CHILDISH TAPES
Preface to BOUSHBOU Manifesto:
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You do not understand the loquaciousness of our actions. How could you!
This is not music, you
say. But we respond, You are not thinking about it enough. Stand there and listen to our
bavardage and
translate it to the ears of your comrades. Your may use it to strike against us in your
battles against
intellect.
We may ramble on; I may twaddle around your ears like lice but you may
never understand! You
do not listen. You cannot listen. There is no such THING as listening. You have invented
an act that you
have called "listening" and you use that to judge our actions. Show me art! Show
me music! You cannot!
You may read my caquetterie here and announce it to your friends as
nonsense. I grant your permission
to do that. In fact, I command you to do just that. Announce my caquet to the world as you
wish. I hide nothing
but you hide everything! You father and mothers, daughters and sons of a banal world of
hidden pain. How time
heals nothing for you but everything for us! You strike against us like a rhino against
the wind. We cannot be struck!
Our flux de mots trancends the horn of your hebetude. Your rage and indifference makes us
laugh.
What have your learned in your years of so-called education? What logic
have you adopted to fit
your mold of acceptance? There is a newsflash slapping you in the face with a fish. There
is no logic! Only Dada!
We are disguising ourselves and you are fooled. I pity all of the so-called students of
the universities who have
not touched a book before entering college. Literature must be read and attacked! Music
must be heard and destroyed!
Life is music, music is noise, noise is music, noise is life! Wind, rain, whimpers,
laughs, doors, cars, lights, leaves,
burps, fires, hairs, coughs, string, tin, shells and ink must be heard!! How dare you
limit the instruments of music.
The amount is infinite. Dada is infinite. Your ignorance and banality are infinite.
If what you call music is music, then the noise of everyday life is
music! You are in no position to judge even the bickering of an umbrella and a socialite.
You cannot for the life of you think an original thought! Everything you do is a form
plagiarism. You march in line with the other submissives. Your self-created uniqueness is
nothing more than a play with one act. There is no point to your attempts at creation and
therefore your garden bears no fruit.
We will continue to create and recreate the sounds of our rebellion:
the sounds of random leaves spluttered across
fields above your heads. The more you reject, the stronger we become! Dada is a stranger
forced to light the cigarette of
eternity! Dada is a short doll! Dada is rice!
-Jordan Krall
end of preface