Angles between W Æ L D E R

Thoughts to have to this realisation – where you make the songs real in wherever you are pressing [play], wherever things are pressing [feel]:

You feel strong
Your skin seems thick with substantial and words
He meant it in a good way
She’s cool
It’s OK, You know where you are safe
Learning curve / calculus
Years rhymes with tears
Years seems to fall down
You love it all together like a rock
You’ve been sometimes so unreal-feeling that you find sleep a kind of isolation

The sounds that realised these thoughts in a kind of correlation, soon after you were pressing [play], when things weren’t so pressing [feel]:

When the heartbeat asks a question, the kick drum:

Can you put your wings upon me?

First like shivers the higher frequencies answer, a high hat

Can you hear yourself singing? Because it’s probably someone else.
Sifting upward through a space, like entering a stir of absent-immanent not-there gasp clasped
around a wrist,
or something: the voice tables, the feet lock

And you think you’re ready to be walking a little further, see what all that fuss might have been about

So nervous you can’t quite get the rings around the words that my head seems to be clattering between. So nervous you can’t quite hold onto a sentence long enough for you to identify where once you were coming from when you started off. So nervous you can’t quite recognise your output  for affections, misunderstood and confused fused with fear – when everything is just a diagnosis out of the corner of your mouth, where once the ink might have been made invisible: the cool silence interrupts you and before you know your nerves they have turned to endings and your endings have turned to stories about half-empty songs and suffocation.

So I’m kind of psyched to hear WÆLDER playing in the city I can see from this attached photo of a roof of a building in bespoke city in the early days of December, a kind of chronological imagination, a kind of poetry of an experience of a media, between,
perhaps, nervous,
right now I am coaxed from time a to time b and I feel something might be trying to say to me that I’m in a circuit of intrigue and tragedy: the love I’ll see soon unexpectedly when the coldness of kindness convinces me.

These songs say to me in twisting arguments of crowds of my heart’s ings singing before the winter glass draws into a huddle, quickening, perturbed, comforted, vocals like the ways in which body language is interrupted by meaning. These songs say to me in a psychosynthesis of an interview between the middle bits of the stubbornness of a few heart beats and the sharp fist of a fizz of a fluctuation of a fear that nothing could catch my head if it were to fall, vocals like the angles between my rushes to fulfill and my default to let them die away. These songs say to me like they toe to me the lines in the sheets that crumple up into unsent winter letters; that I abstract myself and then and then I hate myself and then I find myself and then I react, then I walk a little further. And then I repeat myself all over again, and, then.

I can’t think of anything more heartwarming than some hatred-like-loneliness finding me and then together becoming all exposed and embarrassed as we defy the things that were holding us back. That’s how it feels, the relationship between me the listener and today the durations, these durations: listening up, listen up!

These music muscles are all-conntaing-comforting all over the place, welcoming and always endearingly weirdly real; “good morning”, I say.

imagining elsewhere / somewhere (the keys on tracks by Мєтєologiς†)

A reflection of another track that applies to a different track by the same artist. A reflection of a video that applies to a different video that you can imagine, I’m sure:

I find the keys on this track unlocking my headspace
unashamedly like lurking you know somewhere
And I kind of do know somewhere, perhaps, something
I couldn’t have known for now had I not seen through the window
in which this track was appearing as a video
I watch
I couldn’t have found these keys if the video hadn’t already given me that space in which things are found.
It’s so majestic how this track/video interacts with itself in the listening process, as you see each slide of loved one into its next, from one refrain to the next. I’m not talking causal relation where the video causes the song to be good or the song causes the video to be good. In the context of our sense of rhythm and music, such a relation makes no sense, in that context of all things considered art; those causal relations are nothing but correlations.

And, if I’m honest, I just found the time at which I experienced it all, I found that time lurking like an unexpected, I found that time correlating with some post that someone I know posted on the computer. His song, his video, in the same duration, together, correlated.

And that’s when I found these keys, because it was all so someone, all so real, all so reminding me of the life behind the music. Such a thing you see in the things that mean something to you immanently, the only things you have left once all the noise fades away and life means nothing more than something like a cradle, cradle of sentiment and care, the things that the track-video reminded me of .

