Rüsseltier by Sensorman, Rustling in a Room

This laptop in a room, emulating the abstract thought and music of a bandcamp profile of a musician named SensormanThe house, techno disclaimers, the artwork, the links, the networks, this song called Rüsseltier, elevated in the below with my world that suits it all quite well – look out for the word groupings that denote music and sound.

When many things encroach, splutter, and cough a few times in a confined space. When summer sun is popped out of its cobbly compartment and gets swallowed whole, leaving just the silver wrapping to wrap me up warm while the windowed wind wails a few words over and over again against my lowered head. This autumn expression is coiled in revolutions, resembling 6 month long springs, now rusted orange and unnerving the sanctuary of my constant bed. This bed where I plant my hands daily to support my body weight, this bed where I dig up the ruins of previous bad dreams so that they don’t lay lurking under the bridge of my back, this bridge of my back, creaking under the strain of fingerprint moulds  and the thick crunchy morning darkness between the white sheets and the flattened moles on my skin. This room is a platform to the outside and I’m constantly waking up in the bleak noise of human hooves, sucking up golden leaf dust from the creaks in the concrete. Those elephantessimals that compile and compress the several sniffy noses of my friends into one leathery hour long disjointed trunk. Some elephant daydreams. Some tusks of a diligently disgruntled note-jotting onlooker. A crescendo of ring-bound paper, the lecture finishes and some sort of evening movement begins; this one in particular with the needly beeps of my heels and the pleasant scales of a school of bikes, lining the way home with tired yet curious speech bubbles. Always the same, somewhat circular, uncertain, but in time, in sync: where the silences always beat us to it, always define the many moments of recollection, clarity, contemplation, awkwardness, hesitation.

The meaning of silence is the intention of noise and the intentions are falling from the big trees tonight in half-warm patterns; a blear of overcoats and ivory eyes against the backdrop of nature’s post-summer mosaic, gradually dismantling, but resting like friends, amidst the dew, upon soft university grounds.

George

Not For Nothing

To you, I am fictional, something of the imagination. I am fictional blogging a fictional world, depicting something between us; my screen. To me, you are fictional. You are fictional reading a fictional world, depicting something between us; your screen. Don’t mistake this for something non-fiction.

Delight in Amsterdam is fading dear, I can’t tell these hotel rooms apart.

Not holding on for nothing.

What’s not fiction is the shape of my words themselves, the web address under which they’re posted. What’s not fiction is the speed and rhythm of my typing fingers on the keyboard buttons. These things remain real.

There, I’ve set the scene, I’ve disclaimed the abstract nature of the blogging, I’ve structured a type of analysis – now let’s review the music in question.

FyfeHolding On

The fiction: imagery of trecks, packed on the back, travelling and sweating with flailing clips and a musty dirt on the thick of their clasping thumbs, clutching a hotel room’s single bed after hotel room’s single bed, with the dark working through some empty window. A void echoing in the blinking stars, a void, a nothing that resonates in the chiasmic night and breaks like ocean waves over the window sill. A nothing that I’m somehow holding on to, later, and I’m leaning on too, with as many grams of composure as I can fit into the sultry idea of my silly cigarette outside a hotel room window.

The non-fiction through which my fiction, my imagination meditates: the foreground depicted by lyrics  like “not holding on for nothing”, “I heard you calling”, “I can’t tell these hotel rooms apart”, “Amsterdam”;  the contrast between a relaxed, contemplative, sultry deeper voice- and its instantly more intense, soft and emotion-drawing falsetto; the primitive style of drum sounds, the 808 closed and open hi-hats, warm clicking snares and the every-so-often breaking crash snare – these drums assert and builds a solid rhythm that progresses with subtlety in accordance with verse/chorus transitions, but also without ever detracting focus from the lyrical foreground; the dark and sinister sounding of the piano string bass notes that embrace the falsetto bridge and the chorus itself with a somewhat robust one-note underbelly, protruding on the first beat of each bar. The other components, the oos and the guitar sounds, the synthetic strings, the effects and the plug-ins, they are better referenced in a greater overview of the song structure itself: the verse is quiet, marked simply with quite particular lyrics about particular entities (Amsterdam and hotel rooms, messages and clouds, thirty thousand feet e.g.), amplified by minimally accompanying oos and 808 beat. The chorus stands of course in opposition and…

Oh, there’s not much more to say in this non-fiction fashion: I have already tired such formulaic representations of a song that represented nothing more than my sentiments, my imagination, my love, my sense of life’s unending story, unending rhythm; where the snare of day goes night goes day goes night, one concept into another, over and over, and both simultaneously somehow suspended lyrically in mind’s holy air, this really human-like interactive insight.

