birchville cat motel: sprang a great stallion whose first leap sparked the celestial star (don’t fuck with magic)

3562562had this dream a while back. i glanced a snatched mirror glimpse of something, something i didn’t understand, couldn’t grasp; something simple yet complex, essentially vast and meaninglessly small, recognisable yet utterly other. it caught me capriciously with clutching damp fingers round throat, wrung the breath like ragwater from my tar-browned lungs and i realised, in that one monotonous fleeting(eternal) second that everything, evveerryytthhiinng, the word vibrating, a dreaded om, is hideously inconsequential, that everything i’m aware of, blank-eyed and knowing: is. just. nonsense. a pointless construct. a plastic skeleton. a feeling, simultaneous, of narcotic glee and feverish fucked gloom.

and during this satorial blip in such a timeless timeline i knew, knew why people cling to something, anything, be it kittens or bottles or gods. and while the moment passed, a blinked epoch peckpeckpecked at by fields of wetbeaked crows, that wheezing pneuma informed, huffs around my skull, flowering, seeding, blossoming…

similar gorgeous existential reverie that campbell kneale invokes in me. inducing a kindof emotional and physical annihilation through what is (and don’t misunderstand me) an almost religious understanding of overwhelming sound. a solitary om. beautiful, building, layer upon layer of colour and tone like some monomaniacal olivier messiaen composition. synaesthesia, symmetry, repetition. an expression of wonder, of joy, of incomprehensible creation. it’s all in the title for fucksake. god, i s’pose, expressed in a personal polytheism. an architect. a destroyer.

maybe it all comes from that new zealand psychogeography…

it starts. and swallows you. everything, simultaneous. noise like sunbitten bliss. images, licking lightly caterpillar-tongued on retina, images and images, revelatory; i see sky and earth, stars and soil, concrete and fire. hearts breaking, bones setting. insect wings. the lonely suicide’s creaking rope. i see love, smothering and destroying. i see the sad orgasm of hate and the slow rust of machines. i see the bruised ecstasy at the heart of it all. a crushing rapture. an expanse of tone and melody that doesn’t so much unfold as envelope. like drowning. like floating. a landscape or a sea.

inexorable hallucinogenic slowness, reducing each shimmering note to it’s molten core. each chord progression seems huge, like it’s ascending, for a minute, for a day. a melody, forming, forever. and when the drums come in, snaps of sidereal rhythm buried deep, and the bright cacophony of strings stammer through the wash you think jesus it’s gonna buckle under it’s own weight…

nope. it builds and flares and transfigured, dies.

the comforting certainty of futility. see how all all all is same same same. everything is nothing. minimal. maximal. liminal. this record, a forty minute intimation/intonation that abandonment and transcendence are one. life isn’t circular or linear. something i read once that offers a gentle reminder of what it is to be, briefly: from my rotting body, flowers shall grow and i am in them and that is eternity.

don’t fuck with magic

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5 thoughts on “birchville cat motel: sprang a great stallion whose first leap sparked the celestial star (don’t fuck with magic)

  1. Hey! I stumbled upon this blog looking for a place from where I can buy this album? Would you happen to know where I can get a copy of it?

  2. Thanks for the help. I ordered a copy from Aquarius, but they currently are out of stock; and they told me that I may have to wait about a month or so before new copies are sent in from New Zealand. I eventually may just have to resort to personally messaging Campbell to ask for a personal print. By the way, you wrote a great review–and hopefully Campbell will print more copies when he realizes how much people enjoy/want to get a chance to enjoy the record.

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