Your favorite album as its own world/dimension
 

This might be more fun for those of us who are natural writers, but everyone is welcome.

Imagine one (or more) of your favorite albums as its own world, with its own people and its own atmosphere. What's in it? What does it look like? Who are its inhabitants and how do they behave? Has it had an interesting history?

First, state the album.

Then tell us all about the world hidden within its grooves. :love:

http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/...jL._SX355_.jpg

Earth—Hex; Or Printing in the Infernal Method
This album is a world of open spaces, constant wind and bone-chilling cold. The trees are bare and the grass is dead. Gaunt, solitary figures drift through this landscape on horseback, just barely surviving. There were great gods here once who brought bountiful crops and game and the warmth of the summer sun, but they fell into a terminal slumber many generations ago and without them all has become brittle and spent.

Oh goodness gravy this thread is going to be good!

Brilliant idea. I promise to contribute something tomorrow… :)

Cool, I'll see if I can contribute.

It's not my favourite album. It's not even one of my top ten favourite albums. But it lends itself so perfectly to this discussion that I had to write about it.

It's a magic carpet ride through another time and space, where unknown colours, scents, and sounds abound. There are no duties to be fulfilled, no destinations to achieve--just a gentle flow of ethereal music, which can be felt, smelt, and tasted. It's like a river; you just relax and let the music wash over you, carrying you downstream.

I often imagine the rockier Keiji Hano albums to be a giant dark dripping room, where a humongous dead shark lies on the floor. The physical properties of said room are such that you can grab the shark by its tail and effortlesly slam it against the walls, floor and ceiling with incredible power and spine-tingling satisfaction.
There's nothing else in this world, just you, the dead shark, the room and this incredible, satisfying power.

Trout Mask Replica

A massive ballroom with Howlin' Wolf, John Coltrane, and Robert Johnson barely making their way through an acid trip as they smoke cigarettes in the centre. The walls are lined with fractal mirrors that seem to multiply the world about you. When you peer into one of the mirrors, you realize that these aren't mirrors, but looking-glasses into another world. One mirror shows a dark world full of brooding folk who don't look each other in the eye, while the mirror opposite that one reveals a terrifying world of shit-eating grins, men standing by other men without an ego flying, and the like. In another, Jesus Christ is peering back at you as he twirls around in his pretty dress. One mirror shows homeless men, teetering at the edge of a river and another stuck in a well. One of the men at the river laments to each woman who passes by about his long lost daughter. A lot of the other mirrors are just strange alien figures having sex. You get tired of Howlin' Wolf trying to describe what he's seeing while Coltrane and Johnson break their instruments, and you decide to leave. A month later, you come by again with the same result. Another night, after indulging in smoke and drink, you return and it quickly becomes your favourite place. You live there now, babbling back at Howlin' Wolf and scaring passersby.

CONAN - BLOOD EAGLE

http://i.imgur.com/1jvMCZb.png

A dense and humid blanket of thick fog crawls upon a barren rocky mountain range. From a distant peak you're looking onward, trying to make out the details, but the fog is too thick to decipher the surroundings. You can hear distant clamor below you, growing in intensity, a bellowing conflict of hundreds punctuated by the voice of a powerful commanding figure. The sound of collapsing stone structures echoes throughout the valley walls and your anxiety swells, fueled by an ignorance of the events occurring beyond the fog's horizon. The knot in your stomach tightens, you know that you're witnessing an unimaginable tragedy but you'll never be able to put it into words. This will reside in your mind forever, like a nightmare whose details you've long forgotten, but the feeling in your gut never changes.

Front Line Assembly - Tactical Neural Implant

http://cps-static.rovicorp.com/3/JPG...er=allrovi.com
This world is a dark metal-skinned horror, the blackness occasionally punctuated by reddish hues of molten metal or newly forged steel. The metallic skeleton is the framework of one continuous structure that stretches from horizon to horizon. There are countless miles of cable interwoven between the girders of infrastructure and innumerable computer monitors, casting only the barest light from the coded lines of undecipherable data, stipple the tortured exoskeleton with a cold purpose..........The denizens of this world, its atmosphere dank with the smell of cordite and artificially produced gasses, are cyborg - half human/ half machine........ They strive for their humanity....and fail

http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:A...IdbvU8uTX8Rfxr

Automatic For The People by R.E.M.

