Today's listening - "I Got A" - Nicolas Jaar.
1,2,3 - 1,2,3....
We all know a good waltz when we hear one don't we? In the last blog I mentioned writing (more germinating at the moment) a piece inspired by a TV show I saw. It was written in one of those golden moments, at 3am - when I really should have been in bed.
But when it comes, you bow to it.
The piece is a cute, twee, major chord piece of Americana which would slot into a cult movie as easily as black coffee and cherry pie. Unintentionally, it's in 3/4 time - ie. it's a waltz. It's important to distinguish that it's in 3/4, and not 6/8....it is definitely a waltz.
Now, this didn't strike me as strange at the time. It is what it is - it's nice - I'll use it for something - it sounds good on a solo piano - can I go to bed now? But upon reflection I had to concede, that's it's the first piece of music I've written which isn't 4/4. Why is this? Why is there a drought of pieces in irregular meter? It's almost as if musicians are afraid of it - or regard it as something dirty.
It's too hard. The listener won't accept it. It's unfamiliar.
Nothing could be further from the truth. When I realised I'd written my first non 4/4 piece, I felt another shoot in bloom as a musician, another string to my bow, another bullet in my armoury. Some notes and observances then...on a waltz.
A waltz, in my opinion, is one - or t'other. It's either a delightfully joyful experience, or it's mournful, aching and cold. There is no in between. I'll illustrate this - watch this video. You'll know it - and you will let your inside sway from side to side as you listen to it. 1,2,3 - 1,2,3....
"The Blue Danube" - Johann Strauss
Pretty isn't it? There's something about this piece of music that just warms you from the inside out, and certainly - the meter of it helps that along. It gives it a jaunt, a spring to its heel. This is a wonderful, timeless illustration of the waltz. Another wonderful illustration of the waltz, will leave you on the dark side of the moon - howling. Watch this for shading in the extreme - again, it's a waltz. 1,2,3 - 1,2,3....
"Open Heart Zoo" - Martin Grech
Oh, hello. Was staring at my boots there.
See what I mean? Howling. The meter makes it metronomic - intense and inevitable, the futility of a soul waiting to be broken. Both achingly beautiful and both - waltzes.
Never been a music theorist. Never been a theorist of any kind really. I work and live with what feels good. At 3am when I wrote that piece of music, 3/4 felt good.
And I hope it will continue to do so for some time.
'In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was, in me
An invincible summer.'
- Thomas Carlyle
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
Amarta Project on Facebook - www.listn.to/AmartaProject
The burblings and thoughts of being an electronic musician, producer, and nerd in general.
Amarta Project
Beyond The Lines, Beyond The Sea
Friday, 20 May 2011
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Stargazing...Pearldiving.
Today's listening - Frequent Traveller - 'East Croydon'
Hello. Thought it was about time to update you a little bit on the actual innards of this blog, namely - me being an electronic musician and producer.
Let me clarify the grammar. I am NOT electronic. My music is.
As it's my blog, and it's 'my name above the door' so to speak, I reserve the right to wiffle on about anything I want. (What kind of pants have you got on? Now? Really?? Kinky.) But as such I did set it up to tell the adorati about my music, so maybe an update on that would be nice, yeah?
Days switch between creative flow and creative dam. At the moment, happy to report, that it's flowing.
Yesterday, a prime example. Two new tracks born, and a piano piece written at 3am after being inspired by a documentary on More4 ('Catfish' - watch it) Rolled into bed at 6am feeling quite pleased with myself....love days like this....why can't every day be like this?
Today, much cutting and pasting arranging a brass section for one of the tracks I started yesterday, lessons learnt. Musically? NuDisco. Eighties synths, Weekender groove with a Deadmaus kick. Sch-weet.
Other lurking in the background with their hands in the air saying "Me next, me next!" - more floor based grooves, some funk, plenty of chillout - a sparkle of electro and breakbeat. My children are beautiful.
Amarta.
There does seem to be a light at the end of the tunnel. I am increasing more confident an album will be born soon. About fucking time. How it will sound I don't know - there is enough variation for three albums, but not enough music for three albums - and to be honest I'm not sure how much work one album is going to be at the moment, let alone three. Stick 'em in the bank eh?
Spring is my favourite time of the year. The air smells of life, and days are so much more welcoming and energetic. There is EVERY chance I have been infused.
I've also bought a telescope. Geek.
Through all of my inner struggle with the norm, and as hard as days are - relentless, unforgiving, hurtful - I am SURE I shall look back on these pearldiving days and regard them as the best days of my life.
Salut.
www.souncloud.com/amartaproject
www.listn.to/AmartaProject
Hello. Thought it was about time to update you a little bit on the actual innards of this blog, namely - me being an electronic musician and producer.
