Binary Blind: Elegant Disaster v Rolling Stone

There are no longer two ways of looking at relationships, yet there’s neither one. There are no relationships, you could say, but that would be to confuse your  ”relations” and your “ships”: the whole word has a face made up of something dissimilar to mere lights and shadows, skin and shape, and you’ve more than likely seen it twice, you’ve done a double-take: you’ve only got ‘this time last year’, ‘last time’, you’ve only got one place to see that face, placed itself on the number one, the indifferent expression of a personified whole, a contentedness, a moment, momentous and understood, a face peering right back at you as you survey the eyes, the shiver, the eyebrows resting, the mouth moving.

Electric President – Elegant Disaster

I’ve come to this face after pressing Shuffle Songs on my music machine. Electric President comes on the air with Elegant Disaster a song off their follow-up called Violent Blue. This is an album that I listened to only ever in the shadow of their previous self-titled number, a previous album, with songs like Ten Thousand Lines and We Were Never Built To Last and Farewell (the first song I posted on this blog); I listened to it obsessively; an album that ingrained itself in all the gaps and absences of my thought I once failed to have ; I dismissed the follow-up as people tend to dismiss follow-ups; their sound had changed, their rhythm, my sound had changed, my rhythm: the moment had passed and turned away, averted its gaze, drawn no longer upon my constant curiosity, to listen again, to read onwards: the words of meaning, the music of one communicable perspective facing another.

But now, many moments and years and perspectives have passed, I would classify my present attention to the album as a ‘second-listen’; the song that got itself shuffled is trying once more upon my bleak ageing parameters, I am listening, I am hearing, I am reacting well, unlike before, unlike the first-listen.

I am seeing a face and the face is seeing me again. A music blog is somewhat about describing the intricacies of what the song sounds like, or, in this metaphorical world, what the face looks like, but let me leave that for now and continue onto the next number that followed Elegant Disaster, the one that made me think about and believe in all this presently:

For the next song to shuffle itself to me is Rolling Stone by Passenger. I find myself similarly renewing, refreshing, turning over and scrubbing some prior dirt, my fingers, my thoughts: I feverishly passionately reacted to Passenger’s 2014 hit Let Her Go,  it hit me with its superficial something and I felt the irritating pulse of something bad, I heard the song, didn’t really listen to it and fucked it over without much thought: just another generic soundbite of despair and desperation: a system and society I didn’t want to spend my something on, spend my time with. And although that song itself might forever remain fucked over and obscured with a scar like the scars you inherit from some other primitive jolt of accidentally attempting to feel something one can’t feel, do something we don’t do good, some kind of forgetful pain, falling over, falling, spilling, ache, loss, hot water, hot-headed when life fucks you slowly, whatever something, this song, this Passenger on the other hand (and the follow-up album it belongs to) is presently sucking saying soothing me something good. I feel a cry inside, tickling my forearms like a word pleasantly agitating the good nerves: something worth the flow, the life that leaks momentarily out of miscellaneous grooves: the faces peers at me and pours my senses a reassuring connection: an eye contact: an attention span spanning wide like a dim endless horizon.

Passenger – Rolling Stone

My point, my point, is, that; there are no longer two ways of understanding my point, not even one. I have no point, you could say, but that would be to miss the “point” and the “,”.

The “second”-listen and the “first”-listen. The falling falling aching spilling calling out nothing blunt and watery, into my skin, into my head, into things, and the flying, the time-flying, the thoughts flying through to a place, this time last year, that face, flowing, pouring its soul into mine, its meaning into mine. It turns out the first-listen was not so disposable or detestable as I once thought, felt.

Things are worth a second listen. But that second must be quite distinguishable from the first, if that it is to be the case. Maybe it’s like the difference between hearing and listening, between seeing and looking, between sensing and feeling. Or maybe it’s like Krishnamurti’s difference between listening and listening, the difference between seeing and seeing, feeling and feeling.  Maybe it’s like that because those things aren’t really like binaries: they are not mutually exclusive or opposites or juxtapositions, but rather they are different moments of meanings, of perspective, both necessary, both essential, both the same, both identical for all intents and purposes. The first-listen is like the prefix, the second-listen is like the suffix, the monosyllabic uttered thing and the punctuation that makes it. The whole context is a relationship and you could say a music blog is somewhat about describing the intricacies of what a relationship sounds like, or in this metaphorical world, what the face looks like in relation time.

There are no longer two different ways of ending this all in a blog post, there is not even one, but then that would be to confuse the “end” with “ing” and my ings are presently working, these songs, agitating, these songs, tickling, my ings are feeling and feeling something whole-hearted facing me and falling flying over me as I turn one blind eye towards the binaries, I listen again, one blind eye towards the good old reassuring rest.

Donso! Konya! A dog wearing a shirt, talking about bread.

This song is a dog who keeps circles in a room and trots around them and gets your attention and you find yourself interacting with the dog more than the people somewhat. I guess it’s a kind of small dog. The kind of dog that couldn’t pull off the poker/pipe look, nah rather the kind of dog that would look self-confident sporting a Hawaiian shirt and a long drink and a tight conversation about what kind of bread one should buy. I’m a wholegrain myself, but the small dog, yeah the small dog in the Hawaiian shirt would recommend, stifle a suggestion:

“Yes, no, white bread: totally not a problem”

In a small feverish kind of bark before very quietly rearranging the geography of its dog biscuits in the bowel, its fruit slices in the coke-coloured poison, so feverish, so much rearranging that you’d perhaps think that the dog was just making dumb shit up on the spot. That kind of moment that sticks in the head long after any such encounter with the dog and for some whatever reason recurs in your head as you try to concentrate on, I don’t know, like, just trying to get some shit done?!

