How many more?

This is another late request. This is the second in quick succession. And silhouettes around the companion frame. A frame of light blowing past your edges. The brain recedes. The brain explodes in light. Excruciation.

What are titles amongst friends? The sounds of the past. The hours at play. The soundtrack to a childhood. We all hear the slips and the mistakes. We never forget the soundtracks and the feelings that they convey and embody. they are the most powerful of them all. Before we had the moving images to replace their story telling every tune was a place and an emotion. Every ripple of sound was full of place, time, emotion, feeling, narrative. the most expressive of sounds is the one that emotes an event. The one that tells a story without words. The one that lets a specific configuration of vibrations ring out true and full… the personal, the political, the local, the national.

Worts and all. These nights used to be the special ones. Now we just recover from the week’s damage. Rename the week’s end… Repair and recovery.

The detune is the essence of it all. And we look down hallways known for life and wait for the constructed awkward to pass. This is not how it was meant to be but always known to be the case. Look into that mirror, knock the head back and gaze at the roof. Let’s go now. How many more times this will come and go and come and go. The rhythm of numbers and letters ring true with the rhythm of past vibrations. I can feel the feelings I had then. The rhythm with which the faders and the buttons coincided with the sounds pre-made and lined up. The plans and designs come best sometimes from the end of a finger. No preconceptions, no corrections. Just pure ideas and feeling. The emotions of that time and space. That place you were in when you made it. When you thought like that. When you were that person. Looking at the week like just another. Not looking at a deadline or long term goal. Just looking at the wall in front. The same mirror. The same roof. Thinking let’s stay here and get it right. Let’s never leave. Let’s get up to this and only this and focus and keep it that way for good.

This is how it should always be. This is how I am happy with it. This is how I want it to stay.

But it never will. feeling the flow and the rhythm will never stop but the time and place will grow and develop with the soul/. The body gets older. The body gets heavier. The bones slow down. The mind gets slower. The time and place, will, change. That is inevitable.

And breath. And do it all again.

Birds, I think

You rise to that stage and the last month dips slow with the bass. You watch the stage evaporate in the fog of the atmosphere. Further and further into the haze yet you know it will be back again. Sometime. Right now you look at the current trajectory. Everything is a balancing act. Everything is a strategic manoeuvre towards an end goal. Define the goal.

And you twist the metal on another neck. Another colour. Another beautiful thing. You all agree it is just that. And yet. You need to sketch on it. Sink sound into it. Make it hum. Make it blast. Take it as it is and record every moment. Small set pieces. Small expressions.

You owe that much to yourself. You owe that much to the thing, to its function. Let it express your ideas.

The birds. Cracking nuts against the wall. New growth. Young. Sitting on the edges of chimneys. Conversations overheard. A heat source, where better?

And we exclaim despite the rules! Despite the how’s and what’s!

And in the morning you learn to test. Test the waters. Push on further.

You get it right in bits. This is the right thing. Good.

Phased Signal

The jam was heavy. The words just sat inside rubbing the edges and creating dimples on the surface. 

Sometimes they would come up to breath in long arcing flows cutting through the light atmosphere before ploughing gently into the surface. Into nothing. 

The runs and configurations masterful and composed. Dancing in a gentle wave, undulating rhythms to and fro. The eye dragged here and that. 

Every so often a loud groan lost in the sound. A reaction to a killer bite or bend. The flicks at a rhythm that is hard to land on purpose. Lost in a barely bopping sea of brains. 

No doubt they dug it. How could you not? But the whispers engage on a subterranean level. Eyes get heavy. The beat gets in you. And the soul is rocked into a deep restfull phase. 

More of this. 

Listen to the Dead Ones

So easy to hear them once they say goodbye. Sitting on shelves shouting at you from behind the plastic for years. A legacy unheard, all effort and no reward. As if by magic they break the seal at the last possible moment, their effect unleashed, and the world realises. For a fleeting moment they exist entwined. And they float away from one another, two pieces in space. One returns to our world, the other to nothingness. And just the noise remains. Clattering on our souls in the four dimensions that we consume.

The masses make of it what they can. In an effort to do what they can to put it right. As if it will fix things. And those that did listen. The minorities. They tut and exclaim at the regretful many. A great is lost, they say. A great it was.

And we all look into the nothingness as the shapes inevitably recede into noise. To black. To white. Until the shapes that we recognised only remain in the burned out nerves of our eyes. A fading face.

And it is so easy to hear it now that it is gone. So easy to appreciate what we had. But we did appreciate it as best we could. It’s just now we understand how.

Keep Driving

The lights said keep going and I was escaping that room of delicate clothes and perfect forms. The light said move on and turn it up. I did. Repeating beats. Memories repeating over and over. We were there before and we talk to the ones that are there now. A lot of what I remember but it is their time. And now I am escaping at high speed and following a light. Time on my own.

And then I wonder where to stop. How far to go. Keep going and follow the lights I think. Keep going until it brings me back to where I started. Follow the lights. So I did.

But the whole aim is to see it all as fast as possible. Complete control. Neat and tidy. These beats are fantastic and loose. But neat and tidy.

They were well turned out, another class. Working folk. Enjoying their weekend, spending their money and suited up with a delicacy I had not seen in some time. Like a wedding or a graduation. Going to town was something more impressive now, or at least here it was. I was impressed anyway.

A delicate touch. Keep on driving. Escape that.

The conversation drifted to achievement. It drifted to goals and ambition. We all reinforced our positions. Yea… We’re happy, right? The reality was that it can all be achieved if there is nothing holding you back… Why not go for it and see. Nobody telling you otherwise. Keep driving. Go with the lights.

Think about them. The glances. The music mixing forms and drawing attentions. The room moved with lyrics and cymbal crashes. Human mixtures. Enjoy it, they want you to… Everyone on show. Everyone showing. The glances. The judging. The levels they expect. Find the right floor and step off. Or just keep going. Keep driving. Think about another time.