For all you addicts out there, whatever your drug of choice, LOUDTUBE is your new Narcotics Anonymous. LOUDTUBE will fucking sponser you in your quest to become healthy, happy, and productive. Without the aid of awkward group meetings that leave you feeling terrible about yourself, LOUDTUBE will baptize you in sound, only to see you born again in an ocean of screaming dead voices.
Now, I know what you’re thinking – “Jeremy, I’ve sat on a golf course, drunk; my brain digesting three hits of acid. Your hyperbole doesn’t impress me.” I’m telling you to wake up and smell the noise. Until you can comfortably set your alarm clock to play a CD-recording of the audio tracks from these videos, you do not “get” LOUDTUBE. The layers of audio-garbage that fart from your computer speakers can’t really even do these sounds justice. I mean the videos are nice, but Tay Zonday and Chris Crocker don’t have shit on pure aural evil closely resembling the formation of metamorphic granite. Amplified. Through a vintage Orange head.
Case in point: watching these ladybugs fuck each other is great. It speaks to me in a primal way regardless of its soundtrack. I get 1/3 of an erection of an erection just thinking about it. Once you go LOUD on this heartbreaking chain e-mail fodder, however, doors. open. up. The world at large doesn’t sound remotely interesting once you’ve sat through 30+ minutes of this. It takes time to navigate through these cacophonies. Once in a while though, if you’re lucky, life gives you a reach-around and you experience, unfettered, the progenitor of this twisted horse of the YOUpocalypse:
There is little we can do in this world but kill ourselves at different speeds.
If the guitar hellscapes invoked by Boris and MBV are the home our spirits long for, pushing the psyche into states of discomfort that unravel into hundreds of melodies occurring simultaneously, LOUDTUBE invokes the Lotophagi post-killer feast. After all, the next best thing to absolute stimulus is being able to pick apart the layers of a sonic image behind your eyes – a narcotic facsimile, that, rather than urge us to give up, is just lulling enough to let us feel something.