Music made for those dusk hours of a road trip to welcome in the solidarity of the night-time drive. In a gutted out house in Chicago this husband-wife duo combined their efforts and obvious love for each other to create such angelic alt-country that are very reminiscent to a bother-sister duo Angus and Julia Stone.
Pain is sickness of the will. Which is why, I’m most proud to say, I’m immune. “Coyote” by Loscil is the endlessly fascinating paired subtleties as found on the upcoming Sketches From New Brighton on September 10th via Kranky.
Burnt first finger at the sweating stove-top. Placing finger under cold water was a secondary thought. Ran the mild finger burn under sweating water. Any pain was sickness of the will. So I kept my finger under sweating water, testing my immunity. It must have been hours. The insentient sun danced the side-step without which the world wouldn’t exist, it looked at me too. The fugitive ashes of near smoke signals skipped the most miniature dust across my window of sun watching. The sweating water ran out due to drought and unpaid bills, and at the point when the fugitive ashes veiled about a third of my sun vision, brutally crisp water pounded my mild but burning burn. That pain was worse. But pain is sickness of the will. So I waited till the unpaid bills and desert drought made even the cold water exhausted. I put my finger between my eyes, looked cross-eyed at the undignified first finger burn, it was healed. I never got sick, that must have been the most dignified thing about me.
There are questions with answers and questions without, daytime questions, nighttime questions, nocturnal questioners, and questioners with AM alarms. Heatherwood is the nocturnal type. Questions of continuum. “Eden” by the Russian duo Heatherwood is the first song on their release FYRvia Puerto Rican label Trade Winds.
Instead, all I could see were question marks. And unthinking sentences ended only in three periods. How can I think when there are so many question marks? He drained his tea like urgent medicine. “Want to go to sleep?” he asked. I looked at him with the same intent as when looking through the wet windshield with the spread thin white and red streetlights. Is that sort of question the only question he has? I asked this without speaking it. He set an alarm. The red militaristic dashes of digital time disrupted the blackness. Red ants marching in the dark. I asked my questions, aloud, as I watched the lines march and march through time. I tested my craziness on him, asking questions, which in daylight he’d respond to, he didn’t at night, but he wasn’t sleeping. He listened, but didn’t ponder, he felt guilty for my inquiry, but didn’t say so. I don’t know how many questions it took for the red ants to scream in 7:05 AM terror. And when they did I had to shift, from nighttime questions to daylight questions, questions he could answer, and feel less to blame for. No matter the red ants seemingly significant orientation, all I ever saw were question marks.
Cracking sand, cracking brown, cracking beige crackled under crackling fire. A mosaic of cracked bygones lost in the desert. “Junction” - a new song by the ghostly Peh Per Ghost.
Cracked peanuts, cracked bodies of bees, crackling tobacco, wrapped in misused tree. Cracked green bottles being the only greenery, cracking miles of dirt, cracked in mosaic, missing pattern, crackling fire, roasting cracking animal debris. Was I cracking? If not, why did I get there? If yes, what could I add to the cracking alien land but more glistening bits of debris across the mosaic of mostly beige/brown/bygone being. Am I cracking?
Mass-made, manmade consciousness. “Worker” exposes the mass-made manmade light like a darkroom. The blindness otherwise. “Worker” is the A-side to Martin Eden’s (electronic project of Eluvium) upcoming 7” on Lefse.
We’re blind, and live in blindness minus minutes of neon dashes that set us into consciousness. Streetlights white like fisted knuckles, many million identical cellular devices interjecting with fluorescence, suited men standing as silhouettes hiding crimes in lit office windows- lights, neon, manmade, mass-made consciousness. Imagine, without the lights. The black amnesia of heaven at night. Except for the moon. Which drags the sea, and would drag us too, into pause, into amnesia, into daylight. Not manufactured by men. Days born white as eyeball whites. Without lit night to make us blind, and blind even in daylight.
Tapping like distant, twirling, helicopter blades. Scurrying like little animation animals. Amber like reminiscence of eras past. The dots stabilized, drifted, conducted heat, were swathed in self-aware consciousness, swung like sweeping flags, itched. He caused himself a headache. His face scrunched like a shriveled grape. His forehead rubbed his nose. His eyes underneath layers of layered eyelids. He caused himself a headache. He was as noiseless as the white tiles beneath him, except for his breathing, he shared a ghostliness with them. Besides it’s self-compression, his face was vacant, drifting as if no thought to conduct it. What do you think it is? A jungle? A song? The only thought he could ever pay any attention to was the thought that the dots he saw or thought he saw when making his face as shriveled as could be, must have been the most natural of what he could perceive. The dots, the melody and cacophony of them, must be some sort of nature, maybe a jungle, maybe a song. He made his face as shriveled as a grape, and caused himself his constant headache.
“Giga Giga” is one of three songs currently lurking in the humidity of PLAN’s soundcloud.
Indirections find directions out. The rain drains sigh at the heels of the observer. The straggler currents turn awry as the observers observe the unobserved. The zig zag rain drains we see only temporarily, in ourselves. From morbid flesh coils, they smell like the shedding of people.
They shook with shame, bruised knees, black magic, and ghostly fake gold ring finger rings. When You Were Partying, I Was Dying. “Eleven Twenty” is one of four tracks off of Caves’ When You Were Partying, I Was Dying.released today via Absent Fever.
They stripped their saintly ring finger rings with their teeth and spit at the shrew snake of dawn - they faded out of dreams and migraines and woke with the stench of hometown alleyways. They had run icy street ice-skating city rinks, knees bruised purple and black magic. The ghostly rings were fake gold - they confessed.
James Vincent McMorrow’s latest EP We Don’t Eat features a cover of Steve Winwood’s Higher Love and Chris Isaak’s Wicked Game, as well as live performances of two tracks from his Early In The Morning album. The EP is now available via Amazon and iTunes.
P.S. Download the title track for FREE through Amazon.