When We Were Cyber

Published Oct 8, 2020, 10:41 AM

Cyborgs, cyberspace, mind-melting techno. In the mid-’90s, the future had arrived. To find out what happened to it, Hari pays a visit to philosopher Manuel DeLanda, and to the legendary artist ORLAN, who he first encountered at an academic conference like no other.

Learn more about your ad-choices at https://www.iheartpodcastnetwork.com

Pushkin. Once upon a time, I was depressed, so I decided to become a philosopher. I was in my early twenties, and what I really wanted to be was a novelist. I'd spent a couple of years very broke in London, doing various gig economy jobs and lugging my record collection in and out of a series of shared houses. During this time, I'd written a hundred thousand words of cutting edge experimental fiction which no one wanted to publish or even read. I needed something radical to happen. I needed a future. My solution was to enroll in a master's program Warwick University, just outside the English city of Coventry. My plan was, well, I don't really remember what my plan was exactly. Read some books stored out my head. On the fourteenth November nineteen forty it became a city of destruction. The thing you need to know about Coventry is that the way it looks owes a lot to the Nazi Luftfaffa. They bombed it more or less flat in World War Two. The little town that grew into a famous place of guilds and crafts and medieval ceremony into a rich trade town into a great center of industry, into a burned, bombed city. Coventry was reimagined by city planners. It didn't die, who wanted a rational modernist machine for living, but ended up with the city center dominated by an elevated concrete ring road jammed with cars. Coventry had taken an economic battering during the Thatchy years. You get what I'm saying. It was not a glamorous place. The most famous cultural product of Coventry was the band The Specials, who wrote a song about it called ghost Town. All the clubs being closed down, my record collection and I moved to this ghost town in nineteen ninety three. I was innocent enough to believe that philosophy would be a noble pursuit. I pictured a group of serious people trying to find the truth, possibly wearing robes. What I found instead was a state of war, and soon I was in the trenches with the rest of them. This is Into the Zone, a podcast about opposite and how borders are never as clear as we think. I'm Harry Kunzru. This episode is about the present and the future. It's about minds and bodies. It's about biology and machines. It's about a time long long ago, when we were cyber in my new country home. I found bitter personal rivalries and dreams of well paid jobs on the other side of the Atlantic, and there was a culture war at least as bitter as the red and blue of the Trump era. On one side were the analytic philosophers, who felt that thinking ought to be rigorous and logical. To them, the main job of philosophy was to distinguish between truth and falsehood. Wrote books with a lot of quasi mathematical notation, and thought of themselves as logical traffic cops, saying which concepts could go ahead and which had to stop at the red lights. On the other side were the followers of Jacques Derrida, French god of deconstruction. The deconstructionists had come over long years in the university bar to suspect that the only reality was in the words of the philosophy books they read. There was nothing outside the text. These philosophers were poetic and melancholy as far as I could see. Their ultimate aim in life was to write essays that sounded as if they'd been badly translated out of French. Both groups of philosophers were, in their own ways, unutterably tedious. Luckily for me, there was a third group in the department. They liked a lot of the same things I did, including things that weren't philosophy at all, things such as science fiction, movies featuring people turning into machines, fractal patterns, techno music, mind altering drugs, experimental fiction, and above all, a new thing called the Internet. When I arrived at Warwick, there were only about one hundred and thirty websites. Have a think about that. Today they're around one point six billion. I got online using a modem that made a sound like a sick transistor radio. After this thing spent a while strangling itself, I might click a link. Then I could usually go and make a cup of tea while it loaded. But I didn't care. The Internet was amazing. It connected me to a whole new world of subcultural weirdness. Instantly. I could talk to witches and new foccultists and make out with people pretending to be unicorns in the text based hot tub of a multi user domain. It was way better than coventry. This was cyberspace. That's what we called it. The word seems quaint now, conjuring up graphics of kids literally surfing the pixelated waves on PC keyboards. Mostly cyberspace existed in our dreams, and those dreams were largely formed by the writer William Gibson. I had that feeling of, you know, that post geographical feeling. This is him in a documentary made in two thousand called No Maps for These Territories. I think we've been growing a sort of prosthetic, extended nervous system for the last hundred years or so, and it's really starting to take William Gibson's nineteen eighty four book Neuromancer has the famous opening line, the sky above the port was the color of television tuned to a dead channel. It was more than a science fiction novel. It felt uncanny, like a prophecy of the future. It's