music i saw, video

okishima island tourist association: 13th note: glasgow

there’s a cautious sneaking in. a crackle, a fizz, all dainty, like tightly wound lynch / splet frottage. gentle tendrils snaking out; fingers in sweaty hellcellar nooks and crannies. grains and waves. twitchy. awaiting…

there’s a spasm. an untranquil sea.

a strobe blinks with pornographic metronomic precision.

bang bang fucking bang.

hard, like it’s a pose. veiled behind a hundred year old beard of bees. dressed baader-meinhof, dressed big bossman. take off those goddam glasses, show us the eyes behind the mirrors, those red amphetamine sunsets blazing. take of that skin let me plunge fingertips into mush and mulch. i can’t see you in all this bastard chiaroscuro…

an exercise in dichotomy. activity / inactivity : light / dark : noise / quiet : dysphoria / euphoria : restrain / release : masculine / feminine

lea cummings’ kylie minoise (dis)guise always felt like a snickering needle, a puncturing puerile gabba-ish/gibberish cartooning of noises worst excess. this feels like a control exercise. the border guard posturing a hall of mirrors goof on all that vatican shadow military seriousness that’s gripped dominic fernow’s bastard techno thrusts.

bang bang fucking bang.

it never feels like something real…

blank stares.

sounds like charred plastic, like burnt out fusebox. black metal miasma that lumbers from speaker. kaleidoscopic textures and tone. vacant static exhilaration. an immersion in white noise, drowning not waving. discord building, bookended by re(trans)gression.

somewhere between ritual fumbling and surgical precision. a torch forms a luminous / crepuscular muffled skree. this is where electricity pupates, mutates.

…until it is something real

an avalanche of swollen tongues, torn throats. an exultant shriek to/at/for something.

it’s a contagion, i feel like catching, howling sober at the moon. it’s a frenzied malaise, fever tics, gleeful in its discontent.

it’s where whatever this is flares, hot and sharp, and dies.

being in darkness and confusion is interesting to me. but behind it you can rise out of that and see things the way the really are. that there is some sort of truth to the whole thing, if you could just get to that point where you could see it, and live it, and feel it. in the meantime there’s suffering and darkness and confusion and absurdities, and it’s people kind of going in circles. it’s fantastic. it’s like a strange carnival: it’s a lot of fun, but it’s a lot of pain.

kovorox sound / grimalkin555

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music i listen to, video

erstlaub: marconi’s shipwreck (broken20)

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there are quiet places also in the mind, he said meditatively. but we build bandstands and factories on them. deliberately – to put a stop to the quietness. …all the thoughts, all the preoccupations in my head – round and round, continually … what’s it for? what’s it all for? to put an end to the quiet, to break it up and disperse it, to pretend at any cost that it isn’t there.  

so said old aldous huxley.

marconi’s shipwreck is i guess about this creation of noise (and all the connotations and derivations of that particular noun), this distraction from, this subsumation of, quiet, of reflection, of connection. a disorienting seventy-odd minutes of aural fog that simultaneously represents and despises this confusion, that attempts to dissect the overloaded clamour of modern life, the unthinkingness of much of the relentless hum and chatter that swamps ears and eyes and mind.  

marconi’s radiowaves: aetheric waves. i dig the poetry of that. part science / part space / part spiritual. same vibes here. waves that don’t die, but count down; an inexorable half-life, on the longest timeline. eventually all that’s left is a whispered core, a ghost-truth.

it’s a logical visual / audio synchrony. both a reflection of one other.  

tune your television to any channel it doesn’t receive and about one percent of the dancing static you see is accounted for by this ancient remnant of the big bang.

said old bill bryson. 

the film itself is a mirror held up to a mirror. an ouroboros of digital information; ever expanding, dying, consuming itself. recursive feedback loops (to pinch a phrase).

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music i listen to, video

battery face: addams family values (dirty beard / electropapknit)

 images (1)vocals are buried. angles skewed. rhythm a-clatters. the post-albini blooze… glasgow used to do a lotta this. then it didn’t. now, once in a while. gets right to the point. twenty and a bit minutes later, it’s gone, all sweaty and breathless. what is this, sst? kinda more am rep or touch n go. buncha fellas from copy haho, deathpodal, pvh transcend their day jobs and gob out this little beauty, slick like sperm on gold tooth… these nine songs, they’re haikus; they’re tanka; they’re haiga. it’s a process of elimination. never using two words when one will do. to say in ten sentences what other men say in whole books. brevity, as dorothy parker said, is the soul of lingerie. parker that leftwing poet; that drunk wiseacre; that caustic blacklisted suicide. what can’t be said in three minutes ain’t worth saying. yeah? fuck. that. what can’t be said in less than a minute ain’t worth saying. short and goddam sweet. like shots of strega. small and beautifully formed. like porno midgets. listen. they jam econo. too clever to be stupid. too ugly to be pop. like the melvins sugar-coating helps the dissonance go down. lurches along like fuzzy logorrhoea, stumble-stops into a hammered waltz on dead is a trick, afore reeling around and pitching a skinny fist towards yr lughole once again.

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music i listen to

hallock hill: the union / a hem of evening (mie)

theunioni seem to gravitate towards certain kinds of records (or certain kinds of records gravitate towards me…) at particular points. not so much label or genre, but more a convergence of ideas, where these intuitive concentric circles of what i transmit and what i consume overlap. there’s a fair bit of ephemeral intersecting (and intersecting ephemera) with this and a whole bunch of recent listens, particularly the ix tab album. not sonically – they’re very different sounds – but thematically: like they’re ripe with ghosts and land and memory.

i’ve described them as stories or folk tales, not in the sense of words or narrative, but as concepts passed on, renewing, reviving, warming the blood of old things. illustrations maybe. a montage of people and places, painted with strings. pointillist constructions from layered notes. a synesthesia of sorts: colours, images, faded pages from books, music, conversations, faces.

not as simple as creating, but also representing the abstract, the personal; a becoming of sorts. music as channelling. an osmosis that takes place for musician as much as listener. same things i dig about richard skelton. improvisations that bring up things from the subconscious. songs encoded, an encrypted mythology of who’s where’s why’s and what’s, as i almost described bregnut. somewhere between pareidolia and psychogeography. same applies here.

it’s all semi-unknowable but you can get a sense of it all. bleached-out polaroids transmitted, malleable, moulded. the past/present/future in one moment.

dawn carriage: first light. or no light at all. hazy trees across the street and a power pole. its transformer dangling. slow movements of what. no one is thinking. sloped ceiling skews the room. or the room skews the ceiling. distant water dripping in the kitchen sink. unfixed. arm sounds. floorboard sounds. intervals. a filtered truck passing down the street. not awake but awake. Continue reading

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music i listen to

production unit: icu tracks (broken20)

notes: skeletal, bare-boned techno. machine noise. human noise. hospital noise. a metaphoric inexorableness to the tracks, that falls apart, that sputters to a stop. feels like it’s contained, feels like mitosis. a heart murmurs… the perc mix is relentless. c.p.r at one hundred bpm. carpenter’s halloween as ambient/gabba. yamashiro’s akira soundtrack as 8-bit gamelan. horror aesthetics. a personal apocalypse. dubby claustrophobia. narrowing tunnels into a kindof zen opening. light/motes filtering through. an acceptance. we are all rhythms; inescapable, bloody, jaunty. so it goes…

broken20

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