There are times when you put on a record and a song rings out with an uncannily different tone than the rest of them. You can’t quite put your finger on it— it is arresting, ecstatic, horrifying, and otherworldly– it as though a portal has been opened to the spirit world and you find yourself possessed by the spectre of history. Derrida would point to hauntology as an explanation of this phenomenon of encountering the phantasmic anachronism. The idea holds that the present culture exists only as ectoplasmic residue of the past, and that society after the end of history will begin to orient itself more and more towards its own ghosts.

Upon the discovery of these two tracks, both b-side underbellies of recent 7 inches put out by Captured Tracks, I felt myself paralyzed by the spectral power. I surrendered unquestioningly to their necromantic commands— before long, I found myself unwittingly turning the speed knob down until 45 rpm became 33 and the voices in these seemingly innocuous and digestible pop songs all of a sudden became enchanted oracles ominously imparting a dark and unforeseen realm of prophecy.

I realized that only through embracing a whole-hearted exploration of our haunted state can we hope we bring about a deeper awareness of ourselves as our only exorcisers.

It is thus with this intent that I invite you to be possessed.

∆ COSMETICS ∆

∆ BLACK LEATHER GLOVES ∆

In this spirit realm, nostalgia is the language of knowing and fantasy is the landscape of being. Spidery synths scamper across the glass dance floor of infinity as a hand reaches down from the sky cloaked in the black fetish of mystery. Like some gothic recreation of the Sistine Chapel, a crooked finger beckons you to follow it across the swirling threshold of fog and mirrors to some amorphous disco dome of a bygone era. Before long, you have lost yourself to this hand and you find yourself dancing with everyone in the room, but then, you realize you are everyone in the room and the gloved hand you have been holding is none but your own as you watch it dig your grave.

∆ BEACH FOSSILS ∆

∆ DESERT SAND ∆

The coast ghosts that have haunted the sonic landscape for over a year now seem to weave a wistful eulogy for their lost union with the archetypal beach, whose promise of discovery has possessed residents to the brink of mania. Where is this elusive beach? Who are its inhabitants? What is it really? The Beach Boys who once set out on their mystical quest to find it have shape-shifted into Beach Fossils and their oneirogogic vision of sand once wet by waves is now but a mirage on the horizon of a vast desert expanse. A lone rider drags a beat-up guitar across this sea of quartz and mineral dust, strings plucked in eerie harmony by the skeletal fingers of a daydream unrequited, its bones left to bake in the sun.

Put your ear to the ground;

beneath this field of windblown carcasses

one can hear the soft roar of a new tide rising up through the bedrock

and slipping silver tongues through the cracks in the sand.

Epilogue -
This post is tagged with rave