Music for Psychedelic Therapy Peer Reviewed

Hey! A special bonus post! This year’s Necessary Evil is finished, there’s still the Legit Bosses/best songs to do, but, dude, that is effort, seriously. It was my birthday yesterday (remember, Older Than Arlo Younger That Caroline/OLAYTC), so thanks for all the happy birthday wished that you didn’t give me – you ungrateful bunch of leeches – and all the lovely presents you didn’t send. No, Paula, that Tupperware tub full of your own excrement that you throw through my window doesn’t count as a present. You’ve done that every Tuesday since I slagged off Mercury Rev’s album back in 2015. I have plans tomorrow, New Years Eve, and then it’s just next fucking year and that’s a whole thing in itself. What I’m saying is, there happens to be a gap in my schedule today, so I’m going to scientifically analyse Jon Hopkins’ latest album by getting high as balls.

‘Music for Psychedelic Therapy’ is exactly what it sounds like. Inspired by Hopkins’s visit to some Ecuadorian caves to do some standard white boy in Ecuadorian cave shit, as Hopkins has obviously never read, seen or heard of Alex Garland’s The Beach or has such stunning lack of self awareness that he believes acting like he’s a late 90s gap year student isn’t something to be ashamed of. The album that came out of these hallucinogenic experiences is… really dull. Listless ambient nonsense. But I was sober when I listened to it! It’s like asking for my opinions on dog food when I’m not a dog, or to judge a Magic Eye contest when I’m not wearing my glasses, or asking me to set rules on abortion when I’m a man. Fucking ridiculous! Shameful, really. Hopkins made sure the album was 64 minutes, the average length of a ketamine high. Where would I get ketamine, you ask??

Come on, guys, the fuck I’m going to get ketamine from? I do, however, possess some halluciagenics.

Now, if you’re smart enough and do the research, hallucinogenic are all around you! Pick the right mushroom, cook the right banana skin*, inject the correct household cleaner**, and you’re soon skipping merrily along some wonderful coexistent reality where you don’t hate your life and Stacey from the cornershop might actually like you! Personally, I’m going for the seeds of a flower called ‘Morning Glory’. I’m not going to get into the science, but for some magical, chemical reason, chewing on the seeds are very similar to a particularly strong magic mushroom trip. Also, if you’ve ever taken mushrooms before, you’ll be well acquainted with the nausea. In Morning Glory’s case, you’ll shit more than you’d previously thought possible for maybe an hour, then spend a few hours amazed at how tightly – and then softly! – you can clench your fists. I’m going to take a bunch now, sped the next hour or so dashing to the toilet and back while listening to the amazing Celebrity Memoir Book Club podcast and playing the appropriately trippy Hades on PS4, before slipping on the headphones . I have… no idea what form this blog entry will take. Maybe I’ll post updates, maybe I’ll report back afterwards. However, it’s gonna be an amazing experiment! Don’t try this at home! I’m a professional and this is a scientific endeavour!

So this is my life now…

(*this is fucking bollocks, find me one person with any decent results from this when desperately tempted back in their secondary school days)

(**should I state “don’t actually fucking try this” here? Depends whether you have The Rona, I suppose)

OK, ten minutes after taking them (a hundred or so?), I’ve just been sick. Is that them all gone now? Or does the vomit, like, flush all the hallucinogens through my body. Stay tuned to find out.

Right. So hands are getting a little heavier. But, like, floatier at the same time? I think they’re floatier so the thing I’m holding right now seems heavier. I feel like this is quite early stages though, so not ready for Hopkins. Playing Hades is out the window, requires far too much… control… What’s the phrase I’m thinking of? It requires… Motor Neurone control…? No. Special awareness? No. Like, reflexes and shit. That’s already impossible. I’m going to eat Skittles, watch one episode of ‘Kevin Can F Himself’ on Amazon Prime. Then Hopkins time. Think it’ll be perfect by that point.

Is THIS the anxious, nauseous bit. Because it really isn’t that bad. Is it usually worse? Is it about to get MUCH worse? Or just much better? I honestly can never remember what to expect. It’s like not remembering your dreams no matter how many times you sleep. Or something. Or is it like giving birth? No. It’s not bad. I’m fine. Can’t decide what to watch though. YouTube videos are too fast, filmed fiction too complicated. I’m going to watch Sheamus vs Drew McIntyre from the March 8th WWE Raw of this year, which was apparently great but I never saw. That’s about the extent of what I can easily process at this point, mentally, and doesn’t require so much fucking attention like Kevin Can F Himself did. OK, about that, although this being the next sentence may indicate that this is happening immediately afterwards, after writing that last sentence I went and sat on the toilet stroking my stubble for half an hour. I think I’m ready for Hopkins. And Bullseye is here!

OK, here we go, Aeroplane Mode, all that stuff. Take me, Hopkins!!

Right, so I started, but then couldn’t find my e-cig, so spent maybe 15mins looking for it, then found I was sitting on it, then the e-liquid in the chamber looked so beautiful I was SURE I could take, like, a MASTERPIECE photo, but couldn’t. Now EVERYTHING is perfect, I’m starting again.

OK, so I started and then needed to go to the toilet… Stroked my stubble for about thirty minutes.

Yeah, I wear my glasses to the toilet, don’t @ me. Now, I’m laid back, I’m concentrating on the back of my door, I’ve found my e-cig (I mentioned that, didn’t I?), I have a Coca Cola product placement, the earphones are on, LET’S FUCKING DO THIS!!

Phew, yeah, that was pretty special. I lasted about three quarters of the way into Hopkins’s guidance, during which time I was taken to many places and almost understood and witnessed time as a abstract concept, with every singe thing that ever happens all actually taking place at the same time. Which is now. Erm, obviously. If every single moment in time was simultaneously was taking place last Sunday at 2pm, it would kind of defeat the whole thing, wouldn’t it? I also rapidly lost any interest in writing this piece. This blog post was going to be so facetious and humorous, but I quickly came to see that the experience I was having deserved far more weight than that. I lay down and understood all of life. I looked upon my own being, my own identity, and my own behaviour, and believed I started to understand and empathise with different people from all over the globe. I happened to have written a Tweet that morning (a reply to a far funnier and far more popular comedian) that happened to really blow up while I was tripping, so I would look at the profiles of everyone who liked it, imagine their lives, and appreciate how – despite social media so often being hailed at the worst thing since Hitler flavoured New Coke – it was so wonderful to live in an era where we were so connected with so many different human beings, and how we could use that to glimpse inside and understand so many different lives. But describing these things is near impossible. I always forget how good hallucinogens make you feel, and always promise to do it more. Fucking capitalism, man, why don’t we all just have time to do this 24 hours a day?/ Yes, we’d all get very fat, I appreciate that, thanks for pointing it out. This post has been completely pointless, but my God I enjoyed making it.

Oh, the Jon Hopkins album?? Yeah, actually really well designed, and I’m going to try a guided meditation again as soon as fucking capitalism allows me. Or maybe I’ll just try it with Low’s album, seeing as that record is – come on now – infinitely better.

I honestly love you all


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