“When We Were”
Sorta like the broodingness of SECRET BOYFRIEND, stolen soul of Xiu Xiu, and longing we have for Dylan Ettinger, Sleep Museum comes within earshot of a blended originality that lingers in the mind months after just a hit of “When We Were.” But this demon of transitional shapes, colors, and shadows blend – just as well – with the song in a faded and disturbing display of what sleep walking looks like around 4AM when you open your eyes miles from home, and the only thing you have is, wait –your cellphone has piss and blood on it and neither are yours. There’s a steam powered engine in the distance smoke signaling you toward it’s pressuring beat under a sterile florescent light, and you see a dual smoke signal, Sleep Muesum is standing in the shadows crooning you as a siren from the bewilderment of this harsh wake up, instantly easing your tension.
If only “When We Were” really DID refer to that time, it’d put better context to the situation, maybe, but it doesn’t, and that didn’t happen, as you continue wandering the highway with thumb en-route. No destination in mind and SHIT!!! Just slipped on a cassette tape on the wet road and it reads The Vitrine of Blindness which you laugh at the irony when finding Sleep Muesum’s name on the other side, branded by Golden Cloud Tapes. Change route. Let’s go north.
ORDER HERE AND NOW: The Vitrine of Blindness by Sleep Museum from Golden Cloud Tapes, it’s a C(fucking)60(YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!), and will take you upon many adventures. Breath with “When We Were” below in the mean-time:
Somewhere in Missoula, Montana there’s a group of friends making auditory love with one another. To the sound of ℐ Sherri, you make me want to simultaneously cuddle and drive really fast at night.
“Devine” is the tiny umbrella in a chocolate cake you’re eating with your hands, solo acoustic guitar covers of Santana are playing and there’s a general positive outlook on generally sad things entering your blood stream.
Soft Spot, as a whole, is a backseat nestling of those bedroom eyes Autre Ve Neut is always giving and what Meth Dad spits in the shower.
Cheer up, dude.
• ℐ Sherri: http://jsherri.bandcamp.com
“Rock n Roll”
Rock & roll is dead, dude. Hasn’t anybody told you that? Guess if you’re gonna remain willfully ignorant, then I’ll indulge you fer a bit. ‘Bout to press play…
Oh me, oh my — rock & roll isn’t dead! IT’S ALIVE. Thanks in part to Seth Olinsky (Akron/Family)’s Cy Dune: You got the goods in spades, dear pal. Prescribed witness to self-destruction status, right here. Encouragement of the senses and fuzzy tongue licks. Glow bright, CY-CLONE. Rip through time and place. Repeat and reuse. Go on and get rolled. Salmon getting mauled, falling down concrete beach steps, waking up in puke and bad phone calls. Let the spirits take you.
“Rock n Roll” is off of Cy Dune’s upcoming LP Shake, out on his very own co-founded Lighting Records. Hopefully the time comes when you and I can hear the rest of the record, because my ears are perked, and I can only imagine your ears are too.
What the fuck is that noise outside? Oh, it’s LAMPGOD rolling down Evergreen Ave. Mixing en route on a bicycle, backpack speaker, helmet at the ready, and he’s serving up some f-r-e-s-h-n-e-s-s: “TIPS, PLZZ! :D”
There’s an atmosphere that “PALM LYCIUM” reminds me of that’s just around mid-August. Like, to the point all the old ladies know the fishermen by name. Or “pass it down” and the word bogart are familiar phrases on the beach. The same fucking tag is EVERYWHERE, why; WHAT THE FUCK? Everything is the same price. –And LAMPGOD really has this psychedelic nature to mixing that is twitchy in a chiller environment, not too far from your ears and them speakers.
Pick up the phone. LAMPGOD is calling you about some new flavor,”PALM LYCIUM” –
• LAMPGOD: https://soundcloud.com/lampgod
Something I realized recently is that I like to write about almost anything. I sent Dear Criminals’ “Petite mort” to my fiancée, and she was like, “You’re premiering THAT track?” And when I was across the street last night walking my dog, there were kids in the woods hanging, so I joined their smoke with Maud, and afterward, they thought it was a great idea to sacrifice one of their friends, which was when this realization happened. As they were tearing apart this boy’s skin and innards — 14 or 15 years old — I realized while walking slowly away that the real world might be a sheltered one because (1) people and (2) PEOPLE.
Dear Criminals are people too, yeah. And if you know what I’m normally into, then you also know that “Petite mort” is not exactly my cup of tea. But then again, this track doesn’t strive for “originality,” and I admire their particularness to production and mastering on this obviously well melodied and rhythmic song. Since Dear Criminals (appears to have) began last year around this time with lover’s suicide — they don’t have a Discogs page (which is as frightening as it is intriguing) — perhaps the trio is just now finding its footing.
Snag their newest EP, Crave, available here.
• Dear Criminals: http://www.dearcriminals.com
“Live @Times Square, August 2014”
What is cacophony?
What sounds define a level of inane madness in which the appellation “noise” would no longer be useful? No, I’m not talking about something that necessarily breaks the mind, but rather something that dulls the mind to the point of being unable to accept anything reasonable. At what point does something become so chaotic that it stops being a source of horror or terror, but a miasma of sound from which you can’t make out anything whole, just fragments of what has already been done? And if anyone were in the middle of it all, would they be crushed by its sheer desolation?
It all seems so meaningless. If there is anything that can destroy the relevance of an instrument, it is too much of it at once. So what keeps a certain middle-aged man intent on playing on like a teenager, and what makes him think that he is any different from the various men of his age who are doing the exact same thing at stacks near by?
I speak nonsense, but then so is this video. In theory, one could get away with calling this “noise music,” but only if they were trolling certain music publications. For really, what we are witnessing is a moment that still occurs too often: the decayed myopic dreams of a dozen man-children converging in the basement of a massive tourist trap to create cacophony. You simply cannot get more dissonant and bleak at once.
• Cacophony: http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/cacophony