Playlist: November 2017

IMG_7783

IMG_7846

IMG_7975

The kind of cold that’s purifying, that fills your lungs like sea-water sloshing inside the mouth of a cave. So it’s hard to breathe, but cutting through the breath is a sweet feeling, preciously there in the swift struggle that settles on calm. I go out at night and the cold air is a shot of adrenaline; I walk ultra fast, making hard strides across asphalt that sparkles with salt in the fierce moonlight. This is a month of much stress and panic but also relief. Resolving to make new friends, even though each time I worry about who will leave next; the cyclical press of everyone coming and going, memory hanging on a thin noose I can’t quite tauten, snap and break. I fall through it as light falls through a halo. I feel feathery and weird, writing nonsense in the morning to delay the inevitable rise from bed—a snap of cold, of spine and mind. I love the old ones, look forward to new.

We’re up late and I watch things unfold, messenger blue. At work, I run upstairs to watch Out Lines perform down below, an incredible light show glistering with swirls of lilac and white. It’s gorgeous and dramatic, genuinely breathtaking. I watch from the gallery as sonorous and sinuous beautiful voices mingle in a room full of awe. I feel sobered, grateful to just be, watching a few songs before inevitably I must return to work, to count the till and smell the coppery aura of tired old pennies. I see Julien Baker perform in LP Records, filling the tiny room with her massive voice; a voice that could start car alarms, make cracks in the concrete, tear up the numbness that governs the daily. It’s the voice of a heart too big for its ribs, a heart throbbing against the cruelties of existence, spreading hope on a room of friends and strangers. She covers Audioslave’s ‘Doesn’t Remind Me’ in honour of Chris Cornell, and for weeks after I hear that refrain, over and over, Cause it doesn’t remind me of anything. And I wonder what it means, and what sort of list I’d make in lieu of  Cornell’s lyrics (‘gypsy moths’, ‘radio talk’, ‘driving backwards in the fog’, ‘canned applause’), planning a poetry exercise but then finding all the same that even the world’s waste is entangled for me. Maybe I will get older and find little daily voids to give my mind too. For now, even a tree is too heavy with everything. I can’t talk about Pokémon without getting misty-eyed over my youth.

Strange personal things make momentary ripples in reality. I fall asleep at work, heroin-heavy, in a hoard of recollected dreamscapes; I get up at 3:30am to attend a conference in St. Andrews, ‘Cultivating Perspectives on Landscape’. The sky above the River Eden is this dramatic topaz cutting into azure, argent wisps of cloud streaking the horizon. Without realising, I pass by a friend’s house. I watch from the train window in total awe; delirious on the earliness of it all, the quiet, the light on the soft waves rolling and rolling. I could be on this train forever, even though waiting at the station for changes makes my fingers seize up with the cold. I’m reading Robert Macfarlane’s The Old Ways, gloved fingers clutching its paperback skin and pulling pages back with a hunger within. He describes the absolute cold of the mountains, the physical heft and sense of pure reward—not from summit but from sheer movement, the panoramas unfolding around you, the mountain that gets under your skin, the scale and sublime you practically inhale. Landscape glitters with detail; Macfarlane has a vocabulary that makes you feel as though in reading you were picking over some deluxe smorgasbord of words. Learning and learning in the lilt and fall of his complex rhythms. It is the right thing to read at these freezing stations, taking me elsewhere entirely, sharing my sense of embodied limit. I arrive at Leuchers around 8am, the sun just coming up over flat plains, a total burnished, scolding orange. Later, I find myself wandering a herb garden with lovely strangers, crushing rosemary between fingers and ruminating on narratives of scent. A very clever academic gives a lecture on classics and lively stones. On the train home, everyone is drunk and teenage boys crack cans and discuss girls with a coarseness I’d sort of forgotten existed. I sit opposite two guys in their late twenties who discuss their mutual careers as accountants, and I feel blessed to be outside such existence: paid-for parties, gym memberships, brutal team meetings, deadlines, spreadsheets, rapturous conversations about the latest tablet. I buy a bottle of Talisker Skye on the way up Sauchiehall Street, warm my cockles on the space-heater and do sun salutations to boost circulation. Already, several friends have left for Australia.