Fyfe, along these lines, is a great artist to finally discover, having made waves, it’s a pleasant opportunity to pay slight homage to the many minds which his music has refreshed. And perhaps I’ve done my job and uncovered some way, the only way, in which he can be properly responded to. If not, if so, don’t go anywhere and hey, here’s more:

Solace

For You

George

Fog Chaser

Below picture: a collage by fantastic Matt Wisniewski and also a picturesque blog I found in the process of this citation.

[We need more bands that remind us specifically of Modest Mouse. The people, ideas, personas who have all but lost their heads to the big best music, who have an ability to record and to sell me the soles of their output. It's not all MM of course]; there’s an original essence deterrable from the sound of Fog Chaser by Steady Lean, something of seeing a SoundCloud as if it were my own, the “weirdo” that you named yourself in a message that propped up in a music blog’s inbox, the strings and chords that I could strike, the voice that I recognise, the muscle’s memory, the heart I have that carries on regardless.

I’m already in love with the hard-to-catch persona that is Steady Lean‘s warm vague shine, whose insight I’ve mustered through various windows – if only it could be more and this could be a world where I shake your hand firmly with an eye-contact of overwhelming appreciation. A mark I’ll make here; if at all as only a review of a SoundCloud that became active 19 hours ago from posting, and that I want to hear more from. This is as if I go to sleep, with only an Internet review of an Internet window to truly savour. As for the real life; I’ll represent it in imagination and dreams, sleepiness and happiness, hopes and falls, the flux I’d fall asleep dead if I didn’t have to fumble around with.

Catch my drift? This is a great #-plays song by a great #-followers artist: I have come to know him and it through an inbox, through a SoundCloud, through a medium, through a vortex which I wish would succumb to the burn of my reciprocated engagement, my reciprocated escape, my human excitement. Transcend distance and duration; I wish my memory could diminish in some inbox, on some page, some photo, some link, and leave myself simply resting in its place. It always feels like I’m chasing a fog, and I wouldn’t mind raining just for once myself.

Myself, a listener, and a love for Fog Chaser, the voice and the instrument; this is the kind of song whose slurring rocky list of words seep and tumble through the thick skin after a several listen, whose forceful primitive guitar chord schema starts to sync with the force and primality of your waking mediative moments. It’s good to message, to follow, to heart, to listen, to read, to profile, to whatever, it’s good to carry on regardless.

Alex and Intimate by Porches

it’s the crackle and pop of the harmony,
the warm fuzz on our tv screen.
it’s the loop lo-fi with eye to eye which smothers me in intimacy.
- Alex

Music released before a couple of months ago that needs restating. Music that very suddenly stole hearts more than a few months ago, and waited, then staggered in word-form, upright and pure, a blog-post more than a few months later, after any unnecessary noise was shed and now all that’s left are the people who have been in loyal love for more than a few months, shared evenings, lulled lost, rallied motivated, driven assured, done what loved music lovers do, and still the people who haven’t even heard it. For the latter, a simple above link for your choosing; introduced by Alex who loved it.

NB:// album version:

VEVO Sadness Disease

Reading this back, I can’t work out the target audience, it seems to be that simply more ungerminated seeds are falling a little chaotically out of a pocket and forming an odd trail…

