Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Ian Grimble and Richard Matthews of Communion Music at 2KHz, Crouch End, London
Sometimes the nights, they become nauseous. They exist, stamped with a predisposed notion of existing the way that they want to exist and nothing's going to get in the way of it. They are going to be unflinching. They are going to assert themselves and they aren't going to be able to be doctored later. They're going to whip up a frenzy, bring it to a crescendo and then let it swirl and twirl until you feel as if you're staring at something that makes no difference to you, but it's still yours and you're stuck right there in the present with it. You've still got to hold onto it, mostly because you're dizzy from it and your equilibrium has been knocked out of whack.
You need something to steady your spin and what better than the curvy, black out night that got you into the mess in the first place? It's the most stable thing you have to grab onto when the floor is zooming to meet your face, sweeping out from beneath you. A lesser known fact is that these nights don't ever conclude. They are still happening, even when the sun's come up and the daylight hours are upon us. The same nights that have brought on our nausea are still occurring inside, even when we doubt it. They tame themselves some, but they trap themselves in our walls, like elements that need to be processed - the nutrients and poisons still needing to be extracted out and the rest turned into waste matter. They loiter and they shapeshift, but you can always feel them jiggling around.
D/R/U/G/S, the electronic project of Callum Wright, is a splendid mind fuck. It morphs and it transcends right on through the clatter that can be caused in a night out. It's statically charged, attracting many of the strings and fragments of these nights, claiming them as fully formed pictures, but when they're actually viewed or listened to as a whole, they feel like the recollections of the parts of the evening that we're remembering sketchily, right before the bottom drops out. We're either headed up or coming down. We're barely watching our steps, worried more about one glass following the last.