Nomad Codes

tedious speechifying about destiny and prophecy weirdly mirrors Agent Smith’s grim talk of mechanical purpose. What, then, is the proper rejoinder to determinism? The Oracle tells Neo that “You are here to understand why you made the choice, not to make the choice.” I take this to mean that, to an awakened one, events and decisions have always already occurred, but that understanding and compassion can still dissolve their karmic hold.
    OK, enough already. It’s silly to squeeze too many meanings from a cyber-chopsocky flick; as in the anime tradition the Wachowskis draw from, metaphysical puzzles are more for atmosphere than answers. I won’t even get into Neo’s final chat with the Architect, although I suspect that all the talk of anomalies and contingent affirmations won’t really add up in the end. But adding up is not really the point (unless you are talking about adding up the merchandise sold to fans who want to spend as much time as possible in the Wachowskis’ endlessly nested construct). Like the overly complex plots of film noir, which ultimately serve only to increase the vibe of claustrophobic paranoia, The Matrix Reloaded ’s fractured chatter is in service of an old gnostic hunch: There is a crack in the cosmic machine, and we are the crack.
    As I left the theater after watching the new film, I was handed a slick little flier. “Take the Red Pill,” it said. “Join the Resistance.” At first I thought it was a Christian tract, but it was Not in Our Name’s clever attempt at a wake-up call for a very sleepy nation. Here are the truths the tract’s authors offered: slaughtered Iraqis, Orwellian homeland security, deportations and military tribunals, endless war and repression. But they also saw a light at the end of the rabbit hole. “Another world is possible and we pledge to make it real,” they said. “Join us.” They listed some numbers, and I impulsively looked around for the nearest public phone, as if I were Clark Kent, or Neo trying to slip back out of the Matrix. I didn’t see one. They’re not easy to find these days.
    2003

KALIFORNIKA

CALLING ALL GODS

    Crash Worship

    The Crash Worship acolytes packed into the cavernous hall in San Francisco’s SoMa district are ready to roll. Pierced, tattooed, or perfectly unadorned, they look focused and expectant, like they’re about to leap. Some are smeared with greasepaint, some wear animal horns, some have bared their breasts. Richard Kern nazi-chick softcore flutters on a screen, and the grrrl behind me is dropping urban myth: “I heard her brother forked his eyes out because he thought he saw the devil,” she says. Her companion pauses not a second. “One fork or two?”
    Then a creaky tape loop kicks in with insect castanets, Roadrunner bleep bleep! s and groaning chains from Davy Jones’s locker. The sharp, woody smell of burning piñon hits my nostrils. Suddenly, smoke bombs erupt in the hall, and fireworks start rattling their fiery retorts. And then the beats begin, monstrous rolling thunderdrums that grip your gut like Japanese taiko or a marching band of evil clowns. There’s so much smoke you can’t see the band, and though there’s “vocals” (think shards of sheet metal) and “guitars” (think warbling ghoul moans from a wired six-foot slab called a “megalyra”), it’s the pounding polyrhythm that rivets me and my neighbors. These beats have nothing to do with rock, and everything to do with ritual.
    Then “Fat” Jack Torino rears up from the nebulous gloom, a damaged cowboy in shades and sheep chaps, slinging what looks like a fire extinguisher. A Thick jet of clear liquid sprays over the gleeful crowd like a spout of ectoplasmic jizz, followed soon after by beef blood, wine, flour, and milk, much of which has been distributed by “crowd motivators” sliding through the dance floor. I too am anointed with Gallo. And no one need slap footnotes from The Bacchae on all these Dionysian fluids, because Crash Worship has no interest in Neopagan postures or primitivist shtick. They call the gods raw.
    The first time I attended a Crash Worship show, I was blessed with no expectation, and what hit me was the most spontaneously libidinal and polymorphous group funkfest I’ve had the woodie to experience. Tonight, two years later, the crowd is overpacked and a lot more aggro, but I still feel the neck hairs rise when the diminutive Dreiky, CW’s rhythmic heartbeat and the band’s only female