Let me clarify the grammar. I am NOT electronic. My music is.
As it's my blog, and it's 'my name above the door' so to speak, I reserve the right to wiffle on about anything I want. (What kind of pants have you got on? Now? Really?? Kinky.) But as such I did set it up to tell the adorati about my music, so maybe an update on that would be nice, yeah?
Days switch between creative flow and creative dam. At the moment, happy to report, that it's flowing.
Yesterday, a prime example. Two new tracks born, and a piano piece written at 3am after being inspired by a documentary on More4 ('Catfish' - watch it) Rolled into bed at 6am feeling quite pleased with myself....love days like this....why can't every day be like this?
Today, much cutting and pasting arranging a brass section for one of the tracks I started yesterday, lessons learnt. Musically? NuDisco. Eighties synths, Weekender groove with a Deadmaus kick. Sch-weet.
Other lurking in the background with their hands in the air saying "Me next, me next!" - more floor based grooves, some funk, plenty of chillout - a sparkle of electro and breakbeat. My children are beautiful.
Amarta.
There does seem to be a light at the end of the tunnel. I am increasing more confident an album will be born soon. About fucking time. How it will sound I don't know - there is enough variation for three albums, but not enough music for three albums - and to be honest I'm not sure how much work one album is going to be at the moment, let alone three. Stick 'em in the bank eh?
Spring is my favourite time of the year. The air smells of life, and days are so much more welcoming and energetic. There is EVERY chance I have been infused.
I've also bought a telescope. Geek.
Through all of my inner struggle with the norm, and as hard as days are - relentless, unforgiving, hurtful - I am SURE I shall look back on these pearldiving days and regard them as the best days of my life.
Salut.
www.souncloud.com/amartaproject
www.listn.to/AmartaProject
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Happy New Easter
Today's listening - Kelly Mueller "We Keep On"
It's been a while. How have you been? You look hot.
Choosing to write my first blog of the year in April is totally typical of me. I'd like to say that it's because I've been so busy with new things, well - in a way I have - but in more of a chasing my tail kinda way than a straight arrow kinda way.
A listlessness which will be the death of me.
Points of note. My regularity with black clouds and trauma has persisted - I don't know if that's anything to do with the impending (apparently big) birthday I have coming up but.. c'est ca. My inability to conquer the waywardness of my creative output continues to be a bugbear. Starting things - fine. No problem. You want me to start something? I'm on it. All over it. You want me to finish it too? What? You're kidding....right? I don't DO finishing.
Acres of tunes - some middling, some blooming, some downright ominous, but all magnificently Amarta in their own way - sit whimpering on my hard drive like toddlers pining for ice cream. It's daunting turning on the computer these days, knowing that I'm inevitably going to confront a swathe of failure.
Maybe this is the way of things - maybe they're not meant to be finished. Maybe - they're shit and shouldn't be finished. Whatever the reason, they're NOT finished and it bothers me.
Focus is an attribute of the logical mind, not the creative one. Creative minds are annoying. They make you stare out of the window, holding nothing but a fascination for the changing light. They make you
introverted and socially abnormal, they consume you with doubts that harbour and never really go away. There's always a chink in the armour - there is never a sheen of calm, just a turmoil - sometimes prevalent, sometimes muted, but always there. It skews a mirror, making you twist so you cannot see your face the way others see it. It makes you see and feel things differently to most other people. Your eyes will meet mine and mine will always fall away first. I see words on a page and I hear music. I drive my car, and I see ghosts. I stare at walls and I see a landscape. Across all of this is the dichotomy of trying to live a normal life - work, pay bills, wash and iron clothes - and there is always an errant clash. It's like having a radio on a station, only to jolt the dial one tone too far and be bombarded with cold harsh white noise instead. It's not easy, and every day - is a struggle to do the right thing.
Why do I say all this? I don't know. I don't wish to appear pretentious, and I guess somehow I'm failing to do that, but - it's the best validation I can give at the moment for being...me. The way I am.
I am many things to many people, but to me - I am only ever myself. And that's the flaw. But then - aren't we all in the same boat?
'What life can compare to this?
Sitting quietly by the window,
I watch the leaves fall and the flowers bloom,
As the seasons come and go.'
-Hsueth Tou
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
It's been a while. How have you been? You look hot.
Choosing to write my first blog of the year in April is totally typical of me. I'd like to say that it's because I've been so busy with new things, well - in a way I have - but in more of a chasing my tail kinda way than a straight arrow kinda way.
A listlessness which will be the death of me.