Frequently, there’s a brain fever, an ache in the body. I am ill for much of this month, but there is a day when I wake up better and clearer and it is like taking a drug. Health. Temporary sense of invincibility. Sad things happen, secrets reveal, sordid truths fill up the news. A man I knew died in a terrible accident. People have far harder lives than I.

The floor in the restaurant where I work starts coming up, splitting apart like something is rising from underneath. I carry food, traversing the crevice, Johnny Cash’s ‘I Walk the Line’ playing over in my head. It’s so disorientating that sometimes I forget this is something I do every day, just carrying plate after plate, cups and mugs and cutlery. Tracing the usual trajectories. I come in two days later and somebody has smoothed out the crack. It feels like a violence that never happened.

When people are drunk, they tell too much. Sharing melancholy joy till six in the morning. It’s good, but how much of that are you allowed to revisit sober?

The exhibition/installation I’d been helping out with for months took place. The Absent Material GatewayI think of it as a sort of portal to extra reality, a space where you can relish the intensity of elsewhere, let it split apart your senses for ten minutes—long enough to let sound and light rush through you, to conjure the ruptures that remain for weeks afterwards, never quite healing as even the quotidian fills them with usual slush. Nothing feels completely fabricated, but rather it’s a blurring of what we think of as real—how we encounter objects. Here, the weird things shimmer in dramatic strobe and seem to act upon you; these lively, alien pieces of matter. Scrap parts gleaming with mysterious power. The Lanark Artefax gig at the end of it blows my mind. I’m sipping straight vodka piled up with ice in a freezing dark room at The Glue Factory, but as soon as those first trademark stammering pulses start fracturing stars and synths and the melancholy strings with eerie samples hold back, suspend, then rush underneath…It’s a landscape elsewhere that is momentarily, totally immersive. I think of matter crackling at microscopic levels, or else grand panoramas of mountains bathed in alien starlight. Cities that smoulder with smoke, hovering drones and dramatic cracks in the side of cliffs whose insides fissure with poisoned earth. I think of ancient ruins through doctored photographs, angles of time dissolving with the phantasmic drift of a passing graphic, numbers running in algorithmic digits, pixels melting to colour smudge, then ether. Glitches. It is all of a shuddering. The audience are truly glued, despite being charged up on all the free Red Bull. All the sound cuts through so every normal thought is in shards, afloat. It’s one of the few genuinely sublime experiences of my life. I walk back in the cold rain, feeling emotional, drained, intense and electric. When I close my eyes to sleep I see nothing but strobe.

I have dreams of Styrofoam palaces, trains that keep leaving without me, layers of skin I could scour off my body.

There was a talk on Mark Fisher at Glasgow Autonomous Space called ‘Acid Communism’, and I got to dwell awhile in the comforting, baffling whorls of radical theory. I spent all month talking about Fisher to numerous people. Sent lots of excited emails and prepared my PhD application. Ideas started ravelling and overlapping and tightening. This whole sprawling project set out before me; I felt ambitious and still feel as though this is something that maybe I could actually achieve. Build this thing that I’ve set out in rough blueprint. I am energised, thoroughly, by the words of others.

We launched SPAM Press pamphlets (Dan Power’s Predictive Text Poems and Ryan Jarvis’ Tesseract Life) at Good Press and bought quantities of Lambrini for the occasion. Life is a whole lot of walking past Kelvingrove Art Gallery at one in the morning, sharing nightclub horror stories, gently reminiscing and falling asleep so the ink in the pen leaks over your duvet. I realise Greenock has a well lush Lidl, my cousin releases a single and it ramps up over 130,000 Spotify hits in a week. It’s funny, remembering her on our old sofa aged fourteen playing ‘Face for the Radio’ on my brother’s out-of-tune guitar, that lovely voice at its first nurturing. Now she’s on a billboard. We have the same nose.

