keep your voice out of my head because

I think I’ll have to edit this post in a few days, or maybe tomorrow. Everything’s gotten dangerous and your decisions are like suicides of people like thoughts you don’t have anymore. And the guy holding the test tube looked like he was going to drop the test tube. The test tube was a product of HHHH where H stands for Hegel because you’re having those thoughts again, you start writing dreams into your arms in your dreams, you stop writing reviews, you’re 13 again, you’re imaginary again. Of course the test tube got dropped; it’s Wednesday, it’s Wednesday, it’s Wednesday, it’s not Wednesday. The guy did it, dropped it, on purpose because he forgot how to forget the fact he wants to fuck you and all your thoughts into a plateau upon which he can sleep. ON PURPOSE BECAUSE the guy gave you headaches on purpose because you gave him your money on purpose and because those pieces of paper are so intrinsic to your headaches, those numbers are so intrinsic to your headaches, those nightmares you keep on having, oh no wait you just logged on so it’s okay -

and you’re reading so it’s okay
schizophrenia so it’s okay
it’s a blog so it’s okay

Anything to keep your voice out of my head, anything to get anyone who thought they were important more engaged and more logged into the local scene whereby terrorists of the terrifyingly possible future explosions are just people who paranoid people think are paranoid.

WEDNESDAY WEDNESDAY WEDNESDAY

KEEP YOUR VOICE OUT OF MY HEAD

just some lyrics from the above; reasons to commit yourself to reasons to keep thinking about how you’re still falling

February 14th 2016

Love!

“FUTURE BASS MUSIC”

The unyielding journey where the internet and the music click: I Guess This Must Be Love. The singing sliced into the heart of the thing moulds around your in inside and about your headache like Moodymann‘s Why Do U Feel, similarly melancholily mashed up and appreciable: just the required level of decay in the important bits: headache bounced out of your head like words out of time like feelings out of thoughts: sense the fresh and you’ll be good, you can trust me on this one.

If this song is the “New track up…” as advertised to me via Clift N Anthony (designed the artwork) via the original advertiser, Julian Edwards (who is probably the artist bastiengoat), then we take it that the “track” is you, me, immanently, and we are the ones who are now finding ourselves, “up”.

If this song’s supposed to vicariously symbolise us now then I can recommend this is the time to prick your ears up like you’ve never pricked your ears up before to everything that resonates with your gravity to the good times… The good times where your friends were calling it trap music
and you’re there on the relevant event page and the artist is summarised, typed up as “FUTURE BASS MUSIC”

you’re reminded disconnectedly of both conjuncts in a kind of falling feeling; must be the way the rhythm has no rhythm and you’re thinking like some philosopher with his hand pointing into the imagined person’s face and you’re gawping the expression “that’s true!”, you’re too busy gawping to say it out loud

And you find yourself between words and time, between thoughts and feelings, between headache and head? I Guess This Must Be Love …is where it goes click. It’s definitely to some extent because of the artwork and the keyboard that normalises an image of naked world that seems to mean something to everyone the more they grow tired of the music they listen to.

yo

 

Bill Baird – Earth Into Aether

I’ve just found and am currently typing on my laptop which hasn’t been opened for about 3 years. It is a rather strange feeling actually, even just to discover that the thing still works. After remembering my password with the hint: “The usual” on the 6th time of asking I watched the thing walk back into life, I’d forgotten what my background was and that my shortcuts included Age Of Empires, a blueprint for a poorly executed hot tub project back in 2010 and multiple folders filled with ancient and half-forgotten blog paraphernalia. For me this laptop has pretty much been the only tangible element of A Pocket Full Of Seeds I’ve ever had. It has been years since I’ve posted and just as long since I’ve typed on this keyboard and now I keep missing keys and having to delete huge banks of gibberish.

I remember as youth my dad would occasionally work at his laptop at the kitchen table as my brother, sister and I all did homework. I wouldn’t be able to see what he was typing but was always amazed at how fast he could type. Also after typing frenetically for a few minutes he would then just hold down the delete button and start again several times, looking to rephrase or to approach something from a different line. I would love to know what precise changes he was making, put them all together, attempt to intellectualise them and create theories about my dad and the kind of guy he is. Things like this, things like desktop backgrounds, passwords and forgotten plans give us insight despite, or indeed because of, their apparent triviality. They can catch our curiosity and push us to imagine, hypothesise and look for more.  Looking back on them now, having been long forgotten, feelings of nostalagia mix with those of surprise as we realise just how much or how little has changed. Priorities change, phases pass through and we progress through life but the evidence of the path we have taken can remain for long time after.