…On the subject of my mind being a bit opened by this song and its music video. It feels like someone came and opened a door I didn’t know I really had and showed me this world that caused me to come over all faint and fluttery. When I was 16, I put my eggs into baskets, one of those baskets was a gradually conditioned response to VEVO logos; i.e. if I see it, I bite my lip, fight a frown, try my best to feel intellectually okay, try not to associate it with a commercialist monster and try not to blame all my sadness on some imaginary commercialist monster who steals my soul and vaguely and superficially makes reference to it in my ‘Past Experience’ section on my CV. No, that conditioned response to VEVO (and I guess loads other logos, symbols, celebrities, media-outlets) has shrouded my head in exhausting doggish alarm bells for a good 5 years, and led my mind far away, astray from that beaten up term; ‘the beaten track’. I sense the absence and the loneliness often; how it’s led me away from a huge community spirit that is so rife in many of the clubs and nightlives of my University city, let alone the cheery drive-time waves of the big radio stations. Clubs have made me cry more than once, radio has almost head-butted my steering wheel. Somehow, since 16, I have forged a currency of music that excludes the neighbour I most often bump into by accident and embraces the people who feel at least as musically remote as myself, yeah – musical remoteness doesn’t do good for an open-heart, let alone a sober willingness to let down your hair and properly embrace to the slightly auto-tuned Happy of Pharrell Williams.

I narrate this all retrospectively, because, like I say, a hidden door has been slowly opening in my head of late, and was very much properly hole-punched with the watching of this typically perfect hi-fi VEVO music video to Sadness Disease by Urban Cone. Now, I look back, above, and I see a well of weighty words, and they kind of just look like good beats from a silly place, to be thrown around. The knots and abandoned baskets they refer to seem somehow not real, manifested. Venture into the limelight, join the club, and throw my words into the big bright light ceiling. Shower my fellows in white stuff and grey stuff and drifting clouds, hmmm…. full stops and stomach flops. This tune is a parody of feeling sad, and something in my sternum stirs massively at the thought of its soon-to-be million listeners who know how it feels to feel sad and listen to this song in some pure moment of clarity, finding ourselves somewhere, anywhere, in company or without, resting our tired backs on this beautiful backing track: this is the state of good music that speaks volumes to spirits, big community feelings, the things a being would like to verge upon – and where it strikes chords, in this beautiful video-way, it should be shared without any shrouding doggish and exhausting alarm bells. Turn the bells off and pick up your eggs and untie your knots and get beating to this upbeat track from Swedish band, Urban Cone.

I’ve just this minute read the press release attached in the promo email and the message that the band ‘put out’ is good:

Today sees the release of ’Sadness Disease from Swedish quintet Urban Cone. The first single off the band’s forthcoming full-length album due out next year on Polydor, ”Sadness Disease” sees the band tackle a difficult subject – trying to live up to society’s impossible standards of beauty and perfection – while keeping its signature wit and hook-laden pop sound in tact.

“‘Sadness Disease’ is about the psychological damage of trying to attain the idealized version of beauty and perfection that exists today,” explains Emil Gustafsson. “It’s something that both men and women experience, and it’s not real, it’s not possible.”

Bandmate Rasmus Flyckt adds “In Sweden where we come from, its dark so much of the year, cold too. It affects your experience of the world in many ways. We write music in an attempt to create sunshine; it’s a reactionary impulse to create light out of the darkness. If you listen to the lyrics of our music, they’re quite dark. It’s serious music that’s made for dancing.”

Good mental muscle music, this song is great, completely in love with it.

G

Scarlet Reviews: Hunter as a Horse – The Train

Hunter as a Horse – The Train

This sick this dark dulcet sounds like the thick coloured layers of homeless shadowiness inside you. Those dark pulsating, convulsed and aching, deserted mind enclaves, weathered enslaves, ropes around and under your threshold to feel, think, be, hardly felt, scarcely fought, those what-why-where-wars, what was; simply a dense heavy will to be. Evening, midnight, morning, a head on a platform, a stomach splayed out on the tracks, rails rung, more thoughts caught like transport in the city-circle-web, like stress in the creaky shackles of my larger intestine; taking me away, a song for the human, my illusive lurking ghosts finally freed, a mass-break out from my blood cells to my brain. No, me and my song; you’ll never catch my convict contents alive, “you’re going to have to run me over“.  Intense, purposeful, dark sub-bass with bright lights, The Train by Hunter As a Horse, confusing the categories, beaten sharp like a knife, blurring, correlating, synchronising frequent lowly-inserted jabs with soft-voiced conviction. This is dissonance and propensity, natural and within me.

The song journeys, paints, the same vivid colour; some central city river in murky flames, the being-willingness as alive as burning-willingness. I’m willing to burn. All the deserted-mind-enclave it populates with beat and dark red, I am left with no ghosts of desire, written with no cinders of whir. The song alights where I left off, and it works well for a time being. It’s a precious dose of scarlet for any alien blue daze.