Just need to get some shit done I guess.

And I’m somewhere, nowhere, everywhere just feeling like these places that the dog always talks about, makes me think about, are just around the corner, rooting for me. Rooting for me as I root for them, getting into the rhythm.

Just need to get into the rhythm I guess.

Donso! Konya!

 

Future Memory Jolts . . . Auriént

Everything’s future’s past’s present, everything’s falling -forward’s backward’s downward’s upward around here, still, constant, shaping. One leans into the other and shouts something in the other  once, twice, a loop, a balling: “- ME!” “WHA?!” “HU- ME!”. Theyahuhug, then it’s a game where the rules are revolving, ahuhhahau, refolding around again then unleashed, leashed at last; everything’s future’s past’s present, everything’s falling around here, still, constant, shaping. One leans into the other and looks upon the river and murmurs a blowing sound in the fresh winding air, a creek, capillaries, estuaries swaying of branching out spindling into everywhere white, grey, a pale blue: “!” ?!” “-!”.

The dancers in the clubs then the dancers by the river, always either.

The other worlds

of

Another World

by Auriént

came to me in an e-mail sent with “big love”
from jeff schofield

a man from TYPE, a PR thing from Brighton

intending to precede this Auriént above that will be “on February 23rd on van Drumpt” [an album in June p.s.]

where van Drumpt is a record label in Stockholm, Sweden: their logo and logo is a cloud above that speaks to me and helped me talk back.

oh god that was a serious ungloop, somewhere real, the introduction, then struck up once more into the slot of a stream of a scroll one-way into the meta-data of a group of people doing similar things, promoted to post-hood, uploaded to the spongey canvas of an idea unraveled, screen-shot, music

toward some point where my right ear slowly nears to nears to some so murmurs -jolt

Trick! Heels hooked onto the same space, as the thoughts delineate … joy …

-

Cool It

(P) ower (I) s push through blur, when my eyebrows keel upwards
Pain for what pain is: a chemically reactive porblemtaic conceived within a scribbly circling of footsteps in a same-place
Heads belonging toward the skye
And the dilly-dally  (DR) eaming, periodically, paragraphically, routinely – a monologue clung onto with wispy hairs on their dead-ends
Whispered words are the currency of one head falling down upon soft surface
A moment where the vacuum ceases to whir, green man! Run over again; the tyre marks the all-over-the-place
Dispersed disappeared approval, like the shadow of a signal on endless waves
Fingernails carving caution into sacred tarmac whilst greyish melted seeps through banished skin

Right on, got with it

Head straight

The doubts fall down on a cardboard wound
A short-circuit is what the long-lost isn’t

Got the picture
Framed my daily routine dreams on a wall and called them out
The doubts faded in, the fidget of a thought that saw its feed

Now moving, structure of a structure, air-conditioning on, bright signals on the dashboard
Headlights dim through
Circled soles, hitch’d, noses, hair flying, undrafting powers on the interscape

Take it down a notch and organise the indicated organs organising, count the lucky downbeats of a brain contained, controlled
Entangled legs of the own, alonether, this: some ongoingness and becomingness: flourishing cheeks expressed

Driving into the sleeping fields, the ever-terrains, the night’s'oft’ands

nothing “-in-the-stars”

My laptop’s levelling again
My homeostasis, feigning again

Something framed worked and working

All another song, another busied ear, a mind-throb, all thing’d “-in-our-hearts”

To the sound of a chronology cascading into timeless epics, clean-cut-out distorted clarity, intense of -ancholy, molten movements made graspable for the reactive pulses of clicks and submissions – nothing more

good than this there people-artifact called She So Rad, where the vocals are rounded between songs, between different people; an album to be released this 2015-time, and the window above, name your price on Bandcamp – here.

eyelids on it
don’t lose it

 

Frosted Screen

Bwa, this one riddles the silence,

therapeutic doses,

makes the moon outside make a little more sense, brings it all a bit more together, the concept, the cloud, and the curtains

some recurring theme. a good night . pictured

EXAMS

Once I was told we like bass frequencies, bass drums, because they remind us of heartbeats. One for the road – thud

And I don’t know if it’s subjective, but this oscillation arpeggiation reminds me of winter life, that ol’ winter life, when cold comes upon my forehead so blankly, a thud, the oil-lamp inside jiggles a little and creates helpful patterns for itself: when the days end early and it finds its routine, find its reflection – light’s hazy memory in its proper peaceful place, flickering.

The stop/start towards the cloud end, the anti-outro, that’s how I know

DAY AFTER TOMORROW.

Follow the links and forwards -

Good

Epilogue

This is a musician who recorded music in her hay-day and then to be later released by her son when he discovered it . 2 . 0 . 0 . 6 … a future world of time.
Her album Colour Green has filled the space with steady.

And here’s a cover. Clear sky.

George