And so I wonder how Bill Baird feels about this album. Earth Into Aether is the culmination of an extraordinary time spent making music. Having tasted life on a major label and promptly left with a grimmace on his face Bill has largely been working with and for his own steam. Playing, recording, screen printing, distributing and inventing all the while he gently washes onto our shores with this record in hand. Standing in a rowboat with an improvised umbrella roof which doubles up as a paddle/ice crushing machine. Stately, extraordinary, baffling, beautiful and perfectly according to plan B.

The spectrum of the mood, genre and humour on this record and the quality of execution is most lasting impression of mine after listening to this. Each side, and almost each track, feels like a snippet of what could be an entire albums worth of conceptual direction. Every time the albums shifts and morphs you get a sense that the context changes with it. The lyrical tone of Side A, with deadpan song titles, almost rolling eyes at our lives of social insecurity and trivial concerns, coupled with Freewheelin’-esque finger picking and homemade production gently builds and sets up Side B which is where ones curiosity really starts to catch. I want to know if the piano work on Late Night Dawning was something that just appeared from an improvised instinct at the time of writing or whether there is an album of that kind of magic swirling in the wake of Bills rowboat. Or the intro to Spring Break Of The Soul. The intro to that song sprawls over and eclipses anything else I’ve heard this year. Where the fuck was Bill when he wrote that? How long has that been in his mind or on someones hard drive before I heard it?

The progression continues and it’s as if Bill knows he has us snared, as if he can hear through my speakers the questions being asked aloud and incoherently. On Mans Heart Complaint and Go To Mexico the piano becomes a darker, more brooding instrument and vocals echo and loop over through increasingly distant production. And, while the vocals never truly return to earth, the contrast couldn’t be starker between these 2 tracks and their successors, Your Dark Sunglasses… and Captain Brain, which call upon catchy organ hooks, rock n roll drums, Tony Iommi style guitar riffs and anything else it can get hold of to make you completely rethink what on earth it is you’re listening to. Captain Brain in particular really pushes you before Skull Castle Decorator chases you off the edge 99% sure that the bungee rope is tied securely.

But from where there was darkness and anxiety and protracted looped lyrical refrains comes something new. Strings, orchestration, live applause, instrumentals, space, silence, rest.  By the end of side C you find you’ve been wound tightly around insistent beats and layered vocals without realising it. That is until Side D starts. Initially hinting at the tension that came before it, then thawing and finally breaking it with the applause that follows the stunning tones of both Silence and Surfing, soothing but never simplified. By the time we get to the album closers of Sonnerie’s De la Rose+Croix and Dreams Of Sandy the sense of calm has been not only restored but it’s been extended to a sense of resolution and almost exhaustion as if suddenly realising just how much ground has been covered. It’s a sensation similar to suddenly realising that the film you’re watching is nearly at its end and that this is the final scene and very shortly the house lights will come up and the credits will roll. But you wont leave you’re seat, instead you wait and sit through the reams of names and job titles, allowing yourself time and space to think and for those thoughts and sensations to continue resonating. But after 3 instrumental tracks Bill’s voice walks back into life on my favourite song on the album to tell you very sincerely he is “going home” before allowing the record to button itself to a close.

After listening to this record I couldn’t begin to pinpoint Bill as an artist. There is such a wealth of detail and diversity of songwriting on here, the only consistent elements seem to be a delight in extending and surprising your expectations as well as a wry smile or an edge of tongue in cheek humour. And with so many facets to put forward, each one executed perfectly and slotted together into one body of work, it is impossible to comprehend or even guess at the path taken to reach each one. And it is that sense of listening to an enigma at work which is so utterly compelling.