Points of note. My regularity with black clouds and trauma has persisted - I don't know if that's anything to do with the impending (apparently big) birthday I have coming up but.. c'est ca. My inability to conquer the waywardness of my creative output continues to be a bugbear. Starting things - fine. No problem. You want me to start something? I'm on it. All over it. You want me to finish it too? What? You're kidding....right? I don't DO finishing.
Acres of tunes - some middling, some blooming, some downright ominous, but all magnificently Amarta in their own way - sit whimpering on my hard drive like toddlers pining for ice cream. It's daunting turning on the computer these days, knowing that I'm inevitably going to confront a swathe of failure.
Maybe this is the way of things - maybe they're not meant to be finished. Maybe - they're shit and shouldn't be finished. Whatever the reason, they're NOT finished and it bothers me.
Focus is an attribute of the logical mind, not the creative one. Creative minds are annoying. They make you stare out of the window, holding nothing but a fascination for the changing light. They make you
introverted and socially abnormal, they consume you with doubts that harbour and never really go away. There's always a chink in the armour - there is never a sheen of calm, just a turmoil - sometimes prevalent, sometimes muted, but always there. It skews a mirror, making you twist so you cannot see your face the way others see it. It makes you see and feel things differently to most other people. Your eyes will meet mine and mine will always fall away first. I see words on a page and I hear music. I drive my car, and I see ghosts. I stare at walls and I see a landscape. Across all of this is the dichotomy of trying to live a normal life - work, pay bills, wash and iron clothes - and there is always an errant clash. It's like having a radio on a station, only to jolt the dial one tone too far and be bombarded with cold harsh white noise instead. It's not easy, and every day - is a struggle to do the right thing.
Why do I say all this? I don't know. I don't wish to appear pretentious, and I guess somehow I'm failing to do that, but - it's the best validation I can give at the moment for being...me. The way I am.
I am many things to many people, but to me - I am only ever myself. And that's the flaw. But then - aren't we all in the same boat?
'What life can compare to this?
Sitting quietly by the window,
I watch the leaves fall and the flowers bloom,
As the seasons come and go.'
-Hsueth Tou
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
Monday, 6 December 2010
The Mortlake Angel
It was 2am-ish, Sunday December 5th 2010. The place was Thames Bank, Mortlake - north side lip of the River Thames.
It was icy and crisp after a recent freeze, pancakes of ice scattering the pavement at the river side as if the Thames had sneezed. The river itself was titan - at eye level a vast and endless wash of inky black water that gave no clue to its presence, save for the chill off the water and the twinkle of reflected lights from the bridge above. The sky was starchy.
They sat close to the river, outside the pub, called The Ship.
They sat on two opposing tree stumps, on the other side of the narrow road from the pub, him with his back to the river - her facing him. The pub was still alive - embers of a Christmas party dying away to the drunken strains of "Sweet Caroline" on the karaoke. There were no faces at the window though the lights were on, the voices inside impressing that maybe the pub itself was singing - emoting through its gabled and jaded windows, staggering out the last few strains of the second chorus via the crack in the slightly ajar door, then fading to sleep where it sits - lights off, slumbering away another bitter Christmas shindig.
None of this seemed to detach them, they shouldn't have been there. They looked cold. To the absolute core. The vapour of their breath rose up and haloed them - their eyes locked, but the gaze was not adoring - instead tense, heart wrenching to brutality. They did not move, save for their lips. Some geese flew over the river, north to south, gaggling.
He leaned forward, buried his face into the girl's chest, and she cradled his head by holding his neck. His shoulders were slouched and tired, but they began to tense, rise and shudder rhythmically as the tears came.
What use is a heart that's broken? What if your heart was born broken and you never knew it 'til now?
She tried to give comfort, solace - she failed. Her eyes were as black as the river and as quiet as the pub behind her, she did not understand. How could she? She wanted to try, once. Now after so many years of confusion and scratching through the dirt she perhaps didn't want to admit, now and right here, that she never could. My life is everything that no one understands. I wasn't meant for this, and I don't belong.
She still could not understand the words. His shoulders raged against her, and the tears fell so deeply. A car passed on the narrow road behind them, the driver slowing to rubberneck them. The glare from the headlights caught him full in the face as he lifted his head. His face was marbled white, the eyes - almost the same colour behind the blue. The headlights swooped round the corner - and were gone.
He took her hand and opened it, leaning his face into her palm. Take these, they will keep you strong.
The tears stung. They burrowed into the skin of her palm, hot needles piercing before a respite. He closed her hand around them into a clasp. This time her head dropped and it was her turn to sob.
He put his hand on her shoulder, as he did - she raised her gaze again and opened her eyes. He was gone. Twisting and surprised, she looked through 360 degrees for him. No sound or ripple from the river, no mark of a footprint in the crushed ice before her. No vapour of a breath, or a scent from any direction. He was gone.