A couple are driving to Reno. Kenneth looked out the window of his orange 1972 GTO, smoking his cigarette. Swan was talking on her phone as the road went on and on. Noticing something, Kenneth looks to the back of the car. The car shook and the back of the car fell. The tire had burnt out. Kenneth tried to slow the car down as it shook. Yet it was no use. Swan hung up, only for the car to crash into a billboard which advertised a new soda called "Orange Crush." Everything went black, until they gained vision again. Kenneth and Swan were on grass but without any visible damage. Swan got worried as she did not know where she was. Kenneth hugged her as faint music was heard in the distance. They decided to follow the music to a town. They saw they were in New Orleans. The music stopped as they walked into a bar. Kenneth asked where they were, and one of the men said in a deep voice, "Ignoreland."


(I know that was long. Also it was kinda cheesy with all the R.E.M. references. Sorry.)

Whoa ^

There is no black or white here, just shades of murky washed-out grey and stained monkey-shit brown, like the colours are running down a dirty canvas that got wet. There's ice in the air, and ice in people's hearts. Nameless, hopeless drunks stagger through back alleys; they don't sing. These are not your average, happy and oblivious drunks. These are people who know they must find their next drink or they will die. They weave in and out of the narrow city streets, often bumping into another lost soul as it navigates its precarious and perilous way along the rain-lashed badly-lit cobbles. Off in the distance, sirens sound. Shadowy figures meet in lanes where massive tenement buildings loom over them, seeming to be looking for an excuse to fall and crush them. Small plastic packets change hands, as does cash. Coat collars are turned up, hats tipped forward over eyes as each participant in the deal leaves by a different route. Where are the cops, you say, when all this is going on? Hell, these are the cops! Nothing as rare on this streets as an honest law enforcement official.

The moon frowns down on the streets, like a disapproving parent as headlights cut through the murky night and the screech of tyres and the squeal of brakes split the darkness that enfolds the city like a shroud. Somewhere, a woman screams. Nobody takes notice: just another sound to ignore in the cacophony of the night. Maybe she's in trouble. Who cares? Not worth getting your face carved up for. A gang of Puerto Ricans swagger along the sidewalk, forcing those in their path to clear the way as their teeth shine almost as bright as their knives in the gloom, illuminated for a moment by a sign on a nearby storefront: GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! It announces, though the women inside who bump and grind on the stage for a pittance could no longer be called any such thing. One of the erstwhile patrons of said establishment totters out of the dimly-lit basement into the grasp of the night. Once the air hits him like a fist he doubles over in the doorway and spews the contents of his last paycheck all over the floor, then staggers almost blindly away.

Somewhere, from a point untraceable, the lonely sound of a single saxophone. Taxis hurry to and fro like yellow beetles, crawling along the freeway while late-night truckers lean out of their cabs in search of a motel for the night, or some sexy hitch-hiker they can pick up, or preferably both. Some barker crows about his wares on a streetcorner, eulogising about his product while flicking spent cigarette butts onto the wet pavement. Further down the street, the unsteady sound of a piano being played by a drunk floats briefly out of an open doorway, duetting with the saxophonist, also pulling out into the night the sounds of laughter and conversation, then the wind blows the door shut again as the patron leaves the establishment and the brief accompaniment the sax player had is gone, and he is back to being a solitary musician.

A shot ring out, a whip crack in the dark. A man falls over but nobody approaches him apart from a priest, who kneels down beside the stricken guy. The blessing done, the priests takes the dead man's watch, wallet and shoes and vanishes into the night. A piece of paper floats out of the corpse's pocket, fluttering like a bird in the downtown breeze. Before it joins the rest of the trash skittering along the gutter we can see the word “Bluebird” circled in red ink. It's a racing form, and on the newstand behind the dead guy the back page of the local rag proclaims, in mute mocking irony BLUEBIRD COMES IN AT 100-1! The blood pooling around the body seems to form itself into a question mark, then elongates as it leaks off down into the drain. A dancer comes out of the club, steps fastidiously over the corpse without looking down, and hails a cab.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedi...%281976%29.jpg
Tom Waits --- Small Change

I'm going to do my own album because I thought of a cool concept while listening to it.

https://f1.bcbits.com/img/a1123048212_2.jpg
Wolves in Sheepskin - Indecent Vibrations.