the story of a hacker traveling through the Matrix, a global internet that manifests as a kind of virtual reality. Somewhere in the matrix, a sophisticated AI has become conscious. There's a lot of flying through imaginary cityscapes of Neon and Matt black Towers. Neuromancer posed questions that were very interesting to me. About how humans were becoming connected to machines, how we were linking ourselves together into networks, how machines were becoming intelligent and bodies were melting into data. Many of the grad students in my philosophy department were obsessed with those same questions, and they did what grad students everywhere do. They organized a conference to talk about it. They called it Virtual futures. All of a sudden, the body finds itself in an amidst extraterrestrial space. The body cannot come. The title virtual Futures referred to William Gibson's short story The Gernsback Continuum. The Gernsback Continuum is about an architectural photographer who's hired to take pictures of futuristic nineteen thirties buildings think chrome and fins and curving concrete. As he shooting pictures of these decaying old buildings, he starts to see things to hallucinate people from the future. Not his own future, but the future that people imagined when those buildings were new, one with ray guns and flying cars and food pills. We imagine futures that never come to pass, imaginary futures that stay as kind of ghosts. They're not our actual future. They are virtual futures. A quarter century later, I'm living in a future that contains some of the things I imagined, and plenty more I didn't. The future we imagined back in the nineteen nineties now seems unbelievably far away. Recently, I was going through some old stuff and found one of the flyers for the Virtual Futures Conferences. It's hard to say what's going on exactly because it's really badly photocopied, but I think there's some kind of hybrid human insect machine sex happening. The description just says philosophical conference papers have titles like Meltdown, viewed to Immersion, cyber Apocalypse now, and if you weren't getting the message, apocalyptics, Cybernetics. The Virtual Futures Conferences. Eventually there were three, and I went to them. All connected me to people who are still some of my best friends. They changed my life, and it wasn't just me. I was very aware in medicine that the body was being increasingly observed through machines and that you could see deeper beneath the skin than ever before, and actually it was creating a crisis. Rachel Armstrong was a discontented junior doctor that the people that we saw in the ward were being abstracted into data. Each space was based on the boy. Rachel thought she was going to a computer conference. She hoped it would help her be a better doctor. I got way more than I bargained for body space back to the body. That was the first time I'd come across those extreme ideas and the most incredible performances. A woman with blue hair from underneath the table, with this cyberbabble and techno music. It was speaking to me, but I didn't know what it was. I think the best way I would describe it was punk. There's a saying about a sex Pistols gig in Manchester in nineteen seventy six that everyone who was there started a band. That's how it was with Virtual Futures. People who were there started art collectives and record labels and magazines. They became architects, musicians and filmmakers. But at the time it seemed marginal and if I'm honest, also a bit ridiculous. But then that feeling of ridiculousness is sometimes how you feel in the presence of some thing genuinely new. The audacity was in a way the best thing about it. I mean, this was a really industrial carpet setting, with kind of cheap furniture and very rudimentary technologies. Bizarrely, there we were on a windswept university campus at the edge of an unfashionable town in a country known for the past, not the future. Virtual futures was a way of refusing all that of claiming the future. And the most viscerally futuristic thing in my life was music that's hyperon experience. Two guys from the County of Suffolk who made underground dance music we called this kind of music hardcore or jungle. It was a style that came out of the rave scene. It was diy music made in bedrooms with cheap equipment. You can hear that it's built around drum brakes from old funk records. In jungle, the breaks are sped up beyond the capabilities of any human drummer. Acceleration was the key to everything. The world seemed to be getting faster, the future rushing towards us, and this music sounded like it was breaking free of human limits. It was an example of the thing we thought we saw all around us that the human present was heading towards something totally new, a time when human beings maybe wouldn't even exist anymore. The post human. That's a word like cyberspace or the phrase information super Highway. That seems very nineties now, along with the excessive quoting of William Gibson's writing, Fragments of Music from the Countless Speakers, Smells of three Monomers, Paddies of prime firl. I remember one presentation at Virtual Futures that took place in a darkened room where two young men in black fatigues pointed a strobe light at the audience, set very slow, so we were basically blinded about once a second by a super bright light while they played very fast industrial music and shouted at us about the imminent dissolution of our bodies. The thing that made it hilarious was