Something I can’t share here- it means so much to me as an agent of experience-creation – to have found that track-video on my news feed, where the keys of something I know were able to find the hole somewhere, find it something, there it stays, here I may just allude:


I may share the audio of a song made by the artist which wasn’t on the video.
Guaranteed sufficed because this musician’s recordings are always real, influencing and a bone for your imagination, love and sense of rhythm, disjointed and disparate and reassured as you always are.


These keys:





A compilation of rhythm, autoregression, routine, tendency, recurrence: find yourself an island on which to find nothing but a panoramic sea. You touch the water here: you listen to the song. Somehow, you are uploading continuous your mind onto the thing before you and you fasten onto a compilation by which each wave comes: ritual, ritual ritual ritual ritual.

The waves are multi-media directives. You understand nothing. All you do is bury your head in the waves, and wait for the air to at some point run out. It never does. And now your feet are patterns in the ground, your thoughts are textures of the moisture in the air.

You listen to a song and all you can remind yourself of is your old friend at some point sandwiched in between pointless chronologies there, with you, playing on the piano, the song that’s always played, the ritual that’s shared with you. The first track does it, but brings in some alienated tempo of melancholy, and also flourishes; the first song is dream translated into a language. That language is spoken explicitly come the second track, and the third. The a f o r e m e n t i o n e d first fathoms in memory like a platform. My train makes the trees like white noise, I remember, I jitter, I remember again once more, my hand onto the table, then window. Autumn spoke to me and now I am this alienated tempo, perhaps. Perhaps I am person after all.

Smiling away the latter pauses of a much beloved rhythm

signed off  optimistically.

… And a return ticket to say this label geht ab. I have been quietly moved by their creations, as with a few other websites that emanate the most attention-deserving developments / relations / I’m impressed, excited.

I look back, I am newly acquainted in the following second by a music that breeds reflection and more reflections and more reflections. The crumpled up day, month, year: they unravel like the units of time they are. I look a little closer and see rhythm like I feel words: the truth is constantly evolving and I feel humbled by the music on this EP to admit that. The extreme, the tempo, the time-tampering artist is a shaman of repetition, the concepts sound almost like a ghost-story, almost like a love-story, certainly like a spiritual distraction: I’m engrossed.

Red Square Duration Real

Hello, things are feeling more and more back – somewhere with a weighing-down head on a neck, some denim shirt, some leggings, some high-heels from Maldova. yello, things are feeling more and more black – somewhere

weighing down and now settling down, feeling like the writings are engulfing something refreshing in my music critique. Ok so we were once 1X years old, now we’re maybe 2X years old: is it okay to latch onto music taste you don’t know to have anymore, to trust it like hell even when the world’s apparently at its ends over and over – I listen to this band that sound between Tokyo Police Club and The Killers, with a kind of Orson outlining. You know that’s just narrative, you know those albums are just me, the albums I managed somehow to hold onto for a little while – where you buy albums and then listen to them like you’d read books.

So maybe it’s nostalgia, complacent nostalgia, but maybe it’s not. And maybe we as music listeners must follow biographical lines in the same way that memories follow timelines – absurd & bizarre – this music syncs with some kind of in-love epistemology that is impossible to throw off, through taste and taste again, through thick and thin, through the opaque air of addiction, gradually getting more into it

The band are from Ireland, that’s awesome somehow how they’re real and playing SXSW in 2016.


I disembark the daily, I press play, I put the tracks in brackets as they occur like I do with people and thoughts


(1. Plans…)
A combination of the electronic pioneering songwriters who made 2010 progressive, taken into the post-scene void of 20thirteen/fourteen, now -exit the void-, orientate, Mountain Range has crafted an album over the period of two years, he released it on Friday.

I have an imperfect (…2. That Home…) anecdote to introduce the whole chronologically bracketed numbered duration of this blog post of these 9 songs of music, transmitted via Left Haunted Records. An anecdote unlike a film, like Goodbye Lenin where the woman falls into a coma before the reunification of Germany and wakes up after. Not like a love-story, like sea and shore where the waves lose their identities in the middle and recollect different ones at the beginning and the (…3. The Quiet…) end. Not like another song, where the mind gets reminded and then distracted and then compares itself to minds it was never going to but was always trying to grasp.

