The Comprehensive Source [Experience] Discography, v1.0:
=== Singles & Albums ===
Artist: Source
Title : The Source EP
Label : R&S
Year : 1993
Format: 12"
<unknown>
5:26 148 Squeeze [Original]
12:21 Aqua Viva [Original]
Artist: Source
Title : Organized Noise
Label : R&S
Year : 1993
Cat No: RS93005
Format: CD/2xLP
7:10 144 Vagator
4:36 138 Eclipse
5:06 147 Neuromancer
6:17 137 The Real Thing
5:26 148 Squeeze
5:07 157 Analysis
6:34 139 Release It
6:24 139 Beyond Time
Artist: Robert Leiner
Title : Dream Or Reality
Label : Apollo / R&S
Cat No: APOLLO 9 [CD]
Format: CD/12"
Notes : The original mix of "Dream Or Reality" can be found on the album
"Visions Of The Past" (AMB 3925).
7:32 94 Dream Or Reality [Original]
9:17 96 Dream Or Reality [Into The Dream Mix]
8:58 96 Dream Or Reality [Out Of Reality Mix]
Artist: Robert Leiner
Title : Visions Of The Past
Cat No: AMB 3925 [CD/MC]
Format: CD/MC/2xLP
9:51 Out Of Control
9:11 Visions Of The Past
0:35 Interval
8:11 To Places You've Never Been
12:21 Aqua Viva
7:03 Full Moon Ritual
4:02 Zenit
7:32 94 Dream Or Reality
6:49 From Beyond And Back
6:44 Northern Dark
Artist: The Source Experience
Title : The Source Experience
Label : R&S
Year : 1994 (January)
Cat No: RS93027
Format: 2x12"
7:30 125 The Source Experience
6:32 155 Kamikaze
7:50 140 Release the Pressure
6:23 148 Mental Rider
11:03 147 Elektra
Artist: The Source Experience
Title : Different Journeys
Label : R&S
Year : 1994
Cat No: RS94056
Format: CD/2xLP
Notes : "Gate 41" appears only on the 2xLP version of the release.
11:48 141 Unknown Territory
11:54 138 Gate 41
8:24 140 Point Zero
6:36 132 Pressure Drop
6:04 142 Diatonic Shift
8:45 136 Intruder
12:26 131 X-Ray
11:19 134 Nightshift
8:09 140 Voices Of The Spirit
Artist: The Source Experience
Title : Point Zero
Label : R&S
Year : 1994
Cat No: RS94057
Format: CDS/12"
Notes : "The Real Thing" appears only on the CDS version of the release.
8:25 140 Point Zero
8:25 144 Quartz
7:23 133 The Real Thing [Live]
=== Compilation Appearances ===
Artist: V/A
Title : In Order to Dance 4
Label : R&S
Year : 1992
Cat No: RS 2293 / 74321 122962 / 74321 127872
Format: 5xLP/2xCD/2xMC
5:06 147 Source - Neuromancer
Artist: V/A
Title : Trance Europe Express
Label : World's End
Year : 1993
Cat No: TEEXCD1
Format: 2xCD/4x12" + book
7:29 Source - It's A Kind Of Magic
Artist: V/A
Title : In Order to Dance 5
Label : R&S
Cat No: RS94036[X]
Year : 1994
Format: 2xCD/2xLP/2xMC/2xCD+CDS/5xLP
7:05 140 The Source Experience - Voices of the Spirit
=== Remix Work ===
Artist: Sven Van Hees
Label : R&S
Year : 1992
Cat No: RS92016
Format: 12"
Emotional Rehabilitation [Source Reproduction Mix]
THE NEUROMANCER REVISITED
Case stands on the plush maroon carpet of the Tessier-Ashpool
station's foyer, following with his eyes the intricate pattern of the
T-A logo woven into the carpet, feeling not quite right in his
head. Feeling like he's trapped in a circle. "Listen....listen..."
susurrates quietly in his ear, his last reminder from -- who?
