Since I heard this band, I’ve been benefitted by the constant option of mustering motivation, by pressing play and allowing OK–Kid-conviction to contain, to construct my own convictions. And so, wherever I am, 2 months on from hearing this for the first time whence I was a hitchhiker overhearing international radio in a white van, I know that the sturdy ground I stand on now and on which others land, take off, is not without the energetic bearings, the rap, the clearly pronounced certitudes, the unwrapped, the cohesive rhyming schema, the beaten up, the fast-laned, emotional geographic insights, the thick dark synthetically-headed south, the high-noted positions, beauty, the bright north-cut keys, the obvious comprehensive poetic kinetics, the !s, the //s, the ,,,s the OKs; OK Kid. Let all this noise settling-in worded whirring, ever unusual worlding, open yet opaque; let /my all/ mould an absence into which the much-loved essence, the touched-upon of this band, can fit so perfectly within:
For, with Hellwach lofted above as an instance, I have something of a morning routine my all, you all, we all are nearing every time we wake up and it feels sufficiently right. And, with Hellwach dissected and mantled-pieced upon these further openings, I have something of a genius unreflective bean of evidence of my wide-awakeness, walking through the city, thoughts flying, eyes unguarded, watching people talking to me, not talking to me, alert, underlining art with assertive text, untranslatable, noise focused, awoken in impenetrable energy, cooking up, sweat-building, a cigarette I decided to smoke, a person I decided to be unfriends with, to be friends with, untranslatable conviction, not even English, not even needed, wanted, blood, oiled, an automatic, almost dogmatic, the pragmatic; a cog I clunk, a sob I sunk; these songs, this album, this band, weirdly unbeknown to the English Channel and its westward beyond; carried forth in undeterred units, pragmatic paragraphs, this two wheel driving vehicle, please, have these warm sparks, OK Kid, for your wandering thumbsticks, your hitch, your scrolls. Listen up, the above; give yourself a lift.