Succeeding Oblivion

Introducing the two-part transitive listening experience of songs by Aimee deBeer (above).

Her singing voice would be the sound that would meet you if you were to unlock an old forgotten box you’d randomly found buried in the back garden of the Highlands; the box would open and the concentrated heartache of ghosts would clamber high / elegantly / far off into the sky / filling in the clouded gaps / leaping the grey rumble / towards somewhere else / unseen and unreal /not without leaving you with a something of the here and of the now / the seen and real / aftermath /the pleasant light sting of salt-water all-over.


The curtains billowing open for a second and the sun shining through. This voice is covering me, I’m restless in bed. The head billows open for a few seconds and the bed opens up. This bass guitar is holding me, I’m restless I said. The train door billows open for three seconds and the eyes slam shut.

Persephone and the Devil

The two songs would help me slumber drift down a half-conscious river wherever I be; the window, the bed, the train. And the sound of the riverflow is bruised and slowed with countless kneecap-shaped rocks, drums, not at all out of control, despite the current of strings that lightly splashes over.

At the end of river, one is flumed into a sea of unforgettably faced wash… Yet nothing to show of the descent other than the soft-pounding mark of purple on my knee, and “It’s okay not to be real” [Oblivion], a voice ghostly aching of the buried box in the heart. It’s a quiet, filled with neutrality and all the sad energy that neutrality might have implied before, back through cracks in the curtains and blank open beds, back in the old days of rivers and riverflows.

Intentional juxtaposition between pictures

And so, it’s this song, especially Oblivion that was my first listen, but not without its seamless follow-up, Persephone and the Devil, that, that has taught me how, in reflecting upon music and songs, one should sometimes focus less on the song itself, and rather on the silence that immediately succeeds the song’s ending [And, surely that would work neatly for a listener who listens best in half-daze]. Because, to murmur moreover, the silence succeeding both these two songs of an upcoming EP, Strange Fiction, from Aimee deBeer is one filled with something substantial, really okay, solemn, relaxed, dim-truth-realised feelings, no longer restless, charged with nothing more neurotic than neutral, an uplifting uniqueness of sound that keeps your feet on the ground and your head in the right position. I feel distilled. I feel the lightly pleasant sting of salt-water all over.

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