The snow began to fall again. As it chilled the back of her neck, she swept the overlong fringe of her bob over her ear and opened her still clasped hand. Nestled in the crick of her palm were four small white feathers. Undisturbed by the breeze, they sat patiently in her hand - waiting. Snow flakes rested alongside them on her palm, and again she began to weep.
How long she sat there, I don't know.
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
It was icy and crisp after a recent freeze, pancakes of ice scattering the pavement at the river side as if the Thames had sneezed. The river itself was titan - at eye level a vast and endless wash of inky black water that gave no clue to its presence, save for the chill off the water and the twinkle of reflected lights from the bridge above. The sky was starchy.
They sat close to the river, outside the pub, called The Ship.
They sat on two opposing tree stumps, on the other side of the narrow road from the pub, him with his back to the river - her facing him. The pub was still alive - embers of a Christmas party dying away to the drunken strains of "Sweet Caroline" on the karaoke. There were no faces at the window though the lights were on, the voices inside impressing that maybe the pub itself was singing - emoting through its gabled and jaded windows, staggering out the last few strains of the second chorus via the crack in the slightly ajar door, then fading to sleep where it sits - lights off, slumbering away another bitter Christmas shindig.
None of this seemed to detach them, they shouldn't have been there. They looked cold. To the absolute core. The vapour of their breath rose up and haloed them - their eyes locked, but the gaze was not adoring - instead tense, heart wrenching to brutality. They did not move, save for their lips. Some geese flew over the river, north to south, gaggling.
He leaned forward, buried his face into the girl's chest, and she cradled his head by holding his neck. His shoulders were slouched and tired, but they began to tense, rise and shudder rhythmically as the tears came.
What use is a heart that's broken? What if your heart was born broken and you never knew it 'til now?
She tried to give comfort, solace - she failed. Her eyes were as black as the river and as quiet as the pub behind her, she did not understand. How could she? She wanted to try, once. Now after so many years of confusion and scratching through the dirt she perhaps didn't want to admit, now and right here, that she never could. My life is everything that no one understands. I wasn't meant for this, and I don't belong.
She still could not understand the words. His shoulders raged against her, and the tears fell so deeply. A car passed on the narrow road behind them, the driver slowing to rubberneck them. The glare from the headlights caught him full in the face as he lifted his head. His face was marbled white, the eyes - almost the same colour behind the blue. The headlights swooped round the corner - and were gone.
He took her hand and opened it, leaning his face into her palm. Take these, they will keep you strong.
The tears stung. They burrowed into the skin of her palm, hot needles piercing before a respite. He closed her hand around them into a clasp. This time her head dropped and it was her turn to sob.
He put his hand on her shoulder, as he did - she raised her gaze again and opened her eyes. He was gone. Twisting and surprised, she looked through 360 degrees for him. No sound or ripple from the river, no mark of a footprint in the crushed ice before her. No vapour of a breath, or a scent from any direction. He was gone.
The snow began to fall again. As it chilled the back of her neck, she swept the overlong fringe of her bob over her ear and opened her still clasped hand. Nestled in the crick of her palm were four small white feathers. Undisturbed by the breeze, they sat patiently in her hand - waiting. Snow flakes rested alongside them on her palm, and again she began to weep.
How long she sat there, I don't know.
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
Thursday, 25 November 2010
The Disappeared
"You know....it's EVIL out there."
He wasn't sure himself if he was referring to the weather, the hard lashing of rain mozaicing down the coffee shop window, or something altogether more colourless.
He looked directly at her across the table. Her front two teeth peeped out from under her top lip and sat awkwardly on the cushion of her bottom one as she half smiled. He could tell she was trying her best, so softened a little.
"Out there, you know - I don't like it. It's full of them. Look...." He traced his finger across the glass, mapping trajectories of people as they walked from right to left, towards, away - a cluster of lines streaked in the condensation on the window. A history of journeys, messy, random - urban.
"It takes everything I am to come in here, but the coffee is good. Look at them all. I don't know where they're going - what does it mean do you think? Why do they all look the same, and dress the same? Why do none of them look happy? Why are they all so - disappointing..."
Again her looked at her, and she again half smiled. Her eyes were big. Really big. A round face framed by a sleek bob that was chestnut - once - and a haunting jawline.
"You don't say much, do you?" He realised that maybe she couldn't.
The door of the coffee shop swung open. A man and a woman walked in, epileptically shaking the rain off their shoulders and laughing. They - were them. The woman slid into a booth and flirted a smile at the man who went to order their coffee, in doing so, making sure her skirt was just that little bit too high up her thigh as she crossed her legs to face him.
It takes everything I am to come in here.
