Cramps, Context, Trains, Throat; Listeners turn to Kiko King & creativemaze


Boom crash bang {*} {*} The edges of the vacuum feel like the rough insides of a dry lifeless early morning throat. And now I am observing those edges from afar, as if distinct from, as if separate from, the yearns and yelps of peaceless ache; the throat is an empty word, the sucking and sucking of thoughts on the things they past, the things they future. These objects are made up in dimensions much similar to those that contain the raws of rhythm, from the opening to the ending, the beat to its next, to the opening bars once more. My feet argue with the floor, transition, my arms fight the air, transition, my body is an abrasive uplifting process.

The train comes to a sudden halt and the passengers turn to statues. Crying uncontrollably hysterically. The countryside continues to blur past, fast. The train is motionless, silent, my aisle-d mind taps me on the shoulder and tries to squeeze past. My tears come back to comfort me, forming bubbles, floating above my head, popping on the windows.

I’m contained by dimensions much the same as those that contain the spilling imaginations of drunk entertainers, the beautiful red stains of drunk listeners, of midnight taxi-drivers and taxi-passengers and the suburban roads in which they light up like fumbled filter-cigarettes.

Can’t stop. Crying. Can’t wheedle yourself out. Can’t squeeze past.

This song is that song that made me feel full of myself for the first time and it was that time when the reverend announced that “Electronic Music is here, and it’s here to stay”. He thought he was referring specifically to Daft Punk and for all we know he probably was. I thought he was. At the time, my mind got to its feet and drifted elsewhere, out the doors, frantically listening to Harder Better Faster but never quite making it to Stronger. Still, I was left with a feeling that stirred what inklings and inkless and mysterious ‘acoustic’ mind-matter I had at the time. Something was suddenly real, continuous. Something was beating. I was still, listening alone, in public, imagining a DJ with a DJ deck, fisting “big beats” to a nightlit audience; a congregation of my partying intoxicated thoughts.

Conversely, that was a time that felt like a girl’s world in 2004. It was 2004 and I was scrolling my News Feed, all my friends, my life, flashing before my eyes, just for but a second. That was a time that felt timeless, parallel, 2007, a time of electric dreams for some pre-historic reality, a time of excitement for the art of digital dance move and secret virtual discos.

That timeframe is still hung up on the many walls of we, the listener.

And I’m somehow still being a listener, dangling dust on a wall, and my state’s washing itself up over and again on the Soundcloud website and I’m streaming hard, making tracks, getting it good, yeah MAN, it’s an artist’s 21st century story, dressed in uploaded orange. The sound comes through the internet as it always does. Post-does post-dance. I’ll message them to say I blogged them to say that they had me for a moment, they had my love and existence and attention, my past future, my reverend, they have my recommendation, my fingers at the ready, fumbling for the train I can’t get out of, the throat I can’t escape. That train and my statues, that black hole throat and its swirling friction of ache, those ghosts and their transport that bangs and charges through our natural substance, our community trust, our electronic mail. Everyone has that train, it just needs its platform, “please alight here” and aglow your fumbled pent up cigarettes: this song, this song is a platform.


A train of thought for Kiko King & creative maze, for this song above called Cramps, for the others as well, for the last 2 hours minutes it all got underway.

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