To start, a tiny piano run from some histrionic Swingbeat rubbish. She had stripped it down so severely that she had dehumanized it. This was something different from her usual approach. The piano, the instrument that so often ruined Jungle, making her think of Happy House and idiotic Ibiza clubs, here turned into an instrument that signalled the destruction of anything human in this world. Deeply plaintive and melancholy, but ghostly. The piano tried to remember melancholia, and presented it as if for approval. Is this it? Is this sadness? it asked. I can’t recall. And under the piano she faded in, for a fraction of a section, subliminal, she laid down a sample of radio static.
The radio existed to communicate. But here it was failing, it had gone rogue, it had forgotten its purpose like the piano, and the people could not reclaim the city.
Because it was the city Natasha saw as she listened. She sped through the air at huge speed between vast crumbling buildings, everything grey, towering and enormous and flattened, variegated and empty, unclaimed.
Jag älskar när musik beskrivs i text, speciellt när det är låtar som inte existerar på riktigt. King Rat av China Miéville är en ganska tråkig bok överlag, men beskrivningarna av hur Natasha skapar sin musik och hur den låter är riktigt bra. Medan jag läser om den är jag övertygad om att jag skulle gilla den här låten om jag lyssnade på den, fastän jag vet att jag antagligen inte skulle det eftersom det inte är min typ av musik alls.
Another and another would join in, a cacophony of simultaneous forces of nature, half-musical, half-feral, artificial, commentary, an intruder in the city that shaped it contemptuously, sculpted it. A long low wail of flute piped up from behind, gusting through everything, the only constant, dwarfing the effect of the other sounds, intimidating, humbling.