Heads began turning. Starting at the errant end of the coffee shop, whistling through a half turn to the entrance and stalling somewhere in the middle, only to be kickstarted by another chance comment which set the circle in motion again. Somehow within this violent sense of rhythm he knew people were staring. It didn't bother him, or make him perspire, not even when his hands began to tremble or his feet stuttering as he tried to stand up.
"Are you okay? Sir?"
The big eyes of the coffee girl blinked high and wide as she swept a lock of chestnut hair over her ear and peppered him with broken English. No semblance of her face stuck to his memory. Behind her was a mirror. He saw nothing but a blinding white light where his shape should have been. A moment of pure clarity. She was never here when I needed her.
He pulled out a scrunched twenty from his pocket, balancing himself with his other hand on the cold formica table.
"I've just got to get out for a while...get some air...."
He was aware a sliver of blood was trailing from his nose, also aware that the mischevious couple were no longer flirting, only gawping.
"Are you sure Sir?"
Again the broken English. Again the image of her naked and beneath him. It lolled in his head and shifted from side to side like a counter weight. No, no, no.....
"I'll be fine once I get some air. I just need....to....disappear...."
He hugged himself, his sleeves riding up to reveal slender forearms. Turning without retrieving his jacket from the back of his chair, he ran out of the shop into the rain - a streak on the window, lost in the random.
He recalled the words from the letter as he swallowed miles of the charcoal motorway in front of him. Was it late in the night or early in the morning? He couldn't tell.
What's it like being you?
A small question, an afterthought of a question. Yet one he couldn't answer.
I hope you're happy and healthy, and I promise I won't leave it so long next time!
All my love,
Axx
Was it really three years ago? How could it be?
He remembered this place from his childhood, but now it looked so much more ominous. The beach he remembered lay maybe two hundred feet beneath him, strewn across the sea like damp muslin. The beach he remembered as a four year old. The tide had been out that day, and gasping starfish lay half buried in the wash. There had been a small boat too - a fishing vessel perhaps - lodged sideways on in the sand. Funny how it came back to him. It was perhaps the first memory of a time before now, of a time when her hair started to change from satin to steel wire. The night made it somehow more romantic, like a scene from someone else's life.
What's it like being you?
The words seemed to run off the yellowing notepaper to meet him. Substantially more different than it had been eight short hours ago. Lassooed, the arms of the sea before him sparkled under the sick moon, and all seemed to fit in its rightful place. Diseased blood in his thin body rose to the surface as he began to undress, folding them into a neat pile. Placing them on the still warm bonnet of his car, he took five steps forward.
It takes everything I am to come in here.
Closing his eyes, he took another five steps forward, but only managed three as the ground disappeared beneath him.
What's
it
like
being
you....?
Gasping starfish. Stars fell.
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
He wasn't sure himself if he was referring to the weather, the hard lashing of rain mozaicing down the coffee shop window, or something altogether more colourless.
He looked directly at her across the table. Her front two teeth peeped out from under her top lip and sat awkwardly on the cushion of her bottom one as she half smiled. He could tell she was trying her best, so softened a little.
"Out there, you know - I don't like it. It's full of them. Look...." He traced his finger across the glass, mapping trajectories of people as they walked from right to left, towards, away - a cluster of lines streaked in the condensation on the window. A history of journeys, messy, random - urban.
"It takes everything I am to come in here, but the coffee is good. Look at them all. I don't know where they're going - what does it mean do you think? Why do they all look the same, and dress the same? Why do none of them look happy? Why are they all so - disappointing..."
Again her looked at her, and she again half smiled. Her eyes were big. Really big. A round face framed by a sleek bob that was chestnut - once - and a haunting jawline.
"You don't say much, do you?" He realised that maybe she couldn't.
The door of the coffee shop swung open. A man and a woman walked in, epileptically shaking the rain off their shoulders and laughing. They - were them. The woman slid into a booth and flirted a smile at the man who went to order their coffee, in doing so, making sure her skirt was just that little bit too high up her thigh as she crossed her legs to face him.
It takes everything I am to come in here.
Heads began turning. Starting at the errant end of the coffee shop, whistling through a half turn to the entrance and stalling somewhere in the middle, only to be kickstarted by another chance comment which set the circle in motion again. Somehow within this violent sense of rhythm he knew people were staring. It didn't bother him, or make him perspire, not even when his hands began to tremble or his feet stuttering as he tried to stand up.
"Are you okay? Sir?"
The big eyes of the coffee girl blinked high and wide as she swept a lock of chestnut hair over her ear and peppered him with broken English. No semblance of her face stuck to his memory. Behind her was a mirror. He saw nothing but a blinding white light where his shape should have been. A moment of pure clarity. She was never here when I needed her.
