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The music of now is not historically bound but tied to the fleeting capacity of the world.
A giallo-like disassociated musical landscape where voices of narrators fall like sins, arrays of lingos, and sentiments.
Of course, some of it needs to vaporise by the end and in ‘itself.
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“Sentimentalität” as a ‘stand-down’ operetta, they whispered some ghetto-thriller, an abrasive chill to the spine in the backdrop.
The melancholy of nostalgic possibilities, an unordinary nonsense of existence in throttles.
Which world is this where they live, upsetting the obsolete sentiments?
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Accumulative plunking ventilates the drains. A snappy scatter grinds into the reverting drones, setting a landing spot by establishing the very beginning.
Painfully levelled up in deafening, melodically beating bugs, it’s a post-sentimental sentiment.
A surpassing demeanour is catatonic, theatrical, but slightly dramatic.
All sore worlds in the “If” of the ‘now’ are sad, channeling freeze but ferociously, in the gut of flight.
Deep-time is impossible listening, but actually only an ever-present challenge in excitement, inexactness, and dreading acts.
All worlds look the same if they match or sync.
Maybe some highly sensitive fluxus is actually necessary: the sonic invariance.
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Realness is typically undernourished; here, it is not. It’s far away from that.
What is the politics of enablement and endorsement of all there could be, as it is uplifting this currency dynamic of oriental beats?
A superimposed hybrid spectre of mashup genres overachieves it.
Empowerment upgrading provides it, distorting ideological flesh, the harsh and the mellow…
A new sensitive assembly, like a hauntological world, is one without it.
Meta-undulation instead of modulating — savvy that is.
The problem stays in disappearing from this actual virtuality of being actively disassociated with engagement.
Engagement becomes a word of the self-inscribed predicament of listening to the slap of leather skin.
Intermezzo: Baffles (as) via the commonality of a break filled in the acoustic negative space with vocal exchanges, unsocial ‘žȃmor,’ or uncertain murmuration.
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Encroaching upon a world (of sonority) evades the chance of its ongoing anticipation of development.
Microtonality only ever generates slippage from the mantric gate of ascending into a shrine.
The sound of the musical landscape can be ceramic and glazed but without figure and apparently sensitive features.
Clouding abstraction by being unattended, softening the matter out of ‘this’ world, invoking giant mythologies of preexistence.
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A harpist is omnicidal. As heavy as its world music is, it is the one that’s filtering nations of the globe into one oneiric ancient shackle.
As marvel unravels, it never gets personal, while the personal is never musical enough to fulfil the greater wonder.
When scales cascade up and down, a jest of spiralling inward occurs, abolishing the predestined place from where it lashes in this pirouette retrieval of atemporality.
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Far out, it becomes untouchable already.
It lands subtly into the core physicality of gear and its amplifiable, scrappy particles, only to again return into invocable vocation calling back…
In some uncovered mythopoetic reality, there is a being we translate into a half harp, half girl, and while there’s time, it is only in its playing of itself as the other.
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The rays of pseudo-symphonies as sentimental giggles. Not to underestimate the whole pentacle of the ladder buildup, Jacob’s ladder leading to hit the ceiling, poly-harmonious polygamy endangers the surplus ordeal — a realm of attempts at purification, grasping only to slither and slander the pitch.
An ether-mnemonic ambivert demon in scoring a reminiscence of Baroque chorale.
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Flutey chirping pressure, key-by-key dissolutes and disorders range.
The scale is limited to itself in a perpetual fashion. The blissful indifference is an unrelated affect that rises in suspension.
Like through a hearing glass, where glass is more likely rubber.
A synthetic chewing gum that swirls and rinses itself, yet involutes voluntarily again.
The eclipse between the performative instinct of injecting a copyright body exposed in expression and the affinity of its absence.
Truly, setting up one (sonorous) world after another indulges the whole listening-after-listening fling.
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How do they differ after this need becomes unnecessary to disassemble and put within reach, at hand, or listening, at the ear, when we are all ears?