A murmuring thump echoes in the dark room as the machines warm up. A grinding noise perforates the area as each mechanism slowly comes to life. The robot intestines scream the loudest and the humanoid robot becomes aware of what's happening, still in a bit of a daze from being in sleep mode. All of a sudden the robot hops up and runs out the door. He had to keep his gates closed so that he could go to the garage in time to empty his oil. He races to the oil bin and sits in it for a few minutes as all the fluids drain into the tub that drains out into the garden.

After a longer than expected experience in the garage, the robot goes into his bedroom and accesses his acid database. He instantly becomes aware of the effects as he starts to hear strange noises becoming more clear, even though these noises were there all along. The sounds of the fans became amplified. The hissing of the pipes and electric coils blaring as they rested in the factory across the street shouts and screeches and warbles. As the robot researches the logical service drive he comes to the realization that understanding how the universe functions is more important than the why because of the unapproachable distances between galaxies is incommutable for the moment so why bother? He nods to himself and starts to doze off a bit, losing sight of what's before him. As he drifts in and out of his consciousness mode, his autodrive system accessed his memory banks. Descending into the past, the robot was at a circus below the ocean. He sees the fish riding carousels. Back to another memory the robot was left with whistling birds and another carousel off in the distance before he found himself being chased by a car with blue red white rays of light shooting into the sky. Slipped back into a time before he understood the world around him, and this new perspective struck him. He had figured his life out. Circuits lapse and the acid drive ends, bringing the robot to consciousness and out of his memory banks.

Upon waking the robot was wrought with reality. He had a name. He had a job. He had a boss. At work once again Jesus works among the tesla coils, sparking and sending bolts into the air as it slithered around the rings. As Jesus beat the human slave that his form represented, the elite robot board activated Jesus's anger drive. Jesus writhes in a fit of rage as he whipped and tortured the human whose name was Samuel. However, most humans are referred to as orders. Jesus isn't alone in dominating the human race, it had been that way long before he was built. This factory that he was built in is the same place where they forcefully persuaded the subservient to build the next generation. Jesus and the other humanoids made in the factory worked there, row upon row. Built for the same process that destroys their creators. Ironic innit.

After work the robot loses his memory board and lunges into a fit of anger. Having been programmed and activated in such a violent environment, that rage forces on the anger drive. Red zeros and ones blink across Jesus's optic centers. A child dies in the mix and the robot powers down suddenly.

Sweet idea Frownland (and some great writing too), you inspired me to write one of my own.

https://f1.bcbits.com/img/a0525205703_2.jpg

Daydream Society - Deconstruct

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The steps leading down to the apartment door are always covered in the mud from his shuffling feet. He trudges back and forth through the fields in a monotonous cycle. He fumbles his keys as he always does and leaves the door unlocked as he used to do, and he slides to the spot on the floor where he always lays. The long hard days at work have done a number on his young back, and it only feels right when he's laying flat.

He remembers that he forgot the only thing he was looking forward to that day, and it's ironic that perhaps the addiction clouds his brain enough to the point where he forgets he's addicted. Maybe that's for the best. Now that it's back to the forefront of his brain, he wanders over to the window. After he's done he attempts to mask the smell so she won't know when she comes home.

Maybe this weekend he'll call his friends, but he'd rather not. He wonders if he does it because of some sort of obligation to himself. Things are always better when he forgets it and lies on the floor. Maybe he'll write a song this time and show all of those friends, and they'll act interested without truly grasping the message as they always do. Maybe she'll come home and act interested for the sake of his sanity, but she'll probably head straight to bed.

Maybe he'll snap at some point. What kind of existence is lying flat on the floor, wanting to do something productive yet being unable to find the will to do anything? That's the drug talking, he tells himself, but yet maybe it only seems to unleash the deeper inner thoughts that a sober mind refuses to think. Maybe on any given day he'll make a better life and person of himself, or maybe on any given night he could cease to exist. He realizes the pointlessness of it all, but then he looks up and sees the doorknob turning. And then a flicker of light in his heart.

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