If you come to ponder it and I do all the time nowadays, the show, as in the prearranged performance of music at a time and location for an audience is a strange creature. Most of the time it lives a short life, conceived a few months before the date of its execution. Its parents are most often two people who have never met each other or even if they have met live thousands of miles away. There are lots of considerations when a couple, most often an artist and a promoter get together to make a show. A show like any young lifeform needs many things, a home or venue, attention in the form of promotion, and a whole bunch of bottles, formula, and toys (speakers, mixers, mics, equipment etc....)
The gestation period of this baby is fragile, it is conceived as a concept so the growing show is very fragile. Almost anything, bad weather, lack of parental support, a family fight, can render it stillborn, an idea that never lived. But with careful nurturing and a lot of parental involvement the show can start to grow in the womb of possibility until the day that it is ready to be birthed. This is not a human birth cycle in that the show is fetus of the mind, it becomes corporal for one day.In its day lifespan all of its parents will meet in one place often far far away from where it was created and then commit the cruel but natural act of killing the show, of destroying it, of chopping it up, of murdering that show in front of an audience of many wishers well. So by two am the next morning of its creation the show dies its violent death on the first day of its life. This must be, it is the only way. But the show lives on in memory. It is a literal image fixed in the minds of its parents and those who celebrated its brief life. It is ironic that the harder a show is killed and the more people witnessed this young being's death, the higher the odds it will begin a process best described as alchemic reincarnation through collective osmosis. In this way the show is reborn in the mind of others, maybe the same parents, maybe new ones and if given the right supply of love and logistical support it may grow again the mind's womb to be reborn and killed to give birth to even more immortal moments. Such is the life force of our culture.
I, ancient mother turtle have many children growing in the deep ether. Some have vestigal ganglia and flipper arms, ever growing into new limbs as the protplasmic flesh hardens and becomes of the physical world. Others are malformed and dying silent, horrid deaths, lungs soaked in liquid neglect, unfed, unknown. SOme were never created, just shots of RNA coded to hope that float through space and conscious memory until their ability to swim dampens and they are eaten by the acid composition of reality. Each day when I awake I go to my computer (as essential a part in the creation of the modern show as natal care is in the creation of the modern baby) and try to ascertain the health of my yet unborn shows. This requires communication with the parents and other people key to its successful birth. .There is much discussion of money. Each parent needs some resources to create more lifeforms and the supply of such resources are finite. Hence many shows die ugly deaths under rusty scalpels as alliances between two parents who professed mutual love of common culture and respect of one another collapse under the weight of life's more mundane burdens. The trash can of my email is littered with rotted fetuses of possibility whose gestation periods were ended with little fanfare and much agony. There are even some who seem to delight in conceiving these shows and then aborting them only to repeat the process with new parties. Nothing saddens me more than when a little life, something created in love is snuffed out with a swift stomach kick or left in dirty blankets wedged into a sewer aperture in pouring rain. This is cruelty of unimaginable proportions. I have been on both sides of parenting a happy and successful show. i have been the creator and the murderer. Much to my shame I have also been the abortionist, although this has been but a few times out the hundreds of shows I have raised to fruition. These little events are born to die but they must die in front of an audience, at a climax, a crescendo of all that drew us together so that we may come together again at a new place, a new date. To all of those who seek to abort my shows: for shame. It is a life you attempt to extinguish, one that is part of me and those who come to watch ii, along with those other performers. I call to promoters around the world to take responsibility for what you create. In the human arena I am one hundred percent pro choice. But when it comes to a show abortion is murder.

Daniel Muessig, floating in the ether checking on little embyronic sacs of luminous eternity