nchx: b•o•m (plastic horse)

it’s sunday morning. early morning. weight of the week teetering, bearing down. some days are made for cocoon, for ignoring everything outside the six feet of skin bone and fluids encasing this flowerpress of nerves and neurons and neuroses. it’s good to be forced out sometimes, of thoughts and buildings and comfort and i am out.

this, this is blaring. wild, percussive, a gallop of horse hooves on rubber and tin. it’s fucking cold, so stomping along is well simpatico. and it’s fucking dark out, everything piss-weak moon-white so i’m blearing through the dark. all these goddam bleeps like echolocation, forming shapes in ink.

a pleasingly claustrophobic symbiote.

this is how i used to write, like a shitting dog i’d do it in the streets. early hours, fucked by insomnia, headphones on, big coat as duvet, drift, shut down. and it worked usually, osmosis with whatever noise i was drawn into, when cities and what happened in them made some kind of connection. traffic noise as blanket, industrial klank a womb beat. i’d empty my head, i’d write about sound, i’d sleep.

except i’ve moved. not in an ambulatory sense (though that happened too). in the physical sense of humphing boxes to small village life for clean air, clear nights, unsettling quiet, trees. there is no cloy or smother of city. and i’ve dozed pretty much fine for a while so there’s no need to write for oblivion.

but more than anything there’s just so much real life reading and typing for money it’s a struggle to do words for fun now. so back to this need to mould new habits …

the few pieces i wrote last year were attempted cobweb dusters (and a slab of raw meat from mattin i proper gnawed at). the few from the year before that were usually by proxy, formed on walks or cycles while i vanished for a bit, the music a memory i’d play in my head (coz who the fuck wants anything else but the ghost creak of trees and birdcall swooning through the air when out).

wouldn’t call it engagement exactly, more of multiple connections in my brain, spaghetti’d up.

anyway. into this strange in-between i’m in slides this strange in-between album. a kinda album, for a kinda headspace.

it’s an abstract of subway and concrete. beats bleeding from doorways. it’s music for shared spaces but emptied for a while. it’s [insert micro-genre] abandon, held back then spun roundandaround till it’s not sure where the fuck it’s going and heading off if not quite in the right direction, then at least a more curious one.

this music’s like derek acorah, a wonky medium (literally / figuratively) between environment and me. i’m trying to marry the billowed leaves at my feet, everything underneath slack and damp and alive, with the jagged, ragged shards of warped circuitry frotting gloriously in my skull. everything around me’s open and breathing, while this pops like underpass reverb.

so i take it to town. no longer stuck in a palms-clammy clumsy-fumble with the unexplored, but comfortable with well-worn routes, and the spray-paint semiotics of bus shelters and shutters and vomit-pocked doorways.

my feet and eyes lock on pavement. the clamour in my ears a bullyingly funk. standing atop a ladder of stairs, teflontuan grips me, and i idly wonder what it’d be like to take a lonely tumble, father karras-style down them. each thump and flail an aural mirror. always feels like this counterplay in dave’s noise, between denial and hedonism, nerves and poise, between the sequenced and mutating.

songs against themselves.

they’re something but not quite the thing where my club loving other half can stretch out while at the same time i get my drexciya aggressively poking a finger in my face groove on. it swings, like a 303 battering off the gunmetal greys and squat modernist folds of this languishing city. the brick and steel and glass an antenna channelling multi-storey beats.

none of this meant to reduce it to soundtrack (of the kind just plunked on top). it’s not passive. it’s part of something. it’s not music as blanket, it’s music as oil slick; coating, drowning, smothering, getting under skin and nails, into bloodstreams and orifices.

it’s ducking and weaving round and through on an offkilter plane, same as me. feels like a journey. and all that entails.

plastic horse / nochexxx

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