supersonic 2008: sunday (a snapshot in three parts)
the damp cloy of too much whateveritiwas spreads so-un-sun-like across the murky puddle of morning. it seems i’ve been misled. i woke in your dress with a gun to my head. the grim realisation that i have no black or gay friends. i’m struggling for names, seeing shapes when you talk. i don’t need a pulse, just something to quench this thirst, your hand and gravity to guide me.
einstellung: his predisposition to making the same mistakes twice. this is how he wakes each morning. with cruel thumps and tantrum thuds. with six string strammash and a deathbed scene. a misery’s delight. nobody speaks for fear of hearing something. pre-menstrual. post 9-11. it’s not what it is but what it could’ve been. the sunlight don’t work. the sense of space is broke. the grey crunch of buildings hangs over everything like funeral morning with the unerring consistency of porridge. the glare? it’s atonal. he needs something more.
max tundra: frenetic light through murk and the alphabetised joy of a bedroom timberlake. the subtle nuances of tiny man offending blokes in black tee’s. like the french and astrophysics, tearing planets apart with a wry grin. there’s only one way to deal with this: a shaky piano solo by rick wakeman. he’s never played with gloves or a foreigners fear of the cold. it was never unpleasant, the smiles and light and the need for love to warm us all. a glorious testament to the cleansing redeemer of fun. breaking in the sun with pop prog sugar techno glitch. breaking in our day with love and laughter and a cheeky goddam line or two. of words you understand. of words.
errors: it’s the guy from mono, unsettling with no hat on, doing a mogwai you can dance to. this shit? this shit came from the missus. deserving better of this descriptive missive? yes. but. reductionist to the point of pure fucking clarity. it’s not something but it is like whatever. whatever it is is like something synthy with guitars and beats. it’s not something live unlike what the record is but more so. with oomph. from home.
earth: in the thrall of the chord. the unfolding, unfurling, chord progression like tectonic plates shifting. older, more expansive than comprehension. the primitive and elemental. the gloriously widescreen. the glacially paced. the repetition, the death-rattle slowness, ponderous and portentious. the skullshuddering almost-distortion. the beautifully sparse; skeletal; minimalist. nearly flesh on brittle bones. the resonant, reverberant, immersive. the feeling of walking underwater, cymbal splashes like ocean tides. the relentless electric march into some decaying american ghost town. teetering inertia, forever. precarious stagger along brinks, waiting baited-breath for whatever comes next. that death-row anticipation. that dread of falling, of collapse. rewarding patience. no rush, no race, no finish. it’s zen. just there. mesmeric.
rise to glory:
fucked up: glorious. tumescent. to the point.
merzbow / keiji haino (kikuri) : a senseless trigger twitch in brain function and migraine violence flares intense like some instant cancer shriek. disorientation white hot and absolute, sets teeth on edge. an irregular heartbeat dream of piece by piece taking self apart. ripping from roots, and gouge and snap and break. claw skin open stomach insides (out). (no) pain terror numb. curiosity is a room filled with people. the applause is awakening and ruin.
gravetemple: light dims with cold inutterable logic. the reverberation klang around disused arches and broken down factories and the insistance on crushing and enevloping specks and atoms and bones. no-one is in love. everyone has more tumours than fingers. clinging to kittens and bottles and god. there’s coffins small enough to stand on insects. i opened the door as the sky broke and found a way out. the carrion crows circlecirclecircle. the monochrome hell buildsandbuildsandbuilds. inside is fear and confusion. outside there’s nothing. everything else is small, uncomplicated. creaks and fear spidery in throat. the a.m. fear a wet shower curtain of abandonment. the (un)holy maw widens slowly ungulfing all. it’s listening to the void long enough and the void listens back. i cried a little, held your hand, listened to the world fall.
jjj:
in the end we’re in the clouds. like always. like never.
18 July 2008 at 10:07 am
This makes me wish I was there, but only if I could have been there inside your head.
18 July 2008 at 10:16 am
[...] Cows Are Just Food (Friday, Saturday, Sunday) [...]
20 July 2008 at 9:58 am
hah. you would’ve loved it inside or outside of my addled brain. it’s kind of how i imagined a festival should be. the food was exceptional. the art enthralling. the music exquisite. and i got a copy of the sbhotm weekend at burnies 7″ which i had not unreasonably assumed would have sold out everywhere. i was wrong. you can get it everywhere still.