If I was making a post-apocalyptic film I would cast Jason Anthony Harris. I’d put him in a cornfield.
The leading lady suffers from hallucinations. She runs through detritus, over shattered neon. The bottom drops out. The hallucinations recoil. She finds herself at the edge of a vast expanse of field.
As she weaves her way through the ghostly husks, poly-rhythmic blurbs pulse in and out. She follows the sound, the clouds pass over too quickly, Jason Anthony Harris sits amidst rotten cobs, a single soul surgically bound to a fusion of loop station, vocoder, decades of effects pedals welded together, banging his microphone into dry earth and crooning a twilight monologue. Amplified fuzz settles behind him and retorts, blistering, as a chorus of 100 looped voices swallow time. She is mesmerized.
He doesn’t see her. He continues tweaking the corn husks, banging the mic, discovering enhancements to this improvised loop, voice magnificent and morose, lost in a world of single being in performance. She kneels to catch his gaze, to no avail. The music grows frantic, the looped chorus relapses into a single, flat-lined tone. He utters something with his gently immaculate British accent but we can’t make out what he’s saying as the hallucinations have returned, violently raining antique tea cups, pieces of scone, all of it looped and oddly beautiful. Our leading lady is running, running through the cornfield, Harris’s opus tripping her, heavy, dance-worthy beats and a gritty pool of sonic potential, waiting to be tapped. – Valerie Kuehne