No, yes, this album comes across more through a kind of comforting intimidation, an intimate therapy where parallels lose their categories, categories lose their parallels – Mountain Range is the name upon the durations ajar, the contents are effective to the infinite infinitesimal degree: each bar contains an awry craftsmanship of sound, sounds, sounding together in songs that do nothing less than juxtapose with as much emotional metaphor as my breathing-process can possibly explore without specifically trying, 9 songs of a continually passionate and (…4. Together…) soft rubbing feeling in the inscapes wherever this music is going in, I’m not sure if it’s leaving me any time soon.

Maybe this is what it feels like to exit the void, the finally found parameters by which this decade will find its sense – in the electronic management and releases of musicians like Mountain Range (are there currently musicians like Mountain Range?) who’s output cumulatively transcends the same-old idea of what same-old ideas sound like – I’m talking transcendence through sustained experience of real rhythm and combination, purpose and ultimately the quasi-spiritual moment of confusion which coins the point at which things like these people and sounds are consumed and listened to like anything else, insane 

It’s no coincidence that this review has chronologically come up to this point (5. Circles) and track 5 has begun to play, Circles; you may have already heard it through XLR8R. The thing about MR that makes this song (and the others) so completely real is his knack of arranging songs that sound like entire adventures, I know no other artist who is able to pack so much motion and textural forms into a refrain, a sequence, and also then to arrange these refrains so intricately, beautifully even, the duration of what is often a track, and also in this case an album, pans out like a holy sequence of chronicles of differently dimensioned environments and combinations of senses – if I could imagine the unimaginable sound of someone translating goose bumps into sound then I would point to Mountain Range, press play, and get goose bumps, and it wouldn’t feel contrived. Get goose bumps and it won’t feel contrived.

get out of the void

(6. A Thousand Times Troubles)

It’s difficult to even know what the void was after that paragraph of realisation upon a song upon an album. I want to wrap up my words for literary I want to – let the next realisation take place…

(7. Laniakea)  The -hidden surprise song- where her voice falls through like water – here I am feeling for the Scandinavian context in which I heard Mountain Range, the kind of melancholy landscape electronica from Ole Torjus, Søren Andreasen, and yet it takes me back somewhere almost futural, somewhere almost uncomfortably intimately with this anonymous human vocal sample and piano, they’re definitely falling slowly through like water, it’s difficult to identify whether her vocals are the sample or whether the listener’s thoughts are the samples, and samples of what even? This, it is all real.

(8. This Home)

(9. Be. More.)

A music critic at peace, quietly without writing, songs occupying a silence I didn’t know really existed until it was left upon post-listening like a present
You! Celebrate the 16th October 2015 and engage with one of the most special albums of the last 5 years,
A Thousand Times Troubles, by Mountain Range



Peredur’s thoughts with Wovoka Gentle

It was snowing in Leipzig yesterday, quite heavily.

“And in the evening he entered a valley, and at the head of the valley he came to a hermit’s cell, and the hermit welcomed him gladly, and there he spent the night. And in the morning he arose, and when he went forth, behold a shower of snow had fallen in the night before, and a hawk had killed a wild fowl in front of the cell. And the noise of the horse scared the hawk away, and a raven alighted upon the bird. And Peredur stood, and compared the blackness of the raven and the whiteness of the snow, and the redness of the blood, to the hair of the lady that best he loved, which was blacker than jet, and to her skin which was whiter than snow, and to the two red spots upon her cheeks, which were redder than the blood upon the snow appeared to be.”

‘Peredur the son of Evrawc’, The Mabinogion, translated by C.E. Guest, 1841

So lively, so human, so gently heavy, so extremely thoughtful, brittle, with all many pin-point sorts of rhythms of newly-discovered colours compared in the unmoving mind of another chapter. This band take after the “personal narrative” who meets daily with universal native, tampering electricity on things. A warmth working of a welcoming hermit’s behest, organised and continual like a tale I tell myself sometimes.

I speak from a distance and note the emphasis within the band’s public relations on the promise of  ”performance art instillations and visual projections”, promise of a winter spent in organised emotional transit – the live performance that hermits may only bustle instead, welcome strangers. They headline a show at Electrowerkz in November.

It will all add up if it doesn’t even now.