Dispatch from the land of whirlwinds:
‘I hope this message finds you well.
I just discovered this triad of songs so mind-melting,
I couldn’t resist writing about them.
I have chosen to arrange them all under the theme of “Resurrection”,
as I feel each one dances with this concept in some shape or form’
To feel the light, you must first feel the darkness.
The sciatheric shadows you see dancing on the mirrored wall of the cave
that you have believed to be real are in fact are only outlines of the void.
Close your eyes; they are liars.
Deep warm drones emerge like primal mud from the center of the earth
and carry with them the voices of being born, their breath the boatmen
of hot steam and stench of life gurgling, their tongues shoots of gold
and spires of green impaling woven palms that cradle fountains of
Your forehead presses against the stone floor of this catoptric temple
and your arms lay before you outstretched and weak.
Soon the drones melt into the sound of your own voice screaming into
petrified tracheas how much you want to die so that you can feel the
ecstasy of being born again.
Yet this existence is a death re-lived constantly. It is a fossil of light.
To feel the light, you must be the darkness.
You are a shadow measuring time with the sun’s passage over your bones
whose memory will survive only through the cathartic reverberations of
its requiem, which is also a hymn of the living.
Your ears are two vessels of midnight.
(This track by Soft Circle is as yet unreleased)
The bleached skeleton of a landscape rendered petrified by light is
summoned through the foreboding bass-blood pulse of some odious beast
lurking ‘neath gilded synth skins stretched across the bones of dawn.
No smoke or mirrors can hide the slow ascent of your silhouette. In
the horrifying revelation that morning has come, another day has
passed, another revolution of our planet has been made towards the
sun, the needle toward the center of the record, and our own shadows
toward the cosmic axial gnomon, we discover that we carry the
leviathan of time within ourselves and lock it safe within the crafted
cages of pop, unleashed here by Brooklyn-based Silk Flowers in haunted
celebration of ritualized resurrection.
In the gnarled concrete proto-goth forests of Houston, Texas,
Travis Kerschen, the lone enigmatic figure of A Thousand Cranes and
shamanic brother of Tex (chieftain of Indian Jewelry) builds a sonic
nest in a rotted out tree using woven bits of hair, bones, and teeth
of mummified monks held together by strings spun by the most venomous
of synth spiders and shards of glass shattered from the window of
infinity. A chime rings, a skull drum pounds, and a hypnotic voice
leads you towards your ultimate spodomancy to greet the mythical bird
that rises and swoops in an eternal dance with its falconer, landing
sometimes on the wrists of Jandek and Gang Gang Dance and yet refusing
the raw meat offered by either outstretched hand. The fragility of
flight is consumed by fire.
(I am the Phoenix is as yet unreleased)