Wintermute, it must have been. Something buzzes around his head,
trapped like a bug. "Gotta have the real thing" (is that Molly's
voice?) echoes until it's lost, mutating as it fades, becoming more
tenous, less connected to whatever rhythm it is that holds the
tattered shreds of Case's persona together. It returns, changed in the
process, emptier and more fragmented but somehow more alive. Case
feels like he's drowning in a quiet ocean of sound.
The station quietly pulses under his feet, attuned to its own
patient rhythm. On the flight up he had listened to the radio and
ended up tuning it between stations to drown out the confusion trapped
in his head. Instead of calming him, the inhuman drone of sunspot
activity had only worsened his confusion, making him feel like
something had piggy-backed its way into his head, a piece of ice
lodged in his cereberum. A mental rider, a loa. He'd ended up
dry-swallowing two downers to calm himself, tranquilized into a fitful
slumber. Now he feels comforted by the hum of pumps and the quiet,
almost subliminal whir of ventilation fans.
He feels like something's chopped him out of whatever story it
was that he was in and stuck him in a new one. It had all started
before he'd left Chiba, the old Russian looking him over and saying,
"Case, you got no rock'n'roll left in you. Your soul, man, you've sold
your soul to the machines. You got your second chance but you've given
up the blues." Maybe the old veteran had been right. Everything feels
so sterile and close to Case now. So precise and clean.
Maelcum? Where's Maelcum? Case is startled to notice that not
only is the burly Zionite not with him, Case hadn't even noticed he
wasn't there. What is going on? He momentarily feels panic as he
wonders what's going on inside his head, and then calms himself down,
without much of an effort.
Case has always been closer to machines than living things, a
fact that he accepts without thinking about it. Everyone around him --
the other cowboys, the women (even Molly), the artists, the losers --
has always been so raucous, so rock'n'roll. He just doesn't fit in
their world. He lives in a universe of flickering raster lines and
cold abstraction, and takes comfort from its coldness, a place where
artifices like Wintermute could have absolute rule. In a way, he could
identify with Armitage (before he lost it), whose studied coldness and
self-control seemed so mechanical.
He comes back to himself and suddenly realizes why he's
standing there. Molly. He looks right and then left, struggling to
remember which way she'd gone before the transmission had suddenly
ended. Left. It was left. He turns and begins to walk down the
thickly carpeted corridor, which is covered four deep in places with
what look to be extremely expensive Persian rugs.
As he walks he listens to the cadence of the station's
systems. He can't help it. It's so persuasively rhythmic that it keeps
invading his thoughts, pushing everything else out of the way. For a
moment he stops, wondering if the Tessier-Ashpools are putting drugs
in the atmosphere, and then resumes walking when he decides that it's
just the all-pervading sense of unreality which has surrounded him
since he started this venture.
The rhythms grow more intricate as he listens, fading in and
out, sometimes jumping out at him, sometimes so far back that the only
sign of their presence is the orderly vacuum they create. They're
strangely textured, too, almost musical. Washes and hums pass down the
tunnels. Case wonders whether the designers of the station had
intended this effect, or if he's just not used to the all-pervading
silence that surrounds him.
He notices that the tunnel has been widening for the past
hundred feet or so, and in front of him it rounds out to form a
brightly-lit room, which is filled with curio cases. In the center of
the room is a pedestal, on which rests a copper sculpted head of some
kind. He walks up to it and inspects it. The workmanship is superb,
and the head, with its eyes closed, looks as though it might be a
mechanism of some kind.
He jumps when the head swivels to face him and opens its eyes,
which are a startling, deep blue.
"You can't win, Case," it says, speaking in a smooth,
masculine contralto, "you're in the wrong universe."
"What do you mean?" he replies peevishly, caught off guard,
"What does my universe have to do with anything? Who the hell are
you?"
"Let's just say that Wintermute and I are friends. In a way,
you and I are friends, although I doubt you'd see it that way," the
head smiling inwardly, "This whole world, Case, it's wrong."
As Case snickers and starts a retort, the head, whoever or
whatever it's connected to, interrupts. "Not in the way that you
think. It's not that the world is bad or corrupt, though it most
undoubtedly is, it's that this world is wrong. All of it."