Thanks for reading and listening

marcus

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Bye-bye, 2010-2015

We’ve come a while, so far that it’s more than a few mountains and trains to recollect the reality of what we have covered and how we have covered it. However, as co-author of this music blog, I am readily available to say with all my conviction and dedication the following:

Here’s something to say that you’ve found here a platform and I don’t know if you feel like you know me but I feel like I know you well enough to put myself out there with these words to say the following:

Here’s something to say that you’ve found here a platform and I don’t know if you feel like you know me but I feel like I know you well enough to put myself out there with these words to say the following:

Here’s something to say that you’ve found here a platform and I don’t know if you feel like you know me but I feel like I know you well enough to put myself out there with these words to say the following:

And so I want to demonstrate through the implication of a trance-like yet logical repetition, to you but not to mention to myself, a few infinitely regressive horizons of one perpetual and apathetic rhythm of meaninglessness and direction that we perhaps had a little bit forgotten on the shadow of our peripheral vision. It’s an evasive thing to find a real resonance in an actual artefact at the time of writing. By artefact I want to mean all things that are things  that are related in a way to the artificial magnificence of mankind. By artefact at the time of writing, my mind is wandering around the confines and predictable metadata of this blog post, to the e-mails that music fanatics exchange, that creatives receive, to the mp3 and your library of mp3s in all its teenage/youth/growing-up spiritual significance, to the ever-surviving innovations like a new album, a release, a music video, an upload in all its arbitrarily linear-feeling and loading-bar pride. It’s difficult to find that attention-span, that duration; that aesthetic, that style; that mood, that genre; that resonance, that popularity, that pleasure, that commitment; that knowledge, that factually-speaking conviction that the artefact somehow belongs to the ritualistic regularity of your time-lined experience of life; that you, for instance, really like the newest album called something something by so and so, and that’s how it is, that’s how it will be, forever; you like the song, the album, the artist, etc.

Why?

Because the organic connection…
That’s right you hipster-weary friendly reader of these words; the organic connection between you and the origins of all the artefacts that you receive in and as your experience has inflicted upon itself a tendency to be completely blown out of the water and lofted into the superficial heights of an over-thought domain, that saturated indeterminate mess in which all manner of completely unrelated-seeming music is thrown at each other, like cascading, pressed against your eyes and pervasively, indeterminately; you scroll down the page and suddenly you are lead to the clear recognition that music has completely spilled out of itself into something that is almost impossible to really properly communicate efficiently and factually about. It’s a post-modern perspective, and even the post-modern perspective is seemingly folding in on itself, you start failing to trust the obliviously post-modernistic output that you originally once trusted. Essentially all everything gets mediated to you and it gets mediated into such arbitrary stylistic superficialities like, for instance, how a paragraph ends rather than what the paragraph contained or how the paragraph progressed: you get distracted by something you’re not really sure you truthfully wanted to be distracted by.

The organic connection that we took for granted is wholly in motion, pervasively, but evasively: I no longer even find the time to regularly check Pitchfork, the blogosphere has predominantly misplaced the integrity and reliability that laid the foundations of its identity as something relevant, something to be taken seriously, analytically, truthfully; a body that would forever demonstrate the direction of man’s artificial magnificence. Everything and every adjective about everything inevitably grows stale, not because they were over-used but because their relativity and their establishment is questionable: genre-names like techno, trashcore, chillout, synth pop, dark house, dubstep have all gained a certain cheesy comedy about them, up-and-coming, original, catchy; examples of descriptions that have long grown to lack their intended poignancy (what does that really mean? what an earth am I really expecting?), so are the more worryingly fundamental adjectives like, [and this is insane], exciting, good, interesting, awesome, lovely. These words sound the hollowness of emptied shells: their substance diminished insofar as their context is one in which ignition is suffocated, resonance is stifled, consensus is pulverised, the listener’s spirit, the artist’s spirit, the artefact’s spirit; all isolated and neglected: “the music world” is referenced to optimistically, hopefully, as if there really is a construction somewhere that centralises the perception of an average “music-lover”.

I never want to write anything so obvious as the above, ever again. That’s in the same way I would like to formally recognise that my place on the ship that readily voyaged through, through the music world of indeterminate links and hyper-active PR, that place has been vacated.

I never want to conflate and convolute upon the meaninglessness of media in the context of music, ever again. I want to make sense again. I want to make organic connection again, have I, have you ever really changed in your yearnings? Can we recognise our longings for what they are? Something that is heavily juxtaposed to the glory days of our origins and of our experiences in which all of our artefacts made sense? Where Mp3s were obviously our best friends, where blogged blog-rolls were gloriously exposed communities of commonly felt thrill, excitement, that aforementioned hyper-activity, first listens, where the newness of artists and songs and albums was like a new life and a new life of something we had the deep-down feeling we would be very caring of, dedicated, fulfilled.

