CashewCats’ students convene about a circular table, each member of the class sporting a pair of ill-fitting plastic goggles that leave residual lines of constriction across the forehead long after they’re removed. At the approximate center of the particleboard surface stands an empty beaker that drips a faint shadow onto the wood. A flask filled with a detuned synth’s sallow discharge, gripped gingerly by a latex-gloved hand, creeps its way from the lip of the overturned tube into the upright receptacle. Wisps of citric harmony float suspended in the viscous fluid like orange juice pulp.
As the yellowed sludge settles, A pupil bearing a turkey baster supplants CashewCats’ position at the head of the table, chubby hand trembling as he attempts to steady himself - vaguely percussive splashes of milky bass alight on the surface of the syrupy foundation, forming the more fluid layer sandwiched between the synth drones and a caffeinated sip’s worth of resonant steel drum pulses that bubbles atop the dairy.
The next student ferries her own offering to the density column: a dropper filled with fluorescent blue retro-techno chords that cap the liquid totem. Observations are scrawled onto wide-ruled paper. Goggles are de-suctioned from faces. The class’ project is liberated, poured into the drain where it collects residual grime, worming its way through a labyrinthine pipeline of deep house rhythms - the echo of a distant lecture caroms off the copper surface.
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