that we were all sitting down one uncomfortable plastic chairs in a lecture hall. Headlining Virtual Futures that first year was a character who looked like he'd stepped out of Neuromancer. He too was dressed all in black, black leather jacket, dark glasses, black hair tied in a ponytail, his name was Manuel Dalanda. Manuel is a philosopher, but exactly the kind of philosopher we loved, an outsider, a maverick, a philosopher who connects philosophy to loads of other cool stuff in chemistry and history and social theory. Recently I tracked him down and I got to talk to him at his home in Manhattan. He lives alone in an apartment in a pre war building near Grand Central Station. His place is, like him, very focused, kind of monkish. I got my films into the Widney Biennial and so on, so everything was guying Joe's joy. Realized that filmmakers are the proletariat of the art world in New York, and I hated that Manuel grew up in Mexico. In the late seventies and eighties, he was part of the legendary New York downtown scene. He made super eight films that combined street footage with hand drawn special effects and found images from pawn and war movies. With his friend Joe Coleman, he staged some abrasive and confrontational performances for Manuel. Going too Far wasn't far enough. When the highbrow theoretical publisher Simia Texts brought the famous French philosopher Gille de Leurs to town. They invited Manuel and Joe to perform something radical in air quotes, something that would feel transgressive. Manuel and Joe decided to visit the seven plagues of Egypt on the audience, and we attacked it with everything we had, and we had freshly the capitated house head and a pig's head. We had live animals of all the different plagues, snakes, rats, crickets to stand for locusts and toads. Joe had his gear for exploding, and he just was just complete chaos, Yeah, exploding. One of Joe Coleman's party tricks was to attach explosive to himself and set them off. If you want, you can find a video on the Internet of one of Joe Coleman's performances. It's kind of messed up. He's wearing a suit with what looks to me like a sheep's head hung around his neck. He seems like he's playing a character, yelling at the audience like a preacher. He bites the heads off some live mice, then takes a cigarette lighter to a fuse sticking out of the front of his shirt. People are screaming, scram laying to the exits. By the time I met Manuel Dalanda at Virtual Futures in nineteen ninety four, he'd stopped blowing things up with Joe Coleman and started writing books. Philosophy books are supposed to have abstract titles, preferably connecting two important words, like being and time or reasons and persons. Manuel's book was called War in the Age of Intelligent Machines. In it, he imagined a robot historian looking back at the evolution of his species. He told a science fiction story about machines using humans as their reproductive organs until they could develop the capability to copy themselves. It was a way to talk about his idea of non organic life and to approach many technical problems in philosophy. But importantly, it was also cool. It was a vision of the future that spoke to us directly. As we dance to jungle and experimented with connecting ourselves together via the Internet. We felt as if we were half machine already, that we were cyborgs, cybernetic organisms. Speaking with Manuel plunges me right back to all the things that entranced us about his work. He combines a love of chaos with a ruthlessly analytical mind. One of the first things that I did when I came to New York was to trip an acid multiple times. I mean we're talking about two hundred times problem in about four years, at the same time studying analytical philosophy. And that became even more so when I bought my first computer in nineteen eighty, a huge industrial computer. Once you get into computers, once you start programming computers, you understand analytical philosophy much more because all computer languages are basically derived the logic systems that bertrand Russell and Frega and so I created. So you're programming and you're really dealing with the stuff these guys are dealing with. So I was into analytical philosophy, but acid, which I continue to take, and I continued victor this day four times a year, artificial intelligence and robotics. Although that is one way of crossing the threshold, you know, giving metal, so to speak, consciousness. I also had in mind things like the atmosphere of planet Earth. In the atmosphere of planet Earth, the seas and the river's clause, the atmosphere, you have all kinds of creatures that emerges spontaneously. Some of them we name hurricanes because they last long enough and they have enough energy to causals damage that we need to name them Hurricane Katrina in bar Urricane Nancy. But then there are thunderstorms. Thunderstorms are incredible sculptures, incredible machines made out of clouds with thunder and lightning inside, and they move, and at any one point in time, the seven or eight thunderstorms on the planet, there's always some of them dancing around. They give birth literally to tornadoes. When I think of a thunderstorm filled with energy and lightning and giving birth to tornadoes, it's very hard for me not to think about it as a kind of product all life self organization, even in the matter when you begin to realize that, in addition to DNA and proteins that these things don't have, that we share those processes of self organization