He pulled out a scrunched twenty from his pocket, balancing himself with his other hand on the cold formica table.
"I've just got to get out for a while...get some air...."
He was aware a sliver of blood was trailing from his nose, also aware that the mischevious couple were no longer flirting, only gawping.
"Are you sure Sir?"
Again the broken English. Again the image of her naked and beneath him. It lolled in his head and shifted from side to side like a counter weight. No, no, no.....
"I'll be fine once I get some air. I just need....to....disappear...."
He hugged himself, his sleeves riding up to reveal slender forearms. Turning without retrieving his jacket from the back of his chair, he ran out of the shop into the rain - a streak on the window, lost in the random.
He recalled the words from the letter as he swallowed miles of the charcoal motorway in front of him. Was it late in the night or early in the morning? He couldn't tell.
What's it like being you?
A small question, an afterthought of a question. Yet one he couldn't answer.
I hope you're happy and healthy, and I promise I won't leave it so long next time!
All my love,
Axx
Was it really three years ago? How could it be?
He remembered this place from his childhood, but now it looked so much more ominous. The beach he remembered lay maybe two hundred feet beneath him, strewn across the sea like damp muslin. The beach he remembered as a four year old. The tide had been out that day, and gasping starfish lay half buried in the wash. There had been a small boat too - a fishing vessel perhaps - lodged sideways on in the sand. Funny how it came back to him. It was perhaps the first memory of a time before now, of a time when her hair started to change from satin to steel wire. The night made it somehow more romantic, like a scene from someone else's life.
What's it like being you?
The words seemed to run off the yellowing notepaper to meet him. Substantially more different than it had been eight short hours ago. Lassooed, the arms of the sea before him sparkled under the sick moon, and all seemed to fit in its rightful place. Diseased blood in his thin body rose to the surface as he began to undress, folding them into a neat pile. Placing them on the still warm bonnet of his car, he took five steps forward.
It takes everything I am to come in here.
Closing his eyes, he took another five steps forward, but only managed three as the ground disappeared beneath him.
What's
it
like
being
you....?
Gasping starfish. Stars fell.
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
Thursday, 18 November 2010
Days Like This
Today's listening - "Le Nocturne De Lumiere" by BT.
"Sparkling..."
The child pointed upwards at the heavily illuminated ceiling full of Christmas lights.
"Look...!"
Her mother was far too consumed by the clothing rail in front of her to acknowledge this small moment of wonder in her child's life. Lifting another garment from the rack, she perused it - running her right hand down the side of the dress slowly and tenderly from shoulder to hemline. Shifting her hips and switching the dress from left to right to gain another vantage point, the light changed with the angle. Again the slow stroke down the line of the dress - and a shake to flick out the crumple from the rail. Her daughter twisted in her buggy, and gasped with a little exasperation. Thrust her hips upwards. A movement that half suggested a half thought, of half freedom. A dash for the wire. If I go now, she won't notice. The thought seemed to dissipate as quickly as it came however, as another Stepford mother and buggy combo slid in the shop entrance beside her. As if tapped on the cheek, the little girl shouldered herself round to look at her new distraction. A little boy of about the same age, a bunch of brown curls tucked under a Baby Gap beanie. There was no exchange, other than a swapping of vacant thousand yarders which seemed to say Your mum shopping too then? We could be here a while you know - do you have sweets? She pointed up at the lights again, looking at him.
He wasn't interested.
Her mother was a short slim woman, raven black dyed hair scraped back into an Essex facelift, snub nosed and square jawed. She wanted to be younger than she was. Her palour was cold and malnourished, coffee and cigarettes having sucked all colour inwards. The tracksuit was unseasonal for the time of year, an off white tone that suggested her washes were not hot enough. The caressing of the dress continued, with a quizzical look. Can I afford it? Will it suit me? WHY can't I afford it?
She would have looked awesome. A good conditioner, some make up to hide the tiny red pocks around the nub of her chin, a hearty meal. Her daughter winged, and as a knee jerk her lips pursed into a sssshhhhhhh.
With a look of resignment, she hooked the dress from the rail, placed it lovingly over her arm and grasped the horns of the buggy. Twisting towards the till, her daughter looked surprised at the sudden movement. We going then?
Small moments later, they smoothed out of the shop, purchase hanging on the handle of the buggy. The little girl looked excited, and pointed up at the lights again.
Look!
I know, pretty aren't they?
Yaa!
Mum looked left, but turned right. As her head swept round she caught my gaze. I smiled a pathetic unthoughtful smile, more on the inside than on the out, but enough for her to notice. She cast me a look that was as icy as a bell ringing. I looked down at her waist. It was tiny and snake-like. Soon lost in the haze of movement, they disappeared.
