Meanwhile, elsewhere

The random livejournal of o_playas, informs me:

It's a drummer Vladimir Vasilkov and his boys. Unreleased material
from USSR, good done!

___


The crowd roars. The crowd howls.

"GOOD done! Good DONE! GOOD DONE!" they chant, raising their aether torches to the skies, sending light and shadows to dance out onto across the cavernous stage. Yes, indeed, Comrade Valsilkov is a popular man!


And here he strides, no, here _they_ stride, Vladimir and his boys; into the flickering light, Unreleased and Material at a last! Boys from the USSR igniting their image across a billion telescreens of the World Soviet. From Omsk to Tel Aviv. From Vancouver to Magnetogorsk, from the great shipyards of High Orbit to Nova-Gagaringrad upon the Farside.

Time is now, time is now but for lightspeed's delay!

"GOOD DONE! GOOD DONE! GOOD DONE!"

The howl, the roar, the crashing psychic wave of the operant telepaths tuning their minds, live via lens and robot wisdom. Even the great Vladi, even his steam driven metal boys of iron, pause and struggle, surprised by the power of a moment. Only tho' a moment. Now no longer.

Shoulders square, thews ironed, arms outstretched in the aehter's gloom glow to his steam clanking armour clad boys of the Jazz-Funk Soviet, he advances in a 7/8 time, emphasis on the off-beat, as the great Doom Drums descend from the central committeed sky ready to kick!

Ready to


"...DONE! GOOD..."





Now his hands upon the hammer. *lightflash* His hands upon the hammer. His hands upon the hammer. *LIGHTFLASH* His hands upon the hammer, BOYS! ARMOURED STEAM RIDING BOOOOOOOOYS!

...

Meanwhile, in that backwater of civilisations, the Michigan Autonomous SSR, that very same night, whilst the greatest wrought iron funk drummer that dialectical materialism ever spawns pounds out the socialist-jazz-realism rhythm defining his generation, five young women, acting in rebellion, skip out of watching the aethercast on the telescreens erected by their comrades outside Peoples Motor Factory No.12.

Instead, gathered beneath the smiling Icon of Mother Lenin, at the great Church of the True Fake Jesus two miles distant, they plot revolution!

A revolution in the noise of music sounds!

For these five women, their internal organs fashionably removed just five weeks earlier, are to form the first, and the arguably the greatest, of the Peoples' Cyborg Detroit Steam-Whistle Bands; launching and riding the wave of proletarian vanguardism in Marxist-Phlogisticated Funk that sweeps across the whole of the Solar System for the next decade and half.

A future wave that absorbs even the great Vladimir Vasilkov and his Steam Armoured Boys into its thesis, antithesis and synthesis.


The musics of the Soviet, is never the same again!