with them, and that life would have never been able to take off in this planet had it not been for those previously existing processes organization, do you begin to question the difference between the living and then on living. I mean, the really kind of trippy thing about worry. The age of intelligent machines is asking the questions about what does happen when not just any old machines, but machines of war develop a kind of autonomy. I mean, we're familiar with that in popular culture. We think of Terminator, we think of the war of the machines against the people. It gets into a very apocalyptic way of thinking very quickly, what did you want to focus on war? Well, because as a materialist, as someone who really took seriously the idea that there's material culture in addition to symbolic culture, the material culture of blacksmiths, carpenters, masons, electricians, and someone who philosophers never think about. Then I began to think, well, who creates those weapons of war? And then the battlefield itself is a social space because chimpanzees don't fight wars. They raid each other's tribes and communities, but they don't really fight war. So war is a exclusively social and human phenomenon. Yes, beliefs and symbolic ideas about God and about patriotism do make you fight, or once you enter the battlefield and you begin confronting those flying metallic projectiles and shock waves, close fire and bodies maimed and killed and destroyed. It is all material. It is perhaps the most material space, the one in which you cannot possibly deny that there's a world that exists in the apparently of our minds, because it's constantly affecting you. Ma'muel de Lande's mind is its own planet. He amazes me as much now as he did when I first encountered him a quarter century ago. Many philosophers seem to think the world outside the mind, it's almost impossibly far away, something for someone else to deal with. But that's not Manuel, and I don't believe that our senses give us access to the world as it is. Psychophysicists have shown for a long time we see only part of the electromagnetic spectrum, the visible part. We hear only part of the audio spectrum. If something is too fast, like a bullet striking you're in the head, we cannot really see the bullet. Something is too slow, like a rat decomposing, we don't see that. We only see windows into the world had because we intervene in the world to change it by technology, by doing experiments on an everyday life, by cooking and and changing substances in our kitchen we know a lot more than our senses revealed, because we know our capacities to affect the world and the capacities of the world to affect us. When Manuel Delande came to our conference and Warwick, it was his first lecture in Europe, and he met his first cyborg, Stellarc, right off the plane. When I arrived at my hotel, there was a Stellarc waiting for his room, and so I got to talk to Stellarc right away, which blew my mind. I mean, all the post human ones, he was the only one who was actually doing something about it. My body is connected to a muscal stimulated system with the touch screen interface. You attaching bizarre third arms, you know, robotic third arms, and swallowing cameras so that they would go their way to his stomach, doing all kinds of dangerous things in which the materiality of your body what's at steak. Stellarc is an Australian artist who started out doing the kind of seventies performance art that involved enduring a lot of pain. He'd have hooks put through his skin and have himself suspended naked in a variety of positions and scenic locations. Later he became interested in modifying his body with technology. He was up for anything, swallowing things, attaching things, implanting them. He was a very cheery fellow. Everyone wants to buy him drinks. It also reminds me of an interesting story. When I first made the film of the inside of the left and right bronchi of the lungs, and I realized that the track here was a wind tunnel. You know, you breathed there up and down the track here, and there was a wind tunnel. So I thought, at that time we had the oil crisis and the concern about energy conservation, and I thought, well, if I could implant a little propeller device in the track ear and through my regular breathing, I could in fact generate some electricity, like the rest of us laughing along. Manuel de Landa admired Stella's experiments on himself, but he didn't think much of most of the philosophers he met at Virtual Futures. When I asked him about academics, I triggered one of his trademark epic rants think about this. Nineteen forty eight was the beginning of the baby bomb. Roughly this assumed that he lasted ten years all the way to nineteen fifty eight, millions of little babies were produced at the same time. Now, let's assume that you get ten here when you're thirty years old. Let's assume that, so that's nineteen seventy eight. All those thousands or millions of babies got tenure, or many of those got ten ures simultaneously in nineteen seventy eight. Between nineteen nineteen eighty six, a massive amount of human flesh entrenched in universities right and between nineteen seventy and nineteen eighty six was the peak of the fashion of repeating French philosophy without knowing anything that you know. And so that means that all those fakers and all those bluffers got ten here simply for demographic reasons, and we won't get rid of them until they die, because they literally are entrenched in every