Language of Shapes – ThunderKryst EP

Lyrics that make you think that lyrics aren’t quite done yet. A song that makes you think that songs aren’t quite done yet.

Because they give you a determinable place, not just an indeterminate space.

The contours of this place were well-handed a blurb in the e-mail submission:

The lyrics to this song were a stream of consciousness head-vomit. It’s only upon re-reading that they actually seem to tie together to tell a narrative about the absurdity of how human consciousness deals with truth, how we often suppress it in favor of comfortable lies, or alter it to better fit our world view — the quality of the stories we invent to describe ourselves and the world we inhabit are the most mutable truths, and ones we often have difficulty narrating coherently.

This blurb could speak a volume for a person. This is the kind of thing that could conjure the person’s direction, or securitise a person’s direction that was already apparent.

That direction, that truth, that meaning: these words are interchangeable and so are we, so are these songs. That’s an honesty, and an honesty that allows your person a love, an experience, a place to really fall into. Words of music, rhythm, song, art… whatever you call it.  What a thing for a song submission to realise in the heart-shaped minds and evenings of its listener!

Reviews that make you think reviews aren’t quite done yet:

this is an EP released yesterday (!) the song of the blurb is the first track on the EP called Push Hard and Swallow,

download at your own price:

The skull, though. It starts to make a rigorous sense by the time of the third track on the EP, called Now We’ve Seen The Dead. That third song is enough to bring me home. That’s one for the future loops: those reoccurring spirals that one tries, one tries, one tries to analyse so hard, but fails every time: those silences perpetuated by the “nothing worth knowing to say”, sometime: something, I feel silly, but still… Sincere.

So how I see it is that the man singing in these songs has a line of melody that has been moulded by the smooth terra-firma texture of a story he’s heard told to him in whispers perhaps or just a quiet a calm headland for his ear, eyes, and this made him stop. And then it happened again and he stopped again. The objects kept falling around him in cascades, in fragmented light raining, in disorder, in calming patterns of slow falling lights, like time upon the hard-working heaving tops of people’s stomachs. And these waves of colours were the qualities that glued like gravity his head and the others’ heads to the middle bit of the band rehearsing or performing, and that’s the thing that makes this picture, these songs, this post all make some sense.

Or how I see it is that he took that rhythm and took it into the dry translucent galaxy of dust-parties in sunlit front seats of vehicles on roads of ribbons of concrete connections between one chord and the next.

How “Amidst the silent voices roars a word
Free to live
Free to run
An intergalactic experiment
For a God to Flesh become.”


one(?) of those words although I’m not sure which

makes you stop planning your plaining your plateau of your

All (!!!) of those words, because all of those words includes the gaps in between them, filled with a liveliness, a conviction, an instrumentation! A noise of people strumming and beating and looking each other in the supposed eye, behind the complicated lids and lashes and whatnot, singing and creating what comes so crucially to their instants, their moments.

This is /onwards!/ music that brings Earth to the listener washing from outer-space

The band are from South Korea.


Time Capsule ##

What you sometimes realise, is the thing that you wish to discern, the words you use to do that. Those words are flakes of paint on a hill, a winter hill, they’re those friends just beneath your eyes that fall like raindrops off a leaf, from your lashes as your days stroke the night. Those words are like silences are like touches, are like flashes of light from the City dreams, they’re like the pictures behind impoverished faces, they’re like the lines we use to capture continents, countries, decisions, futures.

Those words we used to describe a song, here, there, in person, with your company, the walk together around town, discussing it: those words for that song, that object, duration, life, a thing. Those words.

They’re transient.

They pass through me now as I. they pass through terrains now as I, they hold me now as I listen back.

This is an album that I rolled upon swept up beside me back in 2011, I was born in 1993, I talked about it in front of a class when I was a whole 17 years old and studying Theory of Knowledge.

“It’s an album that makes me feel free, makes me feel like I’m standing before a sea or somewhere, the sea I don’t live near when I’m slightly lost. It makes, it helps me breathe slower. No lyrics, it’s an instrumental truth, a wash, a somewhere to embrace around within, to breeze like garden life, to sway inside, to give that sense of seasick a sense of open-ended belonging”

To open, mouth, arms, wide, and know the one thing you know.

