Finding Keys, a peach tree

.

the black hole
of the
window
where you sleep

the night breeze
carries
something sweet
a peach tree

lyrics by Mitski 

bass guitar notes sing sing, chord scheme starts, singing is calming, so is bass, hi-hat comes in very lightly, singing picks up, very slightly rouses, a bit more, then the whole drumkit comes in with a bang, as well as an opposite gendered vocal, and an organ, and the hi-hat opens, the singing words gets  a bit more direct than the above intro - please don’t say you love me - but it’s sung in the same smooth calm way, so it feels like, despite the intensity and directly worded feelings, it’s all part of a smooth progression, a steady course. I think that’s what life should be, right? Lots of ups and downs, and sometimes really intense, but overall just a movement in a good direction and then –ah!- Key CHANGE!  Key chaaaaange!!! The car stops and spins a few times and flies onto another type track somehow, everything I said before, bass, singing, drums, organ, but one key higher, surreal songscape escape, a big energising dose, substantial synthesis, the same old course but on a completely different level that I wouldn’t couldn’t have imagined, perpendicular and peculiar, greatness and greatness, Mitski‘s song is transcendental and so will be the album that it appears on; bury me at makeout creek, released on November 11th.

Pre-order!
Be part of it over the next few forevers
Ur teil

- first love / late spring

g

Searching Past Buckets: ok vancouver ok

Constantly picking the teeth of innovative music, artistry and outputs, blogging, listening and reviewing the progression from track 2, through track 3 and track 4 of an EP called Houses, released in February 2011 by a 3-piece band from Vancouver.

-

Life is a, Life is a – according to Ok Vancouver Ok – beach, life is a beach

By the sea, sure,  by the sea. By the seashore, I’m happy.

Things waver in this folky song. Progressive, psychemotional, surging ends, beginning the guitar strings that surge underneath like the hitch in God’s long distant cliff’s grass-banked cords. Deep and water-filled footprints, made by my 5 year old’s expedition, her neglected buckets and kites, the thin plastic formative handles, clenched and swung, held onto for dear life. Opt in, yep, apt: the form of expression casts and creates a host of human waves tied/tide to the many high-low moments that help sure us up.

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Help us be sure and exclaim – Ok Vancouver Ok, the conductors – The Universe is Fucking Real

I can’t help but feel, four new children.

Things fit with laughter through these indie speakers. Delivered bluntly and with open mouths and gloopy wit over a meticulous pointy layer of brainy beeps – the inverse of a broken shell discovered and extracted from a bucket full of slopping dark brown sand, the son’s dry mouth, open wide. Swearing on our lives, something real, not really myth, the faraway castles printed on the neglected b-side of every one’s mind. Worth the fleeting interaction; something worth time spent.

-

Breakdown, break down, breakdown, breakdown, breakdown – again Ok Vancouver Ok, breakdown

But just ours before that, you see me smiling

On the promenade, there’s a choice between candy and rock. In the sea, there’s a choice between Eastward and Westward. Near the town centre, there are wards filling up with a dreadful cough and wrecked memory vessels. The short termers survey, the offspring run around in opposition, excitedly, in a dance of activity. The song sympathises, oscillates upon an emergent nose of Autumn sea air, still wound up from a few tracks before. The sun sets at some point, as foretold, the drum loop continues rooflessly, a trance in the exposed . The sun completely breaks down, the clouded view and the seasick starless night.

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The chronology I just discovered and extracted from an archive, sea shelf, is something to listen yourself. This band, with much music since and with all network options self-evident, might capture the waves of your imagination like mine.

George

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: