 24 sonata for violin and piano in D minor. Anton Arensky’s piano concerto in F minor tends to accompany me as I’m having dinner. It was nice to discover some of Nietzsche’s little piano pieces, much as his thinking is better than his compositional skill. They’re still fascinating enough, and profoundly moving. The pianist on my recording brings something out in him that I have always wanted from Debussy but have never been satisfied with in the latter composer, whom I do not listen to. Some readier relation to Chopin.

I don't think VC was great music. Not in the slightest. It just kept me alive. It wasn't really intended as music at all, just 1001 interlinked shards of atrocious past life discomfort, and then an extended moan about the world, wrapped up in formal metre metaphysical poetry at some times, and decadence-era love-loss poetry, and gritty, complicated slam verses at others, a punkish confrontation, usually with quite a lot going on in them quietly and a lot of allusions and things to pull out at multiple levels, and sometimes to that over-thought cryptogrammatic cipher degree like a audiobook of the Voynich Manuscript, delivered at rapid pace in guttural, screeching, tortured rasps, and with a bit of sad and sinister melody, drawing from Eastern European influences and demented carnival organ themes and some very primal Bronze Age darkness at times, mingling with that groove of cyberpunk psychedelia nudging at militarian ‘spy music’, something pretentious like what Nick Land might promote, and thrown on top of a thick wall of ferocious mechanical punch beats and pulses and arpeggiated bleeps, and with the sort of lyrics that homeless drug addicts and psychiatric patients and pissheads in gutters and abused children running away to London might empathise with, carried to extremes in the extended slam poems of my ribald Skomorokh mini-project. Something a bit different, candid, and honest, warts and all. I realised early on that no one would read it as pure poetry if I didn't add music. Then, of course, the poems had to be altered anyway, leaving me room to slip a few little subtleties into them. My cryptographic drives feature on an off throughout the project.

As education levels go down, people are increasingly unfamiliar with the language I use, and the archaic style I write my poetry in - and I think somehow, realistically, that the words are closer to grimly wrought philosophical poetry than a successful adherence to the conventions of commercial lyric writing, despite the naughty language, and the creepy bits, and that very unsettling delivery. I should have named the project "TL;DR^DL". Anyone who passed that listening and yet didn't assimilate anything in the first 15 seconds or thereabouts of escalating oddness, their fear of oddness driving them to click away, could be counted on not to wonder if that “L” implied “Love”. A succinct observation.

I say 32 albums. I realistically have over 73 (and forget by how many more). Some I have never put online, and just stored unaddressed on a series of computers and external drives, and some I have put up and then torn down. Some I've deleted or lost. It's fair to say that I was addicted to writing music. I used to listen to my own work non-stop, sometimes with a critical, tinkering ear, and sometimes to refresh myself. It also saves money if you write to entertain yourself, or to process thoughts, like Chuck Noland devoting time to Wilson.

Aside from everything else, it's just a phonetic pun on "Very Complex".

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