I feel blessed by the blue days, the clear blue days, that come a couple times a month and even when I am too tired to leave before dark it is good just to know that out there things are bright and good. After graduation, we visit Luss and the sky is already at the brink of gloaming, this luminous lilac that blooms over the hills. I watch the nicoline light on the land across the water, over the heads of Japanese tourists unseasonably out snapping pics on the pier. Watch the city blossom back into shape across the motorway, an inverse meadow of delicious twinkles, listening to John Martyn in my father’s car. I feel calm, setting out to meet friends and discussing everything, sloshing a cheeky amaretto.

I revisit A Perfect Circle, Sun Kil Moon and Sufjan Stevens as the nights draw in too close and there is barely six hours of workable daylight. Something stirs from the past, but I crush the feelings like crisp dead leaves underfoot. I drift around, inhaling woodsmoke and missing the countryside. People leave curious furniture out on the street. A maximalist dolls-house, scattered by the city’s ruthless refusal to deal with its waste. New systems spring up around old objects. Ecosystems are complex and recalcitrant, their musty materiality seductive. Something hits me, occasionally, and it’s implacable, otherworldly. Space in my head that could be anywhere, everywhere, either. Even the streets feel bruised. My brother leaves for Australia and I think of him flying over a bright bright blue. All these people will bronze as I fall farther white into china paleness, sipping peppermint tea and crunching almonds between teeth. These people that go travelling, they leave me lilac eyeshadow, mint-cream nail varnish, memories and jumpers they won’t need anymore. I feel the roots tug and shuffle, sprawl beneath me in new formations. Endless scroll of Instagram posts. The last leaves cling to more paranoid trees, lamp-lit in sodium glow on the long walks home. Shops fill up with fairy lights, glitter and sprigs of fir. I can’t tune to the lure. Christmas is still a word I’m trying to deal with, a lonely lonely tinsel litany.

*

Saint Sister – Blood Moon

ARK – Made for Us

Alela Diane – Hazel Street

S. Carey – Fool’s Gold

Tiny Ruins – Old as the Hills

Adrian Crowley – Long Distance Swimmer

Sufjan Stevens – The Hidden River of My Life

Sun Kil Moon – Sunshine in Chicago

Julien Baker – Doesn’t Remind Me (Audioslave cover)