I want to never conflate or trivialise the integrity of my demand for love and for love through the art of music, the music of art, the rhythm in which things make sense to me in a very shamelessly existential way:

I want to make organic connection again. I don’t want to upload anything else into this context, to this place where I = the person who wrote the words that you are reading: I think we know each other well enough right now.

And so, I admit, we all admit that we’re missing something right now. Something fails us, perhaps we fail ourselves. Something still excites us, something still leads us on in an equilibrium of fear and trust, anxiety and reassurance, knowledge and confusion, sound and silence, thoughts and feelings, paradoxes and lines, reading and understanding, durable and resonant. Its an admission like the admission that all the music that gets its arse stuffed up and established fails to embrace me anymore, fails to fulfil me anymore, fails to excite me anymore, fails to move me anymore; I’m not sure I can believe in music anymore, I’m not sure I like music anymore.

You know what I mean, because…

Of course, that cannot be the end of the story.

And certainly not the end of music’s story and the stories we tell about music.

Because music is still there, around me, filling my lungs, touching my nerves, helping me love, catalysing my memory, inspiring my motivation. Music is definitely still doing its thing somehow. It’s still there.

So where is it if it’s not where I said it wasn’t anymore?

Well, I don’t think it’s necessarily anywhere in particular. It’s more surely in some kind of evasive motionary thing that is very satisfactorily difficult to analyse, difficult to pin-point, challenging to at all capture. It’s immanent, that’s for sure. It’s resonant, that’s for sure. There are durations too, that’s for sure as well. But how, what and where: those question words I’d much rather leave hanging, I’d much rather try and find out rather than pretend I’ve already exposed them and understood them and communicated upon them, resolved them. No, I haven’t, but I’m trying. I’m trying to understand music and it feels very similar to the mysterious way in which I try to come to understand anything, get to know anything.

And this process of trying brings me to an exclusively-2016 directive, here on A Pocket Full of Seeds. I want to introduce real musicians. I am going to introduce real musicians. Musicians that I am organically grown towards, in place, time, from offline to online to offline again: where you know, I know, where you = I = the musician = the blog post about the musician = the fact that we forgot we were music-lovers, all along, we just got distracted by the establishment of this fact and forgot it actually meant something. We may have even forgotten that we ourselves actually meant something. I know that, it’s taken a few if not more months to really admit, but I admit it now, and I am excited. I am excited.

Here is a send-off sentence to one of a many songs that I have discovered through the journey of this blog and of this music world, from 2010-2015, the years of a somewhat justified hyper-activity:

Over and out – the next post will continue to blow our collective minds into action, and maybe you’ll want to read through this all over again.

George

it’s time to fall in love with the word again, or not

Hyper-activity combined with anything is enough to make anyone anxious. Some combinations need to come before they go, they need to dislocate, they need to reassure, they need to settle in the plateau of history, imagination: stories, nights, darknesses, endings like nerve-endings, spinning motions, peace. And when the untied mass of knots find their resolution; thereupon gets relieved the thoughts that were before so hyped up into a corner of some incorrect combination, incorrect and anxious.

Leave a pause for the momentum somewhere to increase the moment to increase somewhere, the pause, left.

Because I think I dream I believe the music is good. Somewhere behind the wave forms-literally that funnel-literary into one’s daily activity, comes like a creative reckoning the sensation of something a little more fizzing on the ends and the beginnings of one’s fingertips, the fingertip ones, of one’s stories, the story ones.

Good is the music. Great is the music. Great is the point where your body stops movings sos quicklys and starts to slur, the music. Come gladly the music, like a procession, like a mould, the nerves they feel at home, faraway. Music you music, you sound you sound, so soft, so silly to call it such a thing when it’s such a sounds so silly, sounds so silly, something inside me, silly.

They aren’t riddles. Those refrains. We aren’t refrains, the composers, the listeners – something stops, something starts – the rhythm of the refrains is more than just a refrain, a kind of contentedness refrains – that rhythms, you know, not riddles.

We learn to the word art like we do to each other.
I learn to the word art like we do to each other.
You learn to the word art like we do to each other.

Sentences, like songs

Sound good, go

[Oops, we couldn't find that track]