She will soon be at a party, wearing her dress. She will dance, and she will laugh. She will drink too much, but she will be happy. She will be sitting at the end of the night on a chair or a doorstep, unable to move - pointing up at the Christmas lights in an awestruck gesture, and no one will acknowledge her.
But, that doesn't matter.
I stood up, and blinked to clear my eyes.
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
"Sparkling..."
The child pointed upwards at the heavily illuminated ceiling full of Christmas lights.
"Look...!"
Her mother was far too consumed by the clothing rail in front of her to acknowledge this small moment of wonder in her child's life. Lifting another garment from the rack, she perused it - running her right hand down the side of the dress slowly and tenderly from shoulder to hemline. Shifting her hips and switching the dress from left to right to gain another vantage point, the light changed with the angle. Again the slow stroke down the line of the dress - and a shake to flick out the crumple from the rail. Her daughter twisted in her buggy, and gasped with a little exasperation. Thrust her hips upwards. A movement that half suggested a half thought, of half freedom. A dash for the wire. If I go now, she won't notice. The thought seemed to dissipate as quickly as it came however, as another Stepford mother and buggy combo slid in the shop entrance beside her. As if tapped on the cheek, the little girl shouldered herself round to look at her new distraction. A little boy of about the same age, a bunch of brown curls tucked under a Baby Gap beanie. There was no exchange, other than a swapping of vacant thousand yarders which seemed to say Your mum shopping too then? We could be here a while you know - do you have sweets? She pointed up at the lights again, looking at him.
He wasn't interested.
Her mother was a short slim woman, raven black dyed hair scraped back into an Essex facelift, snub nosed and square jawed. She wanted to be younger than she was. Her palour was cold and malnourished, coffee and cigarettes having sucked all colour inwards. The tracksuit was unseasonal for the time of year, an off white tone that suggested her washes were not hot enough. The caressing of the dress continued, with a quizzical look. Can I afford it? Will it suit me? WHY can't I afford it?
She would have looked awesome. A good conditioner, some make up to hide the tiny red pocks around the nub of her chin, a hearty meal. Her daughter winged, and as a knee jerk her lips pursed into a sssshhhhhhh.
With a look of resignment, she hooked the dress from the rail, placed it lovingly over her arm and grasped the horns of the buggy. Twisting towards the till, her daughter looked surprised at the sudden movement. We going then?
Small moments later, they smoothed out of the shop, purchase hanging on the handle of the buggy. The little girl looked excited, and pointed up at the lights again.
Look!
I know, pretty aren't they?
Yaa!
Mum looked left, but turned right. As her head swept round she caught my gaze. I smiled a pathetic unthoughtful smile, more on the inside than on the out, but enough for her to notice. She cast me a look that was as icy as a bell ringing. I looked down at her waist. It was tiny and snake-like. Soon lost in the haze of movement, they disappeared.
She will soon be at a party, wearing her dress. She will dance, and she will laugh. She will drink too much, but she will be happy. She will be sitting at the end of the night on a chair or a doorstep, unable to move - pointing up at the Christmas lights in an awestruck gesture, and no one will acknowledge her.
But, that doesn't matter.
I stood up, and blinked to clear my eyes.
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
Thursday, 4 November 2010
Thursday. The ones that got away, and the ones that haven't arrived yet.
Today's listening - "FML" by Deadmau5.
Song titles, are kinda funny.
Evocation of an emotion or a feeling, a memory - can come from a million places. Every time I drive to my local Argos Superstore I think of sperm donors.
Okay, let me qualify that.
On my way there about 4 years ago I was listening to the radio in the car. I swept into the car park, taking the short cut through the bays to avoid the herculean chassis juddering speed bumps. The show on the radio was talking about sperm donation - the ethics, the pros, cons etc. and for some reason, it stuck in my head. Now I cannot fail to drive there, taking the same route through the car park, without thinking of, well - ya know.
Often, after this inappropriate flagstone of an idea was cemented in my head, I have parked up and wandered towards one or more of the three stores (it's a small retail park - a retail patch if you will) thinking about the process of sperm donation. Do you have to fill the pot? Do you get paid by the cc? Do they provide gentlemen's magazines to help the process along? Do the cubicles get sprayed down with spermicide afterwards to appease H&S?
"Thank you sir, your item will be with you in about 5 minutes - please go to your collection point."
I fully expect to be handed a pot and a wet wipe.