university that I got to. So I already knew that when I went to work, and so I went there with the spirit of being very forgiving, but I couldn't really keep it up. Eventually I began exploding, not literally exploding. I should say, Manuel is speaking metaphorically here, and you probably didn't see that. Hopefully, because when I explode and start saying nasty things to bluffers and fakers, I look nasty and I look mean, but nevertheless that I can't help myself. I didn't notice any behind the scenes confrontations between Manuel and this wall of human flesh. No, I was too busy marveling at the most unforgettable performer at the conference. Her name was and is in more Nor sixty measure School, early twenty twenty. I'm in an artist studio in Paris. It's a light industrial space cluttered with amazing objects, sculpture, light boxes, photographs. Several fashionably dressed assistants are hard at work while the artist herself is on the phone. Orlane is a startling, glamorous figure, a woman in her early seventies with vertical hair half white and half black, and a pair of architectural glasses and horns. Not massive devil horns, just tasteful bumps implanted under the skin on either side of her forehead. At Virtual Futures back in the mid nineties, Orlane gave what was probably the most scandalous presentation of all, the one that people remembered. All I knew about her was that she was a French artist who spelled her name in all caps. Like her one named Counterparts, dellac or Lyon, used her body to make her art. You'll need some context for what comes next. There was a strong feminist strand at Virtual Futures, I, particularly concerned with what are the virtual futures of gender and sexuality? Asked one panel, can patriarchy survive the emergence of cyberspace? Well, obviously the answer to that one is a resounding yes. There was an element of weird naughtiness to it all. One day at Virtual Futures, I walked into a session on cyber feminism and was surprised to see someone I'd last known as a very serious feminist theorist now here. She was kneeling on stage wearing a silver dress and eighth hold Doc Martin Boots submissively tying and untying the ribbons on a pair of ballet shoes on the feet of an Australian artist giving a speech on patriarchal databanks awareness about its relationship to these movement. None of this, you understand, happened at normal philosophy conferences, and certainly normal philosophy conferences didn't have or line. They'd scheduled Orlane's talk for ten am on Sunday. A lot of people, myself included, had been up late the night before, stumbling around to ear splittingly loud jungle in the cavernists and depressing Warwick Students Union. I was not in good shape, and looking around I saw her. I wasn't the only one. Orlane was a strange spectral figure who spoke no English. Through an interpreter, she explained that she had recently done a series of performances involving plastic surgery. I wasn't sure I had heard right. She pressed play on a video two minutes later. The lecture hall was a scene of carnage. The video, all unplayed, was disturbing, to say the least. Wearing a black pleated dress, she sits in an operating theater, her face dotted with purplish marker. She's surrounded by various objects that you wouldn't normally find in a medical setting, vases of flowers, clocks showing the time in various cities, people who might be nurses or assistants in flamboyant costumes. Then a masked surgeon begins to cut her face open. She isn't under general anesthetic. She's talking, reciting poetry to the camera. As the surgeon lifts part of her face off, she's still talking. The audience at Warwick quickly fell to pieces. At least one person fainted. Another ran for the door, holding his hands over his mouth to keep from throwing up. Several more walked out. I stayed to the end of Orlan's ordeal that there were parts I couldn't watch, and I was very glad I hadn't even a heavy breakfast. Later, after the shock had worn off, I was able to understand something of what I just witnessed. Instead of having surgery to make herself beautiful, Orlan made the surgery part of a performance where she asked what beauty means. In the surgery I watched, she had part of a procedure that's used for facelifts. In another surgery, she had her horns inserted. In another, she had li persuption. In all of this, Orlan was the director, the controller, awakened, in charge of things, not a passive victim on an operating table suffering to look better for men. Orlan was an outsider, someone who'd made herself look scary even monstrous, someone who was prepared to do things others wouldn't dare both well welcome, thank you. Twenty five years later, at all Our studio in Paris, I was able to ask her about those plastic surgery performances the past, the chapelle Celia so ce presber control. It was a fight against the innate. The face I have is a mask like any other, and it's a mask that I didn't want. I didn't decide the color of my eyes, the length of my nose, of my mouth. Well, so this was an attempt to get out of the frame. It was an attempt to move the bars of the gage. Anatomy is no longer destiny. Back in grad school, I'd found Alan's spooky and intimidating. She's still very grand in the way that famous older artists can be grand, but she's good fun. I bring up a project she had back then to change her nose. She wanted to have a monstrously large nose attached to her face, the largest that it could physically support. No surgeon would