Blue Ink # 2 – a dissociative soundtrack

Conversations on the bus are limited by a quiet decency to get along – to make no one any less comfortable than already and the tactic includes going deeply internal, into the glowing screen and headphones – put off an I get along alright vibe, thank you & thankfully not cold enough to blast the defrosters and make us sweaty, make us more uncomfortable than already.

This feels familiar and uncomfortable – anonymous, surrounded by people who care for each other, love like a credit card kept open, “enjoy your promotion.” What is doing the feeling is a sense of suspenseful unwelcome. I know I can expand within Seattle and become an interactive body among the other connected bodies…. (?) …. clearly not enough. Do you know who is hiring around here?

For this to work best it requires cleaner edges, and consistency in font size. Style must be constant enough – it is the same night confined and tessellated here after-all. Consider this a timely prototype and later patterning colors and statements and font size variable based on the importance of what is said.

We are deep within the season of edges, a thin channel walled in by socked-in coasts, like I’m in a rowboat with you and you are unaware of the dangers. Fins multiply, wind picks up – so drink up, have fresh hop while it lasts, love your freedom, assert your empathy, we will be alright, this boat is endless. I did not mean to frighten you with what you avoid.

The choice between noise-punk and indie goddess is decided with a vegan blt. It is ten past 8. Both shows start at 8. The noise punk National play last, giving me time, plenty, while they chop and slice and pile fries, toss dirty knives into a bowl of soapy water, change the radio station, shoot the shit for a minute… it will be a longer show in this manner. It will take me deeper.

(something weird happens here supposedly)

Jesus, I’m not going back there. Instead heading up to see noise at Chop Suey while this prose snowflake unfolds. If you are reading this, understand it as meta, and know this electric navy blue as the beginning of an idea. To fill little spaces, folded, of a full piece of paper, lined, torn out of a notebook, once straightened out and framed, what a nightly kaleidoscope it will make.

Disconnected to the mechanical metaphor of interlocking parts of the city with fiery clarity, this is something I know too well, this disconnection. It will take great effort to enact redemption – moxie, art. The visuals are all there, the substance is out or not quite in – the beauty of a dissociative soundtrack – a glitchy silent film – an anxious pull toward meaning, toward fulfilling work (no one is hiring, the (…?…) is violently competitive.) “Keep up your spirit,” says a whiskey label.

Summer Studio. 2016. R.I.P.

My childhood bedroom converted into a recording studio by a 24 year old college grad whose apprehension about how to move forward in life stalled him from producing the truthful music abundant somewhere inside of him. This perfect-looking studio, a year removed, pains me for I did not have the hustle required to kill this space and make it work for me. Looking back, it is a solid lesson in forming habits, scheduling, and hustling your ass off if you wish to produce something worthwhile. Now, the desk is dismantled. The keyboard is gone. The blue lights on the amp head and the interface are phased off. The plants are gone. The house is sold. The books were donated. The shadows cast by me will never cast again in this room. I think the weight of this, the weight of my youth, stifled me out of creating. Luckily, there is only moving forward now. 

No Washington Bats Feed on Blood

Two bats flew together over me in the garage as I spilled whiskey onto the carpet. This grey and thin carpet with the duct tape cross hatched over the burn holes from fallen hookah coals. One fell into my shoe once and burned its way out. “You make real friends quickly.” Settled into the self with a foxtrot. Finding a dried up pine needle in between my letters and numbers on my keyboard.

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Recording Music on a Tuesday Night

A big wooden table spreading farther than my arms can stretch if I were to put my chest and the left side of my face onto the middle somewhere, sits (wobbling without certainty) in front of the open screenless window. Moths come in and bang themselves against the light bulb. A bulb on a geometric stand with no lampshade. A bright murderer.

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thwarted suite tangerine

Snap fingers, shoot rifle. Jump bridges, gaps in teeth like the accidentals, the black keys, the notes with sharps or the wayward blues, the notes defy grid of music key, unlock, unhinge the jaw, place words on the tongue so they dissolve without water, taste the B vitamins of nonsense here in this cymbal swelling, this sad knowledge of a five year thwarted path, pah! Continue reading

January 27th

If I could kill my compressor. That would be nice. Something with guitars picking along, then electric swells, a voice full of heart and comfort, could it be my voice? Music to make – melodic, thoughtful, all truth and honesty. For this to happen, self-correcting must die. Squeezing the tone out of life must also end. I need to let loose ideas, gorgeous ideas, ideas full of wonder and raw emotion.


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12 Majestic Albums of 2014

Seems like everyone makes a list at the end of the year. Music, movies, regrets, etc. Here is my shot at a raw read of some of my favorite music from 2014. Most of these albums I haven’t seen on other lists. So let’s give a round of applause for the underdog… the innovative, yet sadly forgotten, indie voices from all corners of North America.

I’ve missed some (ie: PHOX, St. Vincent, Vacationer, Dry The River, Circa Survive, Smokey Brights etc, etc)

Listen to them too. What else are you going to do? Watch netflix until the death of the sun?

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