An Ode to dear musicians,
Barack Obama’s presidency was in the hopeless honeymoon of its second term. Signing individually in the 2013 to Sturm and Klang Records, Wehtam Yelthgiek brought doob-hop into its maturity alongside fellow heads of the economic depression; in Texas, in Hildesheim, in Bristol and in Nice. SKR’s public translation accumulates and WY starts playing the guitar more, around the hay-day of ‘Islamic State’; his friend Drew (JH York) was playing more drums. Together at one of those bungalow gigs I saw them play hysterically hard-futurist numbers, the microphone got thrown about, screaming got like dancing: everyone screaming together, consuming the melody and the electric guitar. There was this whiskey that he made, two people fell in love, I saw them last month, the whiskey brewery has shut shop, chapter closed, tenancy ended.
Around a year later and WY has published a song using colombian internet, you can hear the Sturm and Klang sub-culture as much as it reminds me of those gigs. The artist coins the concept of loss like an improvisation, puts it in your hand and it’s worth infinity, the beat is similarly exchangeable. A lot of other post-2008 sub-cultures have been forgotten despite their religious-like followings, others are on terminal impending break, none of those are that way negative, some are visibly blooming into the oblivious outskirts of Economy as we speak -(https://boilerroom.tv/session/london-overmono/)… ..From Colombia, WY’s song sounds a beginning of time like the walls of Jericho. Today, the song materialises a bicultural like a love-story between two separate life stories. LOST THE B does it with more dreaming venom than that whiskey tasted like, to and fro: in reality it’s all an antidote.
For two years, Drew JH York lived in a bungalow in the suburbs of a town in Essex, there he and his friend experimented with parties of people, temporarily disillusioned, playing different versions of indie music. What Drew plays himself is borne by time, belief and motivation. If it’s a genre, it’s memorable, because that’s partly how the best songs get themselves made. His question “How Do I Know?” gets more unsettling the more you get to know him backwards through the music. If I’m not used to being unsettled by 2000s chaos, then something is wrong, Drew reminds me how there’s nothing wrong. “Nothing + something” must be the most beautiful mantra hummed to itself by some poor dumbed object of paranoia, and for that reason I am thankful that Drew is now subject – to being back home, singing about that, uploading it, doing it again at some point. For if you don’t feel at home in the trillion debt regression, then something is wrong, God knows how indie uploads survive; Drew reminds me how they do even if he doesn’t know how he knows that.
I think I’ll have to edit this post in a few days, or maybe tomorrow. Everything’s gotten dangerous and your decisions are like suicides of people like thoughts you don’t have anymore. And the guy holding the test tube looked like he was going to drop the test tube. The test tube was a product of HHHH™ where H stands for Hegel because you’re having those thoughts again, you start writing dreams into your arms in your dreams, you stop writing reviews, you’re 13 again, you’re imaginary again. Of course the test tube got dropped; it’s Wednesday, it’s Wednesday, it’s Wednesday, it’s not Wednesday. The guy did it, dropped it, on purpose because he forgot how to forget the fact he wants to fuck you and all your thoughts into a plateau upon which he can sleep. ON PURPOSE BECAUSE the guy gave you headaches on purpose because you gave him your money on purpose and because those pieces of paper are so intrinsic to your headaches, those numbers are so intrinsic to your headaches, those nightmares you keep on having, oh no wait you just logged on so it’s okay -
and you’re reading so it’s okay
schizophrenia so it’s okay
it’s a blog so it’s okay
Anything to keep your voice out of my head, anything to get anyone who thought they were important more engaged and more logged into the local scene whereby terrorists of the terrifyingly possible future explosions are just people who paranoid people think are paranoid.
WEDNESDAY WEDNESDAY WEDNESDAY
KEEP YOUR VOICE OUT OF MY HEAD
just some lyrics from the above; reasons to commit yourself to reasons to keep thinking about how you’re still falling
February 14th 2016
The unyielding journey where the internet and the music click: I Guess This Must Be Love. The singing sliced into the heart of the thing moulds around your in inside and about your headache like Moodymann‘s Why Do U Feel, similarly melancholily mashed up and appreciable: just the required level of decay in the important bits: headache bounced out of your head like words out of time like feelings out of thoughts: sense the fresh and you’ll be good, you can trust me on this one.
If this song is the “New track up…” as advertised to me via Clift N Anthony (designed the artwork) via the original advertiser, Julian Edwards (who is probably the artist bastiengoat), then we take it that the “track” is you, me, immanently, and we are the ones who are now finding ourselves, “up”.
If this song’s supposed to vicariously symbolise us now then I can recommend this is the time to prick your ears up like you’ve never pricked your ears up before to everything that resonates with your gravity to the good times… The good times where your friends were calling it trap music
and you’re there on the relevant event page and the artist is summarised, typed up as “FUTURE BASS MUSIC”
you’re reminded disconnectedly of both conjuncts in a kind of falling feeling; must be the way the rhythm has no rhythm and you’re thinking like some philosopher with his hand pointing into the imagined person’s face and you’re gawping the expression “that’s true!”, you’re too busy gawping to say it out loud
And you find yourself between words and time, between thoughts and feelings, between headache and head? I Guess This Must Be Love …is where it goes click. It’s definitely to some extent because of the artwork and the keyboard that normalises an image of naked world that seems to mean something to everyone the more they grow tired of the music they listen to.
Lyrics on the first song of an album that looked at 2015 and thought “so what”, this is the year it feels like everyone is listening to skewed love songs for the first time again. The next post below blew our minds into collective action just like I confuse romance for reality all over again, Therese Raquin for Madame Bovary all over again, Willy Mason for Dostievsky all over again. Home, for here, back and forth again – post for past for pre-the-fact that I’m listening comfortably to Silver Jews.
They’re an introduction to the end of a stream of conscience, dramatic and addressed to something different every time, always footnoted invisibly with a kind of begrudgingly inviting lyricism.
There is this bestowed sexuality of sounding oddly. You think that fate is fate because Conor Obe TOLD YOU SOrst. One doesn’t tell anyone about that, because one doesn’t want others to know, even the others who’ve listened to him and know that too. You let those ones know quietly and loudly, intermittently.
These lyrics aren’t Mitski, and there’s something about that that excites me. Then of course maybe that’s because she ends my sentences right now. There’s a connection between Conor Oberst, between “Happy”, between Silver Jews and the connection between the people who know these connections. It’s a kind of twist you don’t want to expect, but you love helping yourself come back to keep intwined with the reality of phantoms like Donald Trump, . It kind of nudges you like a grudgy, beautiful thing you often forget you want to be comfortably lifeless around: those band sounds, you know, all over again as if for the first time.
But come on, that’s so eloquently not the case. The people who know the connection aren’t these songs. Not these kind of songs. These kind of songs makes me stop banging on about the people, start banging on about the songs, like The Libertines and how they’re all at sea, and stuff, you know, all over again.
Comedy and knowledge in rhythm with one another; “life should mean a lot less than this”… yeah that kinda drives it home, drives me home: hello again.