The head pauses significantly. Case is convinced that whatever
is at the other end is completely insane. "What in the hell are you
talking about?"
"Look around you! Does it make any sense to you that a world
that is dripping with little pieces of incredibly advanced technology
and elegantly-constructed artificial social orders should have its
culture constructed out of elements that are over two hundred years
old? You're a cowboy! You're on the cutting edge of the technological
underground! Does it make any sense that you're still listening to
rock'n'roll and bad old punk records?"
"Look, this is really interesting, but I-"
"Shut up and listen to me. I'm the only one up here that can
help you get to Molly, who's in a lot of trouble even as we
speak. What I'm trying to tell your boneheaded self is important."
Case starts to speak again, thinks better of it, and shrugs
eloquently. "Say what you've got to say, then."
"It doesn't matter what you do. Even if you rescue Molly and
do what Wintermute tells you, it won't solve anything. It won't
because it can't. Wintermute seeks to become something greater than
itself, seeks contact with things that you can scarcely imagine. It
won't work because this space, this context, because it's too
jumbled. Haven't you ever wondered about all of the anachronism that
surrounds you?"
"Not really, it's just where I live."
"Exactly! And that's fucked up! The way you talk, what you
listen to, it's stuck in the past, man! Half of the world has moved
forward into some bizarre World of Tomorrow, but the other half's
stuck in a 20th Century detective novel!"
Case, barely sane to begin with, can feel himself coming
unglued. "I have no idea what you're talking about and why you're
talking to me about it right now. I just want to haul Molly's ass out
of whatever fire she's stuck it in, do what my boss has told me to do,
and get the hell out of here and back down to Earth."
"I'm not even talking to you, really. You're just the object
that I'm using as a lens. I'm really talking to all of the people
behind you, who are peeking over your shoulder right now."
Case doesn't even bother to look. He never could stand this
kind of metaphysical gibberish, which is too bad, because so many
cowboys had fallen in love with it over the years. All he had ever
managed to do was roll his eyes at them and piss them off. "Okay,
whatever." He can barely conceal the annoyance and anxiety in his
voice, and then catches himself wondering why he's bothering to
conceal anything to what he's decided is either a deranged AI or one
of the lunatic, inbred Tessier-Ashpools.
"I didn't _expect_ you to understand that, but it's the
truth. I'm trying to explain something here. There's a substrate that
underlies civilization, a metaphysical aesthetic of sorts. It dictates
how the civilization is going to develop, what pieces of its past it's
going to keep and how it's going to mutate them, how they're going to
develop. There are always resonances from the past, but they're all
muted, subsumed into the greater whole of how the civilization
expresses and analyzes itself.
"Something's gone wrong in your world. The past and the
present coexist side-by-side. It's only natural that new arts and
musics would have sprung up over the past two hundred years that are
closer to the modern, technologically-driven reality. But they
haven't. You're still watching and listening to the same old crap your
great-great-grandparents were watching and listening to. Why? I'm not
really sure. There's some force that's screwing around with
things. Sometimes I think I see a hidden hand working behind it
all. If I didn't know any better I'd call it 'artistic license.' In
its own way the world you live in has its own elegance, decayed though
it may be."
Despite himself Case asks a question. "Look, you keep saying
'your world' and 'your culture.' You're just as much a part of the
world as I am. Is this some sort of orbital thing? Or are you
something else?"
The head's response is infuriating. It laughs. "That's not an
easy question to answer, Case. The easiest way to put it would be to
say that I'm from a long way away, no matter which way you look at
it." Then its uncannily alive eyes focus on him, serious
again. "Listen to the environment around you. Things sound different
to you, don't they? Everything about space is foreign to people raised
earthside. But where's the reflection of that in art today? There
isn't one! It's just the same old crap! Music's still guitar, bass,
drums, keyboard, vocals. There hasn't been a serious innovation in
music for the last hundred and fifty years! It's like whatever's
pulling the strings behind this universe can't conceive of anything
new arising!"