Kelly Lee Owens – Pull

Ellis May – Father

Sharon Van Etten – Keep

Bjork, Arca – Blissing Me

Windows 96 – Youthful Waters

Slugabed – Stupid Earth

Angel Olsen – For You

Pinegrove – Angelina

Julie Byrne – Sleepwalker

Out Lines – The Left Behind

Ho99o9 – Neighbourhood Watch

A Perfect Circle – 3 Libras

Hirola – Fields

Lanark Artefax – Voices Near the Hypocentre

Penguin Cafe – Cantorum

Boards of Canada – Everything You Do is a Balloon

Feist – Hey, That’s No Way to Say Goodbye

Jeff Buckley – Morning Theft

Advertisements

Frieze Patterns for Vice City

NXNY8218

+0
a literal event in vast depths the mirror
of something monstrous, an atrocious
place now lengthily reproduced
they increase copulation, troubled
the origin abominable became dinner
in polemic, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pages
conjectured before observation
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiction all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
region of the index, volumes
on volumes a set examination
aback in the house on last pages
they recalled contradictions or mirrors
and spellings, agreed to event
the banal conjunction of men and reality.
+1
a literal eventuality in vast deputies the misadventure
of something monstrous, an atrocious
placebo now lengthily reproduced
they increment copulation, troubled
the original abominable became dinosaur
in police, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pageants
conjectured before observatory
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fictionalization all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
register of the indian, voluntaries
on voluntaries a set examiner
aback in the houseboat on last pageants
they recalled contraltos or misadventures
and spenders, agreed to eventuality
the banal conjurer of manacles and realm.
+2
a literal evergreen in vast derbies the misanthrope
of something monstrous, an atrocious
placement now lengthily reproduced
they incubator copulation, troubled
the originator abominable became diocese
in policeman, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pageboys
conjectured before observer
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiddle all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
registrar of the indication, volunteers
on volunteers a set example
aback in the houseboy on last pageboys
they recalled contraptions or misanthropes
and spendings, agreed to evergreen
the banal conk of managements and realtor.
+3
a literal eviction in vast derelicts the misapplication
of something monstrous, an atrocious
placenta now lengthily reproduced
they incumbent copulation, troubled
the ornament abominable became dioxide
in policewoman, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pagodas
conjectured before obsession
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiddler all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
registration of the indicator, vomits
on vomits a set excavator
aback in the housebreaker on last pagodas
they recalled contraries or misapplications
and spendthrifts, agreed to eviction
the banal conker of managers and ream.
+4
a literal evidence in vast derivations the misapprehension
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plagiarism now lengthily reproduced
they incursion copulation, troubled
the orphan abominable became dip
in policy, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pails
conjectured before obstacle
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fidget all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
registry of the indictment, vortexes
on vortexes a set exception
aback in the housecoat on last pails
they recalled contrasts or misapprehensions
and sperms, agreed to evidence
the banal connection of manageresses and reaper.
+5
a literal evil in vast derivatives the miscarriage
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plagiarist now lengthily reproduced
they indemnity copulation, troubled
the orphanage abominable became diphthong
in polish, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pains
conjectured before obstetrician
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fief all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regress of the indignity, votes
on votes a set excerpt
aback in the housefather on last pains
they recalled contributions or miscarriages
and spermatozoons, agreed to evil
the banal connoisseur of mandarins and reappearance.
+6
a literal evildoer in vast derricks the miscellany
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plague now lengthily reproduced
they indent copulation, troubled
the orthodoxy abominable became diploma
in polisher, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable painkillers
conjectured before obstruct
it told me to confess with some undocumented
field all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regret of the indiscretion, voters
on voters a set excess
aback in the houseful on last painkillers
they recalled contributors or miscellanies
and spews, agreed to evildoer
the banal connotation of mandates and reappraisal.
+7
a literal evocation in vast dervishes the mischance
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plaid now lengthily reproduced
they indentation copulation, troubled
the oscillation abominable became diplomat
in politician, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable paints
conjectured before obstruction
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fielder all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regular of the indisposition, votings
on votings a set exchange
aback in the household on last paints
they recalled contrivances or mischances
and spheres, agreed to evocation
the banal conqueror of mandibles and rear.
+8
a literal evolution in vast descants the mischief-maker
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plain now lengthily reproduced
they independence copulation, troubled
the osier abominable became dipper
in politico, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable paintboxes
conjectured before occasion
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fieldmouse all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regularity of the individualist, vouchers
on vouchers a set excise
aback in the householder on last paintboxes
they recalled controls or mischief-makers
and sphinxes, agreed to evolution
the banal conquest of mandolins and rearrangement.
+9
a literal ewe in vast descendants the misconception
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plaint now lengthily reproduced
they independent copulation, troubled
the osteopath abominable became dipstick
in politics, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable paintbrushes
conjectured before occupant
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiend all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regulation of the inducement, vows
on vows a set excitement
aback in the housekeeper on last paintbrushes
they recalled controllers or misconceptions
and spices, agreed to ewe
the banal conscience of mandrakes and reason.
+10
a literal ewer in vast descents the misconstruction
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plaintiff now lengthily reproduced
they index copulation, troubled
the ostrich abominable became direction
in polity, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable painters
conjectured before occupation
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiesta all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regulator of the induction, vowels
on vowels a set exclamation
aback in the housemaid on last painters
they recalled controversies or misconstructions
and spiders, agreed to ewer
the banal consciousness of mandrills and reasoning.
+11
a literal exam in vast descriptions the misdeal
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plait now lengthily reproduced
they indian copulation, troubled
the otter abominable became directive
in polka, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable paintings
conjectured before occupier
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fife all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
rehash of the indulgence, voyages
on voyages a set exclusion
aback in the houseman on last paintings
they recalled contusions or misdeals
and spikes, agreed to exam
the banal conscript of manes and reassessment.
+12
a literal examination in vast deserts the misdeed
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plan now lengthily reproduced
they indication copulation, troubled
the ounce abominable became director
in poll, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pairs
conjectured before occurrence
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fig all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
rehearsal of the industrialist, voyagers
on voyagers a set exclusive
aback in the housemaster on last pairs
they recalled conundrums or misdeeds
and spillages, agreed to examination
the banal consensus of man-eaters and reassurance.
+13
a literal examiner in vast deserters the misdemeanour
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plane now lengthily reproduced
they indicator copulation, troubled
the outbreak abominable became directorate
in pollutant, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pals
conjectured before ocean
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fight all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
reign of the industry, voyeurs
on voyeurs a set excommunicate
aback in the housemother on last pals
they recalled conurbations or misdemeanours
and spins, agreed to examiner
the banal consent of mangers and rebate.
+14
a literal example in vast designs the miser
of something monstrous, an atrocious
planet now lengthily reproduced
they indictment copulation, troubled
the outbuilding abominable became directorship
in pollution, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable palaces
conjectured before octagon
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fighter all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
rein of the inebriate, vultures
on vultures a set excommunication
aback in the houseplant on last palaces
they recalled convalescents or misers
and spindles, agreed to example
the banal consequence of mangles and rebel.
+15
a literal excavator in vast designations the misery
of something monstrous, an atrocious
planetarium now lengthily reproduced
they indignity copulation, troubled
the outburst abominable became directory
in poltergeist, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable palates
conjectured before octave
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fighting all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
reincarnation of the inequality, vulvas
on vulvas a set excrescence
aback in the housetop on last palates
they recalled convectors or miseries
and spines, agreed to excavator
the banal conservation of mangos and rebellion.

