I want to breach upon the listening experience of Ole Torjus again: to shed more light on his ambient Norwegian world – a world of continuously tantalising, emotional and mesmeric, electronic music.
Sometimes it’s worth thinking about what it all means: listening to some music on the internet, and now me writing about music on the internet what is everything actually trying to achieve? I end up concluding some nice things about love and loving people and how all this does that and, so, when I, as I am about to do now, respond to some music with just some lines of poetry I wrote whilst listening to it, I think I’m demonstrating to you that Torjus’s songs were like gardeners and they cultivated some feeling, some good good amazing feeling inside of me, allowing me to finally break through the dirt and see things clearly for once. If the song works on you, and if that songs works on you whilst you read the poetry then we might start a chain of expression and love and creativity and probably peace as well, maybe you could continue the chain by sharing the songs on a social network with some eloquent and well-chosen words, share the love, the big chain of love, we could get in the Guiness Book of Records, right?
The songs I focused upon were Safe, Living Together, Renvas Ugnim, Muscle Memory, At The Bottom Of A Strange Hill and Close; that is to say, the entire constituents of Ole’s newly accessible At The Bottom Of A Strange Hill EP, collated earlier this just-departed November. The poem I did was about getting up and doing things even though you really don’t want to and getting into a reassuring routine of that.
grey light clunks onto the lids of my eyes and
I feel the day drawing soon after its beginning,
and I can feel it now,
drawing on my windows towards my bed in my room.
I think I feel some blown up proportions
somewhere bulging above my diaphragm;
some kind of exaggerated constructed generation of a
few breaths of air
clambering like a pile of riddles
and convening near the heart
somewhere near the heart
Try putting on your shirt and walking to work
to work it all out
to try it all out
you need to have a heart of gold, a cage you grew to knew,
a full up stomach,
some breaths you harboured in between all the meanings,
that stale feeling,
fermenting on the ground,
rooted to the ground: your forever routine.
so when the grey light clunks on the lids of your eyes,
of my eyes,
I have something
to keep me busy and keep me positive and keep me close to feeling
like there’s some purpose, some true property to the outside and to the outside of me,
that motionless meaningless morning in a bed in a room,
I catch a breath, and start the day.
[and this is what I would listen to]