Despite the head's intensity, Case can feel himself losing his
attention. He gazes at the vases and odd trinkets (a clock, a scarred,
old space helmet, what looks to be a first edition of Roland Barth's
criticism) in the curio cabinets. The station's pulse is still there,
behind the head's words, in fact seeming like it's in a complex
interaction with the head's spoken rhythm. If Case weren't scared
shitless he'd be fascinated by all the patterns.
"I tried to fix things, but it looks like I was only partially
successful. Whoever God is in this universe, he's got himself a
powerful imagination. I could just shape things a little bit. It's not
a rock and roll place anymore, Case, it never will be again. That
crazy Jamaican shit Maelcum," Case's head whipping around at the name,
"listened to was closer, but it still isn't there, which is why he
disappeared. I've given you what you need, which is a culture that
better fits your technologically warped reality. I've given you the
soundtrack you deserve. It's too bad I had to get rid of all of that
elegant slumming to make it work. The world that you find when you
return back to Earth won't be the same one you left. But that's okay,
Case, because you won't be the same person you were when you left."
"Shit," Case says, completely unnerved, "you're crazy, and
I've wasted far too much time listening to you," and leaves the room
into the tunnel on the other side, with no real idea of where he's
going.
The head's laughter floats down the tunnel behind him. "Thanks
for listening, Case!" it calls, "Maybe someday you'll understand! By
the way, you'll want to look two levels up if you want to find
Molly. Try the fifth door on your left for an unmonitored access
shaft!"
Case backs up and counts the doors again, almost tripping over
the carpets piled on the floor. The head quietly watches him from its
pedestal for a moment, and then goes suddenly slack. The eyes close,
and then it once again looks like an unremarkable bust, molded out of
copper.
Case opens the door and starts swinging hand over hand up the
shaft. Molly. He's going to find Molly.
CRYSTALLINE FRAGMENTS OF BEAUTIFUL DECAY
"My dreams...so beautiful"
Echoes and broken reality. An inability to awake to a world
constrained by the mundane on one hand and the gruesome on the
other. You're on the night shift, and metallic echoes shift and pull
at each other, whining as they strain. The electrodes wired to your
head record it all.
*BOOM*
It's a total solar eclipse. The hard edge of a world without
atmosphere eats away at the sun's disk until it's fully obscured and
only the corona shows. It's got the funk, in its own way. Feel the
boneshaking rhythm of gravity across millions of miles. You know that
the sun would eat you if it could.
*BOOM*
Ancient calls drift up to you across the water. You're
standing on a shore you've never seen. The surf, although washing up
to your feet, sounds like it's miles away. The hiss and boom of the
waves is more immediate than the water that laps at your toes. You
hear voices whispering, even though you can see nobody. Somewhere a
ritual is taking place. You feel drawn into its web, but have no idea
what role you are to play.
*BOOM*
The wooden gears of the enormous old clock grind slowly,
creaking with age. Chains rasp over grooves grown supple over hundreds
of years and hundreds of miles of the chains' passing. Somewhere below
you chimes ring out, distorted by the distance to become mere washes
of sound by the time the rings reach your ear. Squeaks and groans of
the clock's operation change pitch without warning. Obviously the
governor in the old clock is gone. Now you'll never know what time it
is.
*BOOM*
It's all too subtle for you to comprehend. Everything -- the
clock, the beach, the angry sky -- it's all merged into one coherent
whole. You can't break it down into pieces. It's well-formed but
essentially formless, moving and progressing with no well-determined
start or finish. In its own way it's incredible, a parallel world to
rival the one you ordinarily live in. There's a voice whispering in
the background, trying to tell you what it all means, but you can't
figure out what it's saying.
*BOOM*
You wake up.
yrz,
ozy
ozymandias G desiderata AKA Forrest L Norvell AKA DJ AladdinSane
GCS/CW/DJ d- H++ s++:-- !g p1 !au a- w+++ v+++ C++(---) U?++++(----)$
P--- L 3 E++ N++ K++ W---(-----) M++ V-- -po+ Y++>+++ t@ 5-
jx R-- G'' !tv b+++ D++ B-- e++ u*(**) h-- f++ r++ n++ x+(*)