it’s a tuesday morning hangover of a record. a kindof graceful/graceless disorientation. hazy and half remembered. morning after, mnemonic emergence. prefrontal cortex dreams of three a.m. open university screeds. dendrite paths guided by fritzing wires, frenetic and alphabetized; coiled, tangling, stumbling, slipping through grasping fingers. unclear connections. imperfect fits. succumbing to syntax and ellipses. tenuous drifts. palpable tension.
it’s a feverish addled opium dream from a glasgow council scheme. the grim moribund humour of provincial towns, lumpy and awkward and ugly. the grey concrete crunch of bastard techno and mangled dubstep and seventies tv filtered through damp plasterboard walls. the faint tang of cough sweets drifting from some lost mancunian, some faded old fella explaining maryhill and the clyde canal system over a half pint of seventy shilling and scratched throbbing gristle compact discs.
it’s a strange city walk home. it’s the scurrying of things towards dark. it’s the fuzzy headed whistle of noise in ears and the dulled thump of feet on pavement. i tap out the rhythm till i fall into somewhere and fall somewhere else. then the unsettlement of waking befuddled and notquitealone, before the configuring fist of realisation clubs you upside the head. picking through bones and sigils and mandalas for nontruths and unanswers amongst the vague a.m. radio swirl of transmissions seeking a receptor. unravelling the bloated knot of concrete poetry
it’s the wail of warm electrics. a senseless trigger twitch in brain function and migraine violence flares intense like some instant cancer shriek. disorientation white hot and absolute, sets teeth on edge. an irregular dream, of piece by piece taping together. somewhere in here, there’s a rhythm, a musical prosody. there’s a broke syncopation and spasmodic repetition. there’s a wombeat and heartstammer. more accurately, the interstitial spaces that exist inside/between/around these things. shuffling, staggering, shambling. walking a tightrope with only the ghost of shelley winters guiding you.
it’s a flux of homemade, of stolen, of folk unmusic. like barely there dictaphone recorded mokum tracks dissolving in a digital lime bath. harry smith machine-speaking in tongues. tomorrows world and delia derbyshire and radio four buggered by a zoviet france patch. a mess. a noise. a postsomethingorother. a presomethingorother. here, here is no horizon, no point of reference, only nothing and everything all at once. a kindof gluey incohesion hinted at beneath the (un)structure and (de)composition.
make of it what you will. i have.