Bye-bye, 2010-2015

We’ve come a while, so far that it’s more than a few mountains and trains to recollect the reality of what we have covered and how we have covered it. However, as co-author of this music blog, I am readily available to say with all my conviction and dedication the following:

Here’s something to say that you’ve found here a platform and I don’t know if you feel like you know me but I feel like I know you well enough to put myself out there with these words to say the following:

Here’s something to say that you’ve found here a platform and I don’t know if you feel like you know me but I feel like I know you well enough to put myself out there with these words to say the following:

Here’s something to say that you’ve found here a platform and I don’t know if you feel like you know me but I feel like I know you well enough to put myself out there with these words to say the following:

And so I want to demonstrate through the implication of a trance-like yet logical repetition, to you but not to mention to myself, a few infinitely regressive horizons of one perpetual and apathetic rhythm of meaninglessness and direction that we perhaps had a little bit forgotten on the shadow of our peripheral vision. It’s an evasive thing to find a real resonance in an actual artefact at the time of writing. By artefact I want to mean all things that are things  that are related in a way to the artificial magnificence of mankind. By artefact at the time of writing, my mind is wandering around the confines and predictable metadata of this blog post, to the e-mails that music fanatics exchange, that creatives receive, to the mp3 and your library of mp3s in all its teenage/youth/growing-up spiritual significance, to the ever-surviving innovations like a new album, a release, a music video, an upload in all its arbitrarily linear-feeling and loading-bar pride. It’s difficult to find that attention-span, that duration; that aesthetic, that style; that mood, that genre; that resonance, that popularity, that pleasure, that commitment; that knowledge, that factually-speaking conviction that the artefact somehow belongs to the ritualistic regularity of your time-lined experience of life; that you, for instance, really like the newest album called something something by so and so, and that’s how it is, that’s how it will be, forever; you like the song, the album, the artist, etc.


Because the organic connection…
That’s right you hipster-weary friendly reader of these words; the organic connection between you and the origins of all the artefacts that you receive in and as your experience has inflicted upon itself a tendency to be completely blown out of the water and lofted into the superficial heights of an over-thought domain, that saturated indeterminate mess in which all manner of completely unrelated-seeming music is thrown at each other, like cascading, pressed against your eyes and pervasively, indeterminately; you scroll down the page and suddenly you are lead to the clear recognition that music has completely spilled out of itself into something that is almost impossible to really properly communicate efficiently and factually about. It’s a post-modern perspective, and even the post-modern perspective is seemingly folding in on itself, you start failing to trust the obliviously post-modernistic output that you originally once trusted. Essentially all everything gets mediated to you and it gets mediated into such arbitrary stylistic superficialities like, for instance, how a paragraph ends rather than what the paragraph contained or how the paragraph progressed: you get distracted by something you’re not really sure you truthfully wanted to be distracted by.

The organic connection that we took for granted is wholly in motion, pervasively, but evasively: I no longer even find the time to regularly check Pitchfork, the blogosphere has predominantly misplaced the integrity and reliability that laid the foundations of its identity as something relevant, something to be taken seriously, analytically, truthfully; a body that would forever demonstrate the direction of man’s artificial magnificence. Everything and every adjective about everything inevitably grows stale, not because they were over-used but because their relativity and their establishment is questionable: genre-names like techno, trashcore, chillout, synth pop, dark house, dubstep have all gained a certain cheesy comedy about them, up-and-coming, original, catchy; examples of descriptions that have long grown to lack their intended poignancy (what does that really mean? what an earth am I really expecting?), so are the more worryingly fundamental adjectives like, [and this is insane], exciting, good, interesting, awesome, lovely. These words sound the hollowness of emptied shells: their substance diminished insofar as their context is one in which ignition is suffocated, resonance is stifled, consensus is pulverised, the listener’s spirit, the artist’s spirit, the artefact’s spirit; all isolated and neglected: “the music world” is referenced to optimistically, hopefully, as if there really is a construction somewhere that centralises the perception of an average “music-lover”.

I never want to write anything so obvious as the above, ever again. That’s in the same way I would like to formally recognise that my place on the ship that readily voyaged through, through the music world of indeterminate links and hyper-active PR, that place has been vacated.

I never want to conflate and convolute upon the meaninglessness of media in the context of music, ever again. I want to make sense again. I want to make organic connection again, have I, have you ever really changed in your yearnings? Can we recognise our longings for what they are? Something that is heavily juxtaposed to the glory days of our origins and of our experiences in which all of our artefacts made sense? Where Mp3s were obviously our best friends, where blogged blog-rolls were gloriously exposed communities of commonly felt thrill, excitement, that aforementioned hyper-activity, first listens, where the newness of artists and songs and albums was like a new life and a new life of something we had the deep-down feeling we would be very caring of, dedicated, fulfilled.

I want to never conflate or trivialise the integrity of my demand for love and for love through the art of music, the music of art, the rhythm in which things make sense to me in a very shamelessly existential way:

I want to make organic connection again. I don’t want to upload anything else into this context, to this place where I = the person who wrote the words that you are reading: I think we know each other well enough right now.

And so, I admit, we all admit that we’re missing something right now. Something fails us, perhaps we fail ourselves. Something still excites us, something still leads us on in an equilibrium of fear and trust, anxiety and reassurance, knowledge and confusion, sound and silence, thoughts and feelings, paradoxes and lines, reading and understanding, durable and resonant. Its an admission like the admission that all the music that gets its arse stuffed up and established fails to embrace me anymore, fails to fulfil me anymore, fails to excite me anymore, fails to move me anymore; I’m not sure I can believe in music anymore, I’m not sure I like music anymore.

You know what I mean, because…

Of course, that cannot be the end of the story.

And certainly not the end of music’s story and the stories we tell about music.

Because music is still there, around me, filling my lungs, touching my nerves, helping me love, catalysing my memory, inspiring my motivation. Music is definitely still doing its thing somehow. It’s still there.

So where is it if it’s not where I said it wasn’t anymore?

Well, I don’t think it’s necessarily anywhere in particular. It’s more surely in some kind of evasive motionary thing that is very satisfactorily difficult to analyse, difficult to pin-point, challenging to at all capture. It’s immanent, that’s for sure. It’s resonant, that’s for sure. There are durations too, that’s for sure as well. But how, what and where: those question words I’d much rather leave hanging, I’d much rather try and find out rather than pretend I’ve already exposed them and understood them and communicated upon them, resolved them. No, I haven’t, but I’m trying. I’m trying to understand music and it feels very similar to the mysterious way in which I try to come to understand anything, get to know anything.

And this process of trying brings me to an exclusively-2016 directive, here on A Pocket Full of Seeds. I want to introduce real musicians. I am going to introduce real musicians. Musicians that I am organically grown towards, in place, time, from offline to online to offline again: where you know, I know, where you = I = the musician = the blog post about the musician = the fact that we forgot we were music-lovers, all along, we just got distracted by the establishment of this fact and forgot it actually meant something. We may have even forgotten that we ourselves actually meant something. I know that, it’s taken a few if not more months to really admit, but I admit it now, and I am excited. I am excited.

Here is a send-off sentence to one of a many songs that I have discovered through the journey of this blog and of this music world, from 2010-2015, the years of a somewhat justified hyper-activity:

Over and out – the next post will continue to blow our collective minds into action, and maybe you’ll want to read through this all over again.


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