The Former Generations of Structure

by Qebo

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Part 1 07:46 video
Part 2 06:18 video
Part 3 05:48 video
Part 4 09:50 video
Part 5 04:24
Part 6 10:34
Part 7 07:49 video
Part 8 06:31


She dances, low slung hips churning this way and that, as hypnotic as water sucking filth down a drain. She rides an invisible horse, feeling its motions as it makes its way across barren land and into a sunset I can only describe as technicolor. Slinking this way and back that, occasional spasms of the flesh and my hands clutch denim to contain myself in my self-made captivity. Turns back to look at me amongst a landscape of crushed teeth in neon orange, jagged cracks splitting the earth, dust settling. Hair swirls, black against the turquoise sky. Eyes piercing, yellows and pinks rushing from her eyes, streaming down her face, running across bare flesh.

At night, we stargaze. It is absolutely black, the stars animated, bouncing this way and that as we’re summoned into sleepy sleeplessness by orchestral organisms that hum and vibrate the ground beneath us, shifting sand, dark, but illuminated as it runs through our fingers. Grain after grain shaking and rising and her hair standing on end into the air as we hit highs punctuated by distant chimes from a far off porch illuminated by a lime green bulb. A grandmother’s face glowing in desert nothingness.

She whispers into my ears, cold from moonlight, but I can’t hear her. I only feel. I feel coldness and lost. I feel lost. I feel lost. I feel lost. I myself am not lost, but something is gone. Her face grows red. Her eyes grow grey like steel and I grasp at frigid wrists and ankles and tear at hair brittle and broken and I lean back and the stars taunt and her hair fills my hands and her laugh turns to tin.

She seizes up, collapses, seizes. Weeps pink. Weeps all the colors of her that I found so appealing and they shatter into nothing, flaking from her face. Flaking and falling and illuminating the black sand and I’m gripping hair and gripping metal and gripping hair and gripping metal.

As the pink sun greets us. Her body continues to seize and I continue to scream into a vacuum. No one hears me. The grandmother on the porch continues on her porch. The sand vibrates. The light hates me; my skin burns and curls from my flesh. She sits up, finally, calmly and there is soothing somewhere in this moment. She looks deep into my eyes, her own an electric blue now and she smiles and her smile grows erratic and twitches and glitches and stills and glitches back once more as her hands dance towards her face and she pulls back her flesh to show me her wires.

Formed in the late 90s by Alex Retsis and George Aggelides, Qebo explore electronic music by combining organic elements, synthetic rhythms and glitchy sound design into structured fragments of information. Qebo’s journey into sound is currently being continued by Alex Retsis.

“Qebo- The Former Generations of Structure” will process you, chew you up and spit you out in a series of sequences that you may or may not comprehend.

~ words by Sophia Warren


released March 7, 2016

Parts 1, 5, 6, 8 by Alex Retsis
Parts 2, 3, 4, 7 by Alex Retsis & George Aggelides

Written & produced by QEBO in Athens, Greece. Mastered by Alex Retsis. Cover design by ミスター五

qebo website >


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Detroit Underground (est. 1997) is a multidisciplinary arts collective. Functioning primarily as a record label dedicated to electronic based experimental music and video installation.

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