nEW wRITINGS sHOWCASE

My first poetry review!

“At 9pm, when Tansley had concluded, the clubroom clearly wanted more. The evening ended with a reserve reading by Maria Sledmere, whose poems ‘I underline this for the sake of applying a hyperlink’ and ‘I dreamt I wrote copy for a cereal company’ deftly dissected the monotony of office work. These stream of consciousness poems evoked an almost dreamlike glide along the surface of the office space and its related activity, a glide which belay the poems’ deconstructions of this space as they drew on the most micro material details to pick away at the despondency of office culture and its service to a thankless economy.”

Thank you Alastair Miller for the lovely words & Scottish Writers Centre for hosting! xxxxx

Scottish Writers' Centre

In a packed CCA clubroom, the Scottish Writers’ Centre partnered with the nEW wRITINGS sHOWCASE for a night of readings and performance pieces. Familiar faces and talented newcomers alike shared their works, engaging with an array of themes and forms.

An introductory reading from the SWC’s own Derek Parkes, on the subject of learning to learn, paved the way for the evening’s first writers and poets. First up was Ann MacKinnon, whose poetry intimately intertwined history and death. ‘The Dead Poet’, a poem inspired by Philip Larkin, explored the anchoring of personal lives in objects, pictures, and screens, framing them as spaces where memories can echo. This focus on the interactions of history and death continued with the second speaker, Phil Thomas, whose poem, ‘Grand Designs’, melded historical narratives with a humorous treatment on what can happen when our presence extends from beyond the grave.

