Looking through CDs, live music, books, theatre and all kinds of things that fit in your mouth. Injecting the mindstream via the tearduct with reviews that connect you to the experience, whatever the form.
For anyone looking to have their merch, music and/or mayhem reviewed at The Wax Conspiracy, get in touch with us.
Starting is the hardest. 2,3 times. Anagrama, June 10, 1997. Sunset orange. Anagrama. A Spanish word lost in a sea of French. A remnant of the Franco-Spanish war. Like catholic channel islanders who religion is dictated by proximity to france. Slow start. 9:31
Time, like confetti made shredding documents before the run toward composting, renders its space unto a void. There we wait to see if memory serves, or if memory falls apart inside the apathy of watching someone else’s story take centre stage.
Bulging off the counter’s edge by two finger widths, the cash register teeters with no money in the till. It seats itself back enough to be comfortable, still, there is that hint of tipping over and spilling the empty contents.
An hour before the hour before the doors open is a swarm of starchy hair bows breaching a concourse that cannot hold itself with the amount of JoJo Siwa costumes running along the edge of downtown city traffic.
Child slave labour is a boon to all, and many times over. It pays for itself after the initial orientation training and there isn’t much to leave behind in profits or sharing the loot. Far less harsh than believing in something as retrograde as reciprocal company loyalty.
From the ruins of a devastating defeat at the fingers of Thanos, the Avengers come around to push the narrative that collective bargaining agreements and a unionised workforce can triumph.
There is something rotten in the air. A dead noise. Volume is cranked up and lips are moving at the beat of the strum. Nothing much comes from it. It is the sound of being halved and it runs the whole night.
Funko Pop! Vinyls are all over the place. Three booths side-by-side are guts overflowing with the generic looking figures. Turn again and another booth is chockas with the stuff. Blank eyes for all the aisles to see.
Emptiness rings out at the late night session. Nobody sidles up to plonk down in the theatre seats beside. Gone are the crowds ready to drown out the on-screen dialogue. It’s hours from midnight when the bleeding starts.
Time keeps slipping. Life putters on and stumbling is the better part of trying to catch up. Watching it fall apart is where the audience comes to mind.
Coarse hacking coughs linger in the air between silences. Tension cuts itself with a dusting of deep swallowing sounds. The audience has saliva no more.
Needles of the spruce shake off and litter the base of the Christmas tree. There in the middle of Pemberley house, a cut of nature stands in a spot of water dressed for the occasion. The awkwardness is centre stage.
Each souvenir booth is neck deep. At least three spot the arena with lines banking out a dozen from the table, and the same in breadth. Not a structured line in sight. Branches of arms weave up and around somewhere toward the tills. It’s a half hour from the back before a chance to see what T-shirts and other merchandise are worth the base twenty-five dollars.