Same with song titles, they can make or break a tune. Take "Imagine" for example. Great song, shit title. It's - ironically - unimaginative. "Bat Out Of Hell" by Meatloaf? Totally different story. AMAZING song title. Works on two, unique and key levels. One, it supplants and underlines the energy of rebellion and having just plain damn enough of your situation...."Like a bat out of hell I'll be gone when the morning comes..." It's catchy, memorable and does everything a pop lyric should do. Two, it references the Greek playwright Aristophanes 414 BC work entitled "The Birds." In it is what is believed to be the first reference to a "Bat Out of Hell";
'Near by the land of the Sciapodes there is a marsh, from the borders whereof the unwashed Socrates evokes the souls of men. Pisander came one day to see his soul, which he had left there when still alive. He offered a little victim, a camel, slit his throat and, following the example of Odysseus, stepped one pace backwards. Then that bat of a Chaerephon came up from hell to drink the camel's blood.'
Two levels, the veneer - and the groundwork of creating the veneer, the bones, the inspiration. The evocation of a memory in the writer of a text, a picture, a thought, a process which stuck. Amazing and beautiful.
Although, quite what Meatloaf was thinking when he came up with "In the Land of the Pig, the Butcher is King" I haven't a fucking clue.
You know sometimes, you have to read a song before you listen to it. Max the experience. As a parent to be names their child after due care, thought and love, such is with songwriters - the good ones anyway.
As a footnote, here are some titles I will never give to my works, and songs I will never write It would just be wrong.
"Muffin Top"
"Gone Kidding"
"Your Love is Scrunchy"
"There's Always Someone (Who Wants to Pour Sand in Your Pants)"
"In The Bushes"
"Of All The People"
"Stains"
"I Am What I Am And I Will Survive"
"Twitter Me"
"How Much Did You Pay To Get Your Face That Way"
"Don't Touch That It's Sore"
"Gone In 30 Seconds"
And finally...
"Spunk Donor."
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
Song titles, are kinda funny.
Evocation of an emotion or a feeling, a memory - can come from a million places. Every time I drive to my local Argos Superstore I think of sperm donors.
Okay, let me qualify that.
On my way there about 4 years ago I was listening to the radio in the car. I swept into the car park, taking the short cut through the bays to avoid the herculean chassis juddering speed bumps. The show on the radio was talking about sperm donation - the ethics, the pros, cons etc. and for some reason, it stuck in my head. Now I cannot fail to drive there, taking the same route through the car park, without thinking of, well - ya know.
Often, after this inappropriate flagstone of an idea was cemented in my head, I have parked up and wandered towards one or more of the three stores (it's a small retail park - a retail patch if you will) thinking about the process of sperm donation. Do you have to fill the pot? Do you get paid by the cc? Do they provide gentlemen's magazines to help the process along? Do the cubicles get sprayed down with spermicide afterwards to appease H&S?
"Thank you sir, your item will be with you in about 5 minutes - please go to your collection point."
I fully expect to be handed a pot and a wet wipe.
Same with song titles, they can make or break a tune. Take "Imagine" for example. Great song, shit title. It's - ironically - unimaginative. "Bat Out Of Hell" by Meatloaf? Totally different story. AMAZING song title. Works on two, unique and key levels. One, it supplants and underlines the energy of rebellion and having just plain damn enough of your situation...."Like a bat out of hell I'll be gone when the morning comes..." It's catchy, memorable and does everything a pop lyric should do. Two, it references the Greek playwright Aristophanes 414 BC work entitled "The Birds." In it is what is believed to be the first reference to a "Bat Out of Hell";
'Near by the land of the Sciapodes there is a marsh, from the borders whereof the unwashed Socrates evokes the souls of men. Pisander came one day to see his soul, which he had left there when still alive. He offered a little victim, a camel, slit his throat and, following the example of Odysseus, stepped one pace backwards. Then that bat of a Chaerephon came up from hell to drink the camel's blood.'
Two levels, the veneer - and the groundwork of creating the veneer, the bones, the inspiration. The evocation of a memory in the writer of a text, a picture, a thought, a process which stuck. Amazing and beautiful.
Although, quite what Meatloaf was thinking when he came up with "In the Land of the Pig, the Butcher is King" I haven't a fucking clue.
You know sometimes, you have to read a song before you listen to it. Max the experience. As a parent to be names their child after due care, thought and love, such is with songwriters - the good ones anyway.
As a footnote, here are some titles I will never give to my works, and songs I will never write It would just be wrong.
"Muffin Top"
"Gone Kidding"
"Your Love is Scrunchy"
"There's Always Someone (Who Wants to Pour Sand in Your Pants)"
"In The Bushes"
"Of All The People"
"Stains"
"I Am What I Am And I Will Survive"
"Twitter Me"
"How Much Did You Pay To Get Your Face That Way"
"Don't Touch That It's Sore"
"Gone In 30 Seconds"
And finally...
"Spunk Donor."
www.soundcloud.com/amartaproject
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)