3 Ann MacKinnon

View original post 883 more words

Playlist: August 2017

IMG_7006.JPG

Start with the kernel of something. The year’s first fallen acorn I have not seen yet, though pinecones have been thrown in the direction of whoever. Hypothetically, my life as a typewriter, the body punctuated with the same mechanical violence. Clattering impression of symbol. A certain attention to gardens, as if in longing for confinement, safety. Time spent in Cambridge. Willows sweeping the skin of the river, an endless wandering the result of what. Hard work, long mornings in bed with the warm aluminal form of a laptop. White glow, silence. Someone mowing their lawn too early. Being what it is to be lonely not letting the light in except with broken blinds it comes fractured, skewed, something. The early fears abated, return to trust the body. Sun beaming through unfinished paint, the colour of mauve roses, faded hydrangeas. There is a hyperspace in which the dreams become apartments with balconies folding to abyss, you lean out singing it felt like a kiss the crystal taste which is what a violent text a certain whisky with peculiar salt with the flavour of drowning. Shades of cool. Allergic to punctuation after so much editing. Late night taste of Mogwai, Aphex Twin in the long long mornings. The perfect cupid’s bow of her lips. A geometry of light on the living room carpet. Sit in me, wheat-coloured pool of Vitamin D. The gunshot pulse of the stuttering track. I close my eyes for the White Lodge, the shrouding. Mountains come up and when we are at work we hum the Song of Healing while customers come and go in a panoply, in circuits; the moon too close like a lump of cheese with a million calories like terrible space debris coming. There’s an underpass where the dank canal flows thick as a black black oil, as molasses. Closer, the exact texture of fishnets. Something of your composition, a fear. The cold and lovely brass legato. Confessions in brown paper-bags. These are penny sweets, many regrets, many ice-coloured touch of the tongue that flickers its absence. A pleasant stasis, curled fingers which wait for the rise of the chest and the breath that is chemical alone, that is Tennents at seven in the morning on a lino floor. Berryish, bitten. Making no sense of Four Quartets but embracing the paganism, looking equinox ready with a garland of wilted daisies as if August never happened. The goddess in flesh, Lana Del Rey with her seamless fragility that adds joy to melancholy, etc. You know it. Conor Oberst telling stories about Woodie Guthrie and another life-changing duet on Lua. Voices as clear and pure as expensive vodka, distilled through a mountain stream in the elusive valleys of sadness. Somewhere south of America. I see a desert. There are plants needing repotting in my room. A 39-minute album. A mixed-up connotation, lumps of quartz from a beach near Cardross. I wonder about the temperature of water. Last year’s gatherings, the same melancholy. The absolute cool refreshment of this late-summer’s day. Remembering Lilt as a Thing! Train rides, shudderings, altered temperatures. So much goddamn analysis. Saying it like a litany, my goodness my goodness my goodness. Enacting mythology of objects surrounding. The glass of ice cubes precisely polished, a sequence of droplets. Clotted spectrums. The time it takes between ordering and serving, circling like ravens or trying to negate the game of waiting. Complaints. August being the flourishing stammer of a potentially bad dissertation. Potentially not. Sometimes salt and vinegar just tastes good. Wake up to the sting of your own tongue. Passing creepy, sapphire hot-tubs at four in the morning while old-school Coldplay floats on by mysteriously. Bones sinking like stones. Floating on home at 9am past phalanxes of school children and furious mothers. With all these roadworks, the pavement is but a treacherous ridge between spaces. Samuel Johnson kicking a stone to prove something. Philosophical brutality. Voyage to the capital for Tom McCarthy. Sunlight and absurd erotic fiction displayed in cardboard boxes. The boiling point of all these projects. Nectarines. How everything these days just feels like browsing. Are we yet ready for nostalgia and autumn, and whichever comes before the other? I keep re-watching the same old episodes.

~

LCD Soundsystem – tonite

Kiran Leonard – Could She Still Draw Back?