Only music attains, of all the arts.
If it’s “emo” at ease, then it is of this place, orchestrated by tricksters, an ear butterfly camouflaged as a larvae archipelago.
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Persistent elemental plonking of the structures constantly flourishes throughout inconsistently…
What it shares with canonical scoring is the self-evident arpeggio negotiations, which never seem to set through, as it’s the auto-recursive gradient-based rule.
Switch the troubadour crickets into metallic syncope crackling, and the applause collision will seize the end.
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Apparently the immobilised body is the one without. One without the senses, perceivable apparatuses of input/output value distribution. The ascetic person enjoys this condition, while manic one, overly presented, dispossess it.
Cinematic slow motion, is anti erotic, but even sensuality requires pace. Against the feature of the context sensitive expectancy. Go low brow into highly tribalistic dance.
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Waffling bravado air puffing, sub subsidiary based. Air conditioning desensitisation, dense and dank. Liquidised vocals in a set are counter-jungle, stretching front out from the past. Smearing and blistering. Descriptive language is limited to the mixing addiction.
If only disco electricians would discover the mystical ordeal in their knob use, of slopes and fusion, well we can only anticipate what it would actually entail on a permanent term.
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Aftermath of musical scenarios following new millennium is ecstatic on same level as ever, only difference is its extraction prime.
Listening a dj set now is as much a pretence as the reading is of this kind of text. Both being generative and timeless.
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A filter-some zone of blending. People forget the colonial force of/in the music. It's hard to divide fun, since it's not a mathematical category.
I see utter disparity. Certain goal that's engulfed in succession. That solely undermines general acceptance, showcasing the innermost cynical hypothesis of democracy and geographical secessionism.
It certainly comes as an outsourcing stance to write the least much about grinding musical context, but nevertheless it's already an example of abstraction that is unfolding in its unlikeness.
Acting as if a musical act is a weaponry seems silly but in reality it is an extreme measure with a counterpart animosity towards the self.
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Exodus. First and foremost. The howling frost bite as immediate reaction. The disturbance chain is beating the flesh out, the membranes and smallest bones.
Deconstruct or die. The thirst of annihilated time. Untimed, resentfully kicked 'n snared, you deserve the violation you passively impose with the passion for intense sacrament, underscored with malevolence.
Contemporaneity is disappointing because it's not surprising.
Conforming the trisomy of resonance in slices of reason ejected the enjoyment in mutilation via beat blaster.
Wonder how we would reject a person that has its features blitzed as a strobe light into plain air.
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Avoidance of a final count down, the last music kind is intrinsically bitching. The vapour is not the wave. The point is that it bores us indefinitely. High pitch baby voice spilling out some harder industrialised truths. The core of the hard is in its abjection to radicality. A peculiar case of enabling not to take care but execute it absolutely.
Rhythmic concealment. Pure deterministic force. Grinding vibe. Endless improvement. Melodic transfiguration pierced by rhythm.
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The power of rhythmic scatter is in a voracious perpetual rejection of the crude real by nailing and quartering it alive. An exercise of emergency.
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Derivative nature of apocryphal semi-asymmetrical drumming. A slaughter distortion of psychedelia. Lumpen orchestrated tapestry of rifle fire. Prolific rhythm nuancing where rhythm is being recognised as divisional and as a provision of unity. Transcending a blink of an eye in a heart beat.
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Cathartic imperialism is obstructed heroism, and does not quite answering the plot. Upstream stoicism is condemned by the smoke machine. It's all in what-you-can-hear as the ultimate heuristic salvation gets impossible. Its an extraterrestrial world problem. Where the outside of the beat can be the unbeatable actuality at the same time as a passionate nihil expressionism. This finitude was never less cascading.
Life seems as an action of leapfrogging through the impasses of all renderable worlds. Vocoded in a musique discrète. All that flourishes, rises from doomed disparate voices of discharge, recognisable as a pattern that invoke a destiny that could finally be treated unjustly.
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