do it for ethical reasons, which himself is kind of interesting, because plastic surgeons do some pretty strange stuff without getting hung up on ethics. Alipok Kum transform all ourn Arch is an eyebrow and points out that I have kind of a large nose myself, which is true. I think she's flirting. And then there's the issue of her horns a pussy. Surely, tomp I wanted to do something that wasn't supposed to happen, to bring beauty. If I'm described as a woman who has two bumps on her temples, you can consider that I am absolutely horrible, monstrous. But if I'm seen, it can change. It doesn't always change, but sometimes it can change because these horrible bumps have become organs of seduction like any other. Since the days of her surgeries, or Lane has worked with her body in different ways. She's made robots, She's made work from her vaginal flora. She's used her image in every conceivable way. With her black and white hair. She's like a warmer, more humorous Crewela de Ville. Her cartoonish appearance is part of her work. We will see her own presuit, don't. I always try to be alert, and when I see when I feel something, whether it's technological but also a social movement, a social phenomenon, I try to question it. To see what I can do with it in which direction I can twist it. So all Land's doing well. I've just about recovered. But what happened to the other attendees of Virtual Futures Like Rachel Armstrong, the young doctor who came to the conference hoping to learn about computers Virtual futures, she had her mind blown. She began thinking in wild theoretical ways about how organization happens in living systems, how life gets built. And that was where I started my journey, and I came up with something called the Cytoplasic Manifesto. I was really trying to look at the organizing matrices before DNA apparently took over, and look at the enabling conditions in which material organization could be possible. Someone Rachel met at Virtual Futures said that with her interest in the building blocks of life, she ought to come and teach at his architecture school, and that's what she did. Today she's a professor of Experimental Architecture at the University of Newcastle. So I think the notion of future is still up for grabs, and I think that the Virtual Futures kind of made us think about the pieces that we'd been presented with as for the pieces of my future. I got my degree and I went back to London, my head full of ideas about art and technology and politics. I became part of an editorial collective, making a magazine and putting on events, and started getting paid writing gigs. For several years, I supported myself by writing journalism, mostly about technology and music. But all the time I was writing fiction, publishing stories wherever I could. Eventually I sold a novel and was on the road towards the ultimate goal of having my own podcast. The future in twenty twenty has changed. It's not the future of infinite invention that we imagined in the nineteen nineties. Manuel de Lander is still single mindedly plowing the philosophical furrow he began all those years ago. Or Lane is more or Lane than ever an Orland studio. A distinguished visitor has arrived. One of the members of France's Academy de Bouzar Orlan is being considered for membership, a huge honor. The academy has only sixty three seats. Someone usually has to die before a new member can be admitted. It represents the cultural establishment of France. While on the outsider is on the verge of becoming the ultimate insider. Still, other people from the Virtual Futures days are making art, writing books. I could have made another five episodes just about their work. But in twenty twenty one thing unites us. We're all still imagining futures that may never come to pass, at least not exactly in the way we think. But still we imagine them, Still we dream. All these experiments, weird artists, weirder philosophers. They gave us a roadmap for the odd actual future to come, but they couldn't prepare us for everything. My favorite definition of virus comes from this guy named Peter Medawar who's sort of near twentieth century biologists, and he said that a virus is a piece of bad news wrapped up in protein. On next week's season finale of Into the Zone, time capsules, tardigrades, and perhaps the most important question of all, what is life and what is death? And does that distinction even matter? Into the Zone is produced by Ryder Also and Hunter Braithwaite. Our editor is Julia Barton. Mire La Belle is our exact different producer. Martin Gonzalez is our engineer. Music for this episode composed by Izzio Campo, also known as Student. Our theme song is composed by Sarah K. Peginatti, also known as lip Talk. Special thanks to Jacob Weisberg, Heather Fane, John Schnaz, Maya Kanig, Kylie Migliori, Eric Sandler, Emily Rostick, and Maggie Taylor. Into the Zone is a production of Pushkin Industries. If you enjoyed this episode, please consider letting others know. The best way to do this is by rating us on Apple Podcasts. You could even write a review and for a Spotify playlist of songs that inspired this episode. You can find me on Twitter at at Harry Kunzru. I'm nasty and I look neon, but nevertheless I can't help myself. Harry Kunzru, See you next time.

In 1 playlist(s)

  1. Into the Zone

    9 clip(s)

Into the Zone

Into the Zone is a podcast about opposites, and how borders are never as clear as we think. With a n 
Social links
Follow podcast
Recent clips
Browse 9 clip(s)