Big Thief – Masterpiece

Conor Oberst – Napalm

Girl Ray – Trouble

John Maus – Hey Moon

Clarence Clarity – Naysayer Godslayer

Four Tet – SW9 9SL

Oneohtrix Point Never – Music for Steamed Rocks

Mogwai – Coolverine

Lana Del Rey – Shades of Cool

Au Revoir Simone – Lark

Lomond Campbell – Father is a Craftsman (Modern Studies cover)

Julie Byrne – Morning Dove

 

 

 

 

 

Playlist: July 2017

IMG_6213.JPG

July you are bright and sort of silent and usually I hate you, what with your sticky swamp flowers and pollen, the obnoxious abundance and every walk resulting in fly-stuck lips or the sizzling chill of unseasonable downpours yes I can’t help but hold you responsible for that summertime sadness that settles inevitably on the shoulders or most vulnerable skin like an insect’s membrane drawing me back to the cool…something happened this year you were not so bad there was all this bright light the showering sun through an open window somebody’s glitching hip hop taste of rollups [lost cloud storage] there were what we called damn good albums for the sake of imitation teenagers slurping milkshakes in diners discussing the hatred of certain words but you could preserve even disdained vocabulary for the sake of an opulent dictionary, trading in class for segments of orange which maybe indeed were euphemisms but for that you had gum and the regular exchange. Absolutely capital. Tesco looking quite different at six in the morning everything shelved and radiant, beautiful as even the nettles seemed this evening as even the wild garlic recalled the first day of June and walking the park amid fresh cut grass its strange perfume the dandelion motes in swirls the perfect steam to rise hypothetically from baths we were trying to lull ourselves back from the dead and all this trauma coped with / you just lean into me I will be soft as a yes before you would make me this sofa we sank in the fabric the television flicker was novelty to me the first time off the train stepped clear through the city. Radiohead, inevitably, were best they were close to sublime I think listening and seeing those lights was like how it must feel to experience pareidolia at the stroke of midnight with the stars kissing your shoulders the white milk of how it felt the (im)possibility of a black milk its atrocious calcite traces the way the brain would rise up and the whole park would shake as a crowd were electric then they were raising their phones the Pyramid Song with its eerie and reluctant chords / come back with your drink / and how it felt listening to it again a few weeks later in the car at 7am watching countryside slip past like a melting world and even in the judder of the bending road you’re like an aeroplane over the sea wearing jeans and wheat fields and the stall of piano a slow trembling pedal the rich foliage of so many ditches imaginary swim the astrally projected human features arranging on new lunar mantles the water beneath they never knew they never knew as I drew myself always finding myself sucked deep into the Spotify buffer in spin cycles mycelial I could gasp but everything is buffering and even watching the window the sky is buffering all afternoon cloud / I fell asleep last night listening to rain and dreamt of a desert where we were dead it was beautiful being metal our rusted surface lain down the absent oasis the strange aloes that cowered around us then epochally turned like woman with luminous tresses leaning over our skins they made us ripe and shining again. July July July I can’t help quote Sufjan but I’ll refrain he wrote an album about planets I think it is quite lovely [we’re all gonna die] I have seen the acned jewellery of my desert dream and I have seen the lack of fear and even if you preserve the virtual moment smiling in a crowd on a hillside sweat glistened smoking you will bear it again and again you will be just that luxurious pull of pensive strings and Jonny Greenwood’s best hair flip and something in your chest never felt before / / no hangover, just l o v e (?) or everybody ten years ago with tested vision the glassy-eyed light lost in a cave & listening to crunk I can hear the bass all the way from the river . . .

~

Kevin Morby – City Music

Feist – I Wish I Didn’t Miss You

Julien Baker – Distant Solar Systems

Portico Quartet – A Luminous Beam

Soko – Sweet Sound of Ignorance

Slowdive – Miranda

Penguin Cafe – Solaris (Cornelius Mix)

Radiohead – Pyramid Song

The Brian Jonestown Massacre – Going to Hell

The Kinks – Waterloo Sunset

Nico – These Days

Arthur Russell – Nobody Wants a Lonely Heart

The Weather Station – Thirty

Beck – Heart is a Drum

Belle & Sebastian – Marx and Engels