Juno I’m Tired

I got a place in the Arctic Circle
I’ve got a place that I painted white
I’ve got a home in the salty ocean
So right, so right

All of the lions in your bedroom
All of the tigers we ignored
Pulling the wool down over your eyes
Yes sir, yes sir

You and your soapy eyes
Called it off so late at night
But your hand’s on your heart
Cause your head’s always right

You and your soapy eyes
Called it off so late at night
But your hand’s on your heart
Cause your head’s always right

I’m gonna go back for the science
I’m gonna stay for the decimals
No one will laugh or know the difference
Same old, same old

Fine, you were right
This wound need ice
Fine, you were right
This wound need ice

You and your soapy eyes
Called it off so late at night
But your hand’s on your heart
Cause your head’s always right

You and your soapy eyes
Called it off so late at night
But your hand’s on your heart
Cause your head’s always right

Juno, you’re tired
Juno, you’re tired

This is a first: not sure what my brother will think about posting the lyrics to a whole song on here. But then another first for myself is the thought, that struck me, that certain bands and musics stick with us not because of some random context in which they hit our ears, not because of some comfort-zoned habitual spinning top in our brains , not because of someone else’s fashion that absorbed our eyes, not because of some impressionability to the hearing, some vulnerability to he heard, some capability to hear, BUT because the music actually itself congregates with our bodily minds and creates itself a home, it makes itself at home because the jagged edges of the meaning of the music somehow tessellate to some sufficient extent within the jagged edges of our dispositions, our whole beliefs, our states, our systems, our paradigms, our economies of thought, of memory, of projection. The music, the band, they are real things that we wholly, spontaneously, inevitably, interact with; the music itself, on its own, is real.

That’s why this blog is real, not because we peed and imposed truth on every song we ever posted, but because every song we ever posted was itself a worded-mirror to our identities, this blog is real because you can identify us. When I say us, I mean you and me. When I say me, I mean the blog-writer behind it. When I say real, I mean right.

Hold the /when I say/ disclaimers above with disdain: help the world mean what it says, discover its horizons. Re-activate and have a status again, have an agency again, don’t let the world suck it out of you with its paradoxical tongues. Post the lyrics and the pictures to our favourite song, our favourite thought, our favourite moment, our favourite art, our favourite world; hold the lyrics in our status, our state, that’s what a status is there for, that’s what a state is there for… … …

If you like the posted lyrics of Tokyo Police Club and you want to see their paragraphical-patterns again, but this time to music, then click play on the cool youtube gizmo – this video was uploaded by anonymous member keeping in the Tokyo Police Club spirit; a youtube profile named nick blease who kindly typically put the lyrics on the video, as well as the opening windows movie maker subtitle “Best SONG EVER”. Let it all be a demonstration of love and commitment.

You don’t need to dissect the musical meanings lyrics ever, never need to reflect, never need recollect the moment, never need to have something explained – e.g. how this song belongs to an album that got rated 6.3 on Pitchfork, how the band felt they always lost a little life from their first EP, how you probably only came across it because they were playing at a festival you were going to in the summer and you wanted to do some research on the line-up, how they were the only band you had on CD when you listened to a CD Player when you were abroad for months on end, how they were a band you interviewed in person when you were pre-everything, how they were once being played in a Mountain Café in Canada when you just happened to be whizzing past through the snow; none of that stuff matters, what matters is the songs’ essences themselves, the meaning itself, the mighty pure moments they gave you; those jagged insides constantly lagging and jolting into place, music and all; they will stay forever, without or with identity, with or without attached files of necessary information; you yourself are the songs and the music you love, ingrains, your life is its infinitely-seeming rhythm……. so here I am a bit hungry and feeling a cigarette and tired tired tired but basically keeping you and me on the course of some good old song we might both like.

Never need to convolute, never need concepts, just need a congregation.

That kind of vocative-case mood, creating vacuums and then filling them with an old favourite song like Juno, telling the emptiness what to do, world wide web.

There’s some new obscure good-sounding artists I’ve been on recently that I will look forward to sharing soon in a slightly less intense fashion, but this one needed to happen.

George

How It Is Imagined

My friend in London showed me pictures of the place where this band is from, and it looked much the same as it was imagined.

And I found an unfinished scrap of writing I didn’t quite understand on my laptop just now, something I wrote and sent to myself on the social media, it looks much the same as I imagined.

The song revolves around the lyrics “Tell me how it is” and it’s sung in relaxed fashion against a relaxed style of rock. It relaxes me, and the more relaxed I am, the more scary words go in, and I find myself following its trail to distant land, the other side of America, so perhaps the same might happen for you if I show you the door:

It’s funny you’ve arrived at this time actually because we were just this minute approaching ship-shape for a voyage into the open sea. So I hope you have your sea legs fitted. I’m not really one for talking, so I hope you don’t mind if this voyage sits quietly with you. We will find ourselves in Tokyo, where I hear they have beautiful voices and tidy faces. I was shown once a scroll of log belonging to a shipman of the Far East. A scroll in which he reminisced of chance-observing a performance near the cranes of the Japanese capital; he witnessed an unforgettable compliment to the large fading suns, and spoke of a voice with the sound of multi-coloured glaciers, of a billion water droplets lit up in purple planetary cycles, he scrawled in the margins a sketch, a sketch of the most gigantic beautiful tree, he marked blossom with tiny yet perfectly joined circles. The tree, he annotated, symbolised the magnificence of his emotions, the constant resurgence of his appreciation for the performance he discovered by the cranes of Tokyo. The shipman made little sense, expressed himself opaquely, but one could derive the nature of his excitement in the way he flicked a nervous flourish to each y and g and j and f contained within his hurried jots, his long words and elegant endings. Look at me, I have become distracted by my own delivery, please come in, we will trade feelings in our heads and sail our souls to the other on the stoney banks of

When you wake up, it’s the fourth track, “Electric Stars”, is playing, and merely visible is some kind of dream substance of layers of different ipsules and opsules, making up the glittering fever of someone’s head, far away from shit town. Far away in the “I’d be happy anywhere” mentality, some trip involving a person and a person and a road in the sky. It becomes clear. The rock from the past track, slowed down into palm-pocket sized bloops, and the guy’s voice canters large strides across the long dewy milky way grass.

Chequered flag.

Check out the band and click them a message saying “good going”.

The Time is Right (To Dance)

Time is always right man
World is slowly skipping, spirit’s on repeat
Even if it’s just in Living Room where we all decide to gather
Enlightenment’s already happened, so I guess we’re just moving to music

“This is not a hangover cure, this is just a good idea, to watch and listen and get with heads of everyone else” 

This is not a hangover cure, this is just a good idea, to watch and listen and get with heads of everyone else
Basically, writing and particular meanings aren’t quite on agenda
Music
Concept
Above, a Vine with real person Ross From Friends,  house of face of post-house music. Get social feed post house party on road.
Beneath Vine is music by Ross From Friends, the thing that was good such that I’m now writing and you’re listening.
Don’t worry about the menial obligations, deadlines and agendas and those old objective ways of thinking
just engage your head with rhythms and patterns and whole music that makes world make sense
Had you noticed the nature of leaves?

This guy is alive instigating above, like a lot of other musicians you understand, releasing more music through a Record Label called Breaker Breaker in January.

The song above is of great length, substantial.

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.

-

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.

-

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