A few weeks ago, these posts thought of something spiritual about Sufjan Steven‘s newly born album, today I grasp something similar.

I grasp it, and I take it to the foundations of castles, a tower, sand, a mountain, a human, and I tell it softly slightly extraordinarily to the do the same dance with me again.

To be transported, as if it were a time capsule, from something “past” to something “future”; Bless This Morning Year, Halving Compass, Dragonfly Across an Ancient Sky, Vargtimme, For Years and Years, Coast off, Paper Tiger, First Dream Called Ocean, The Toy Garden, Sons of Light and Darkness, Emancipation by Helios, from the 2006 album Eingya. It does, it floods back within me as something real, not just remembered. Something energy, not just a memory.

The album plants a hug of plateaus with its every song. It says so much in so little a, so precious a span, an experience. The instrumentals like instruments of soul-sanded fingers, but names on a page, but whole arrangements of windows, of an ambience reflecting slowly in the post-evening walk, work, wake, the skycrapers of blue ocean hand-holding meaning, stroking the sides of settled pre-evening.


The time capsule drops and its skin breaks, revealing a porcelain replica of  biscuit crumbs baking on a canvas deck chair. A layer of italics between light and shadow, top and bottom, past and future.


Time Capsule #

Analysis of Karen Bösser’s “I kill-ill You”

Finding forms that need no words
To assert themselves
To desert themse lves
Todays hurt themselves
Two days hurt themselves

One forgets the other
The other forgets to feel
Faint space bar faint goodness
Hes itant Like a
a it’s all a an uphill

Then release
and keep revolving rhythming
And making like the dreams
Have regularity

This one’s good



The amount of words you can compile
The amount of words you can contribute
And then consummate with the word “good”

That’s essentially what analysis is all about

albeit “bad”

Does it matter which one?
Does it matter which one or does it matter simply that something got affected by something else?

Something confronts something else
Something conflicts, converges, controls something else

Finding forms that need no words, finding forms that have them anyway:
Spending time to realise that:
See the above.

K O R I ” L Y N N

Tonight: musician that has my nature and attention subscribed



“Now it’s gone too far”

Going further, going like good-sounding people go -
- Kori Lynn learnt all the right ones, all the right words, all the right heartbeats to a thumb, all the right volumes and all the right ** at the side of each refrain, each feeling of two hands controlling your edges, our voices and alls and eyes catching it all, each feeling of feeling LETTING GO, but go steady, go far -

She maybe learnt them, imagining, learnt them, but whatever the thing is that makes this song tick

✓ bold outlines, pretty black, sub, s p a c e, the dark thick one that’s full of moons and the things that pierce your skin, the things you don’t see inside, make you feel fast sick with good vigour

That thing, that b-beat, that can’t be learnt. That’s like something else. Like engaging. Like moving the movements of something else moving together, that ol’ gig -

- crying my “aaaaahhs!” out, my “yeaaaahhhs!”, my position in the crowd -

Sweating, bleary, READY, that’s the listener, her audience, just enough energy to clap clap, enough time to smile at nothing-objective and then pay attention in the same way I never do when the world’s just a typeface and a link and a forgone confusion – pay attention, a £ or more, a shot of something or more vs. your eyes, this one painted party, or black, or whatever – like – changing clothes while balancing while looking forward, towards the time you engage once more: something you rush off to after work, after all the learning

!!! This good. This good here inside the body bubble blown up good by one talented electro singer, Goin’ Steady, Kori Lynn.

Tanned Legs


I’m a balancing top under this one and my sleeves are barely reaching the wrists of  a … Day irritant no more … An insect night flying no more … A trapped decay of a mid-afternoon no more … a light! There? Post! A face…



An EP on Bandcamp by, fingers stop, head not ache, voices dissipate, Van Wyk. Transposed onto the back of an old autumn leg crossed, brown arms crossed, the leaf folded up on itself and falling without -stop-.



