There’s a reason some people live off the internet or hide (publicly) within it. It’s not a singular reason, no, but collectively, there’s a privacy one feels attached to in a teasing sorta way. Like, what does C Monster look like IRL? What does he do? Find this person online somewhere and reach out. Figure out the Lament Configuration of C Monster, and there will be a reply. I guarantee.
For a minute there, making friends left-and-right with people off the internet felt like a cyclical “run-in” to trouble. One finds out there’s heavy drug-selling/-using involved, so keeping an “image” private or tarnished was a mode of operation. Or maybe they just made porn in locally noticeable spots and thought, “Eventually, I’ll be murdered.” And they’re right: they get murdered in the privacy of their fetish.
Okay, but some of these people actually own labels, get into their own brand of witty cultivation, wear Cam’ron-pink robes, and market various clothing companies they own, where these products are sold and how YOU can obtain them [DISCLAIMER: within 2-7 months, maybe]. Then they’re unloading felonies worth of drugs on your kitchen table after YOU picked them up and drove them back to your place to “smoke out in boxer” and borrows $400 from you (on loan; gives you $400 “worth” of clothes from their companies) for a deal they arrange AT YOUR APARTMENT IN FRONT OF YOUR DOG.
So you call it quits when the squad you’ve become part of — who only “DJs” on the internet under pseudonyms — is planning on the subway of how to steel another dealer’s truck during a big score that night. You’re shaking your leg to move the person beside you because there are eyes on the blackboard they’re using for ankle-breaks during the robbery, but it’s really a cry for help. Take a piss and dip. You do.
That realization of dark web may actually be “reality” in an easier way. Thus: faking it to make it is less a dimension and more a username/password login that filters a cropped-out mirror selfie of a gut. Not any gut… YOUR GUT. Holding a six-pack of Zima in front of your privates because “people read too much into things, you know?”
During a period in which various underground musicians were taking pseudonyms and social-media privacies to next-level aesthetics, Ferrari Jackson dropped Lush on the now-defunct [and perhaps the artist’s self-owned label] Culture Dealer. It’s by some person who was a person in a lot of other and their own projects. Lush is everything you need in 20 minutes, repeat.
Lush is vaporwave. Lush is beat tape. Lush is cali-house chill. Lush is a wave of chill, but not chillwave. Lush is a vacation on the reel. Lush is taking a ride in a drop-top on Sega Saturn. Lush is growing your hair out only to braid it into braids of braids, extended and knotted. Lush is Diana looking around distracted at work because of that high-end BPM turned to 11.
Ferrari Jackson’s Lush will never stop. It’ll never fully be available outside cassette tape. And if it is, congratulations, modern age: you’ve received Lush. Don’t stick around long enough on Discogs to figure out who it is either. It’s not like Ferrari Jackson ever stopped to pick a sister up. Dial 1-800-For-Lust. They’ll swerve you till you home-sweet-home. “See what you did to me?”
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