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 -(… ..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.

Drew the indie singer

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.

keep your voice out of my head because

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.



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.



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.