If you listen you will link arms and fall with it all. And your toes. You will feel your toes more than you will feel your sad, your hangover, your impatience to just -



Toes will curl upon the strings of laces of weeds on the paving stones wet – chlorine, an absent friend called claustrophobia, whose freckles, whose legs shine the same glaring light like sun like a film you both watched last night, about love, about love or something. I love – no wait – I see through you, you sound, you salt, you sooth me. Quite something way. The music nods and nails another soft nail into the woodwork of my embrace, my forehead, makes me think of a film I feel. I’m in. I just want to – CL… I just want to clap so slowly my eyes, I shut, and clap out my tentative touching “demons”, the songs sound in and sense them too.



The forceful music is the music that coaxes your demons asleep, then cradles them away, with love, in light, from off your shoulders, from off your back: allowing you to stand again. The sad force of their music lets you stand again.



And low and behold, each song somehow ends, even though they all felt like endless, that endless quality of a person who sings purely like they’ve sung a resolution out of some prior silence, the endless quality of a song that breaks our silence; their own, your own, my own; the endless quality … of the ex-”mermaid”, the “deep”, the characters’ tandem, motions of a story told like used-to-be dreams, decisions, cut. Hurt. Dark. Dark in the long seas, the long limbs of alone, but standing now, not quite, quiet, a cut. Cut off on an untold journey like tails of… endless, diving. 3 songs. 3 breaks and spaces.



Van Wyk‘s voice, Van Wyk‘s songs on her EP called TANNED LEGS

As the day draws on, the more these spaces would like you to listen to them in your own, at your own, (not to mention your own priced download) – it’s a good world waiting.


I’m weary of the post post-modernism, that lonely slogan. I’m weary of the artefacts that prop themselves up on nothing; the comedian literary artist who pretends nothing something absurd point meaningless yet HAHA (y); the idea it’s not there to be spoken about in concrete categorical terms.

It all gets stupid and beside the point.

And the point is that there’s still a point to be made. A real modern point to be made – that point is the point of conversation between you and other people perhaps: the ‘Let’s do something in the summer’ point, the ‘Have you watched the most recent episode of ___?’ point, the ‘Who are you going to vote for?’ point, the ‘I’m fairly stressed about ____’ point, the ‘I want to change the world’ point. All these points, still, like definite impressions of constellations of anything you see, in the sky, on your skin, on other people’s skin, in the sea, in photographs, in memories, and music. Rhythm!

Maybe it’s the case that all these points, these little locations of meaning, they’re not enough being made in the busy domains of professionalism that pervade the planet like tube trains, skyscrapers, posters, pavements, slogans, initiatives and – ah! – all this gets written and goes away when I’m listening to a song that seems all friendly and aware and, like a smile of eyes, even if it were hypothetically conceived with buzzwords from a manager’s mouth (e.g. catchy, upbeat, fun, summery), one feels that the band, like me, are generally having a great fulfilling time with the experience of the song they made, played, recorded, and played again on the Hype Machine right now, whereupon it all harmlessly clicked moments ago. Maybe there were buzzwords at some pre-moment, but the moment itself made itself a moment to be enjoyed, felt, interaction, lived within.

This song by The Ugly Club is lively and a radiator invigorator for the collectively cool and half-full space. The quite perfectly tuned combination of a bright tipsy keyboard fantasising through fingers fizzing up and down like fields caught in the wind, like kids voicing in a park, caught in the wind, like the half-smiles of a bass-guitar player, playing at the side of a stage, caught in the wind. The bit lip of a smack of a snare, answering him, me, us, her, them, everyone, everyone – are you ready?

The kind of song that you don’t get around to listening to the words properly because all your thinking power is being used up by your feet, keeping time tapping away the half-empty spaces, but perhaps you (as in you) do (listen to the words), people listen differently. I don’t, but I know that when the vocals and voice of that other person sounds really good, and the music too, spritely and slow and swinging from the trees, caught in the wind, then usually the lyrics are pleasing the lyric-listeners just as well.

There’s not too much more to be said about such a kind of song as this song kindly reminds me of when I want to think of something to say, meaningful of course: enjoy it and download it good, by The Ugly Club: “The Lonely“.