For two years, Drew JH York lived in a bungalow in the suburbs of a town in Essex, there he and his friend experimented with parties of people, temporarily disillusioned, playing different versions of indie music. What Drew plays himself is borne by time, belief and motivation. If it’s a genre, it’s memorable, because that’s partly how the best songs get themselves made. His question “How Do I Know?” gets more unsettling the more you get to know him backwards through the music. If I’m not used to being unsettled by 2000s chaos, then something is wrong, Drew reminds me how there’s nothing wrong. “Nothing + something” must be the most beautiful mantra hummed to itself by some poor dumbed object of paranoia, and for that reason I am thankful that Drew is now subject – to being back home, singing about that, uploading it, doing it again at some point. For if you don’t feel at home in the trillion debt regression, then something is wrong, God knows how indie uploads survive; Drew reminds me how they do even if he doesn’t know how he knows that.
How’s summer 16′s going so far:
On Wednesday, there is a Jeremy Corbyn clapping rally in Chelmsford
On the weekend is Notting Hill Carnival for the first time
After the weekend on Sunday is Ross From Friends
On the Friday of that week: The Caulfield Beats
See Marcus and his new music company
See a new contemporary art space from our cousin in London
And my sister who is working for Jamie Oliver, with her boyfriend writing about food materiality for SOAS
The friend I was in a band with has gone to live in Colombia with a friend I wasn’t in a band with.
After everything, go back to Leipzig and continue, subjective, Isabel / George
Apparently Bill Baird is in London for a bit as well?!
Working every day on the same projects / earning something at the side; listening to sets on Mixcloud, especially paying note to Ross From Friends, The Caulfield Beats, Bill Baird.. as much and often as possible. Also recommend re-listening to Nathan Fake of 2010 and Passion Pit of 2007.
I & G
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
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.
Lyrics on the first song of an album that looked at 2015 and thought “so what”, this is the year it feels like everyone is listening to skewed love songs for the first time again. The next post below blew our minds into collective action just like I confuse romance for reality all over again, Therese Raquin for Madame Bovary all over again, Willy Mason for Dostievsky all over again. Home, for here, back and forth again – post for past for pre-the-fact that I’m listening comfortably to Silver Jews.
They’re an introduction to the end of a stream of conscience, dramatic and addressed to something different every time, always footnoted invisibly with a kind of begrudgingly inviting lyricism.
There is this bestowed sexuality of sounding oddly. You think that fate is fate because Conor Obe TOLD YOU SOrst. One doesn’t tell anyone about that, because one doesn’t want others to know, even the others who’ve listened to him and know that too. You let those ones know quietly and loudly, intermittently.
These lyrics aren’t Mitski, and there’s something about that that excites me. Then of course maybe that’s because she ends my sentences right now. There’s a connection between Conor Oberst, between “Happy”, between Silver Jews and the connection between the people who know these connections. It’s a kind of twist you don’t want to expect, but you love helping yourself come back to keep intwined with the reality of phantoms like Donald Trump, . It kind of nudges you like a grudgy, beautiful thing you often forget you want to be comfortably lifeless around: those band sounds, you know, all over again as if for the first time.
But come on, that’s so eloquently not the case. The people who know the connection aren’t these songs. Not these kind of songs. These kind of songs makes me stop banging on about the people, start banging on about the songs, like The Libertines and how they’re all at sea, and stuff, you know, all over again.
Comedy and knowledge in rhythm with one another; “life should mean a lot less than this”… yeah that kinda drives it home, drives me home: hello again.
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