The threat of burglary aside, with the onset of winter the window would have to be mended. Three months on, no natural light filtered through the black, velvet-turned-moth food curtains which remained drawn as a security measure. He was still extracting shards from his heel and the contortions of such an exercise had given him a sore neck. On the the far side of the curtain the tram stop was a stage for inebriated musical performance; mostly football songs and Oasis covers, auf deutsch. His ears pricked. It was also a platform for protest; he recognised the barking wretch who harangued passers by but mainly the midnight air about the gentrification of the artist quarter. He hobbled into the bathroom in search of tweezers. Despite the inconveniences something more than lack of cash, something perverse and some vague notion of penance prevented him from reglazing just yet. With the day to day reminder of his sin his room was after all a fitting penal chamber.
He sat on the edge of the bath. His long neck, the source of his verticality, craned like a heron’s to attend to the splinter. How agile cats were to lick those distant parts of their body. How awkward it was just to get a look at his heel without cramp in his ribs. And to remain steady, balancing on his left buttock, his right leg arched over his left, his right foot resting on his left knee. His patience dwindled, his perineum tingled, his brow, his oxter and his navel itched with perspiration. Straightening up, he caught his face in the cabinet mirror.
By avoiding his full length reflection he tried to sustain the disbelief that he was shorter. Most mirrors or reflective surfaces would present him with isolated body parts so that when he did catch his full length he was disappointed by the consolidation of his fragmented self. This confrontation would always fluster him, increase his heart rate and ultimately shatter his delusional imago. So the pursuit of transfiguration was a futile one. And indeed there were other reminders he battled with; in the man made world that required tall people to stoop.
Hello. On the 14th September I turn 23 and ze amazing Pictures Music will make available Achtung! I’ll substitute a clever description with this disclaimer: Anything you don’t like on there is pastiche, ok? See Picture’s sight for accuracy.
In true Unwinese fashion, we revisit the much loved tale of three chairs, three bowls, three beds, those three anthropomorphic bears and that thieving little girlage, all accompanied by three acts of seriously silly music.
During the interval in which a blogger refrains from blogging it is likely that nothing has has happened in his or her life. Nothing worth sharing anyway. Indeed, since we last spoke I have been inside a vacuum.
Bizarrely, I have managed to gain weight, loose my hearing and a collection of new tracks have finished themselves. In essence, they are not unlike their precedents; to quote an eloquent review, “dubstep with vocals”. The Deaf School. Only this time, things the way they are, its pastiche! And even poppier.
The “Don’t Distrub the Beasts” tracks are essentially reworks of “Filthy Logic” and “Manuscripts Don’t Burn”. I Cant really justify physically releasing them so here they are free of (obligatory) charge. I read somewhere recently of Euan Uglow that he never finished a painting, rather he just stopped them. I suppose this can be true of any artistic process that knows no destination. Hades originally lasted about 11minutes and needn’t have stopped there but in the interests of presenting a neatly ‘finished article’ I cut it right down.
Hit buy, enter £0 and provide your email to be sent the tracks free of charge, or of course you could “name your price”. FREE DOWNLOADS WILL BE BACK ON 29th JANUARY sorry for the delay.
In homage to wil o’ the wisp. And ‘the stumble this wine makes, we came face to face with the beasts on their hind legs’ Adam Glover
With his father, he had once seen this very piece performed by a local ensemble in his home townhall. But the lasting memories were of images rather than music. He was riveted by the violist’s telling eyebrows which transformed his other wise static face from the depths of tragedy to the peeks of comedy following the inflections in the music. The first Violinist’s socks, the second’s embarrassed smile and the cellist’s tendency to scratch his knee after every other phrase similarly held his attention. He enjoyed making speculations about they’re private life based on what little clues they offered, a preoccupation he had inherited from his mother. At worst this syndrome effectively deafened him. At school he was attentive and obedient and read well, but he found it difficult to take in what he was taught verbally. And as a music listener he found it more rewarding to listen to the recording than see it played. When his grandmother died suddenly, during his lonely adolescence he forbade himself to cry. And not until days after the funeral when at dinner he heard the familiar sounds of the lento on the kitchen radio did he allow tickling tears to run down his cheeks and drop into his soup.
Following suit, she finally abandons herself. She closes her eyes and, bobbing gently on the undulating ocean of strings, relents to the music: She has been told about this apparently perfect movement but never does she imagine being so easily seduced. She does not appreciate symphonic music like the others do but chamber music she can understand. The intimacy. She can hear each instrument, every percussive sound of contact. For her, this intimacy is far more evocative than the comparatively distant sounds of an orchestra. String stimulate her especially. Now, lost in her sea reverie, she is truly enchanted. The cyclical narrative of the music evokes for her the threat of a storm which is repeatedly quelled. Reassured by the bass which never breaks from its simple pizzicato, never do the ominous crescendos disrupt the serenity of her floating body. And not until the revelatory Tierce de Picardy, kissing her back to life, does she open her eyes with a smile on her lips.