Let us welcome Taraka with much joy. She is back from a haunted church out in the woods where Prince Rama of Ayodhya have been busy recording their new album forthcoming in Paw Tracks with Avey Tare and Deakin…We Own The Otherwordly Team.

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Out here the landscape is a tabula rasa, flat and expansive, save for an occasional skeleton of a barn or a sun-bleached truck stop. Your vision hovers so long on the hazy ribbon where land meets sky that your memory of both begins to fade. The sacred rim of the known and the unknown dissolves into a snake-like mirage lined with the scales of civilization’s amnesia. It’s breathing is marked by the silent undulation of corn stalks lifting their heads in transfixed choreography, tacitly surrendering their shells to the possession-dance of the wind ghosts.

If America is a topocosmic entity, that is, if we read its topography as a magico-anatomical reflection of our own psychic structures, then what sounds on the coast is what sounds at the forefront of our cognition (perhaps one hypothesis for the current proliferation of “beach bands”), but what lurks in the vast and vacuous middle is the primal pulse that comprises the core of our sonic-unconsciousness. Here lies what was found rippling in the crop circles.

TATERBUG: ∆ CHEMICAL VACATION ∆

His given name may be Charles Free, but in the land of the Amber Wave, inhabitants reverently refer to the lone voice behind the mysterious drug-laced, hissed-out, “creaky karaoke” only as “TATERBUG“. A self-proclaimed “Liquid Elvis”, Taterbug is a king of sorts, but not of rock, of corn; a shaman presiding over the charnal grounds where architecture has come to die, hung on the greased nooses of magnetic tape ribbons and dangling above the horizon line dividing the human realm from the spirit realm.

“Chemical Vacation” hooks you immediately into this liminal space, feet swinging timorously above a ghost-town constructed from trance-inducing melodies that drift in and out of loops hovering over their empires like spectres with unfinished vendettas, doomed to repeat the same action for all eternity. Each melody loop follows a contained train of thought, trains that are separated abruptly by the click of the tape machine, a jarring reminder of the medium through which the spirit of this artifice is channeled. Taterbug’s ageless, sexless voice leads us through this sad and beautiful Americana-vision-quest, chanting incantations in a language long since disembodied from its etymological structure, cooing wistfully over pounding guitars like the echo of an amnesiac singing love ballads followed by an ectoplasmic trail of tape hiss.

From The Savage Young Taterbug CS

Night People.

Peaking Lights: ∆ INTRO TO IMAGINARY FALCONS ∆

Aaron Coyes and Indra Dunis were pulled inward from their coastal home in California to retreat to the bucolic setting of Spring Green, Wisconsin, where they inhabited an isolated cabin designed by Frank Lloyd Wright’s grandson. In keeping with the Lloyd Wright’s utopian legacy of architecture that is supposed to emerge from its surrounding environment, not impose itself on it, Imaginary Falcons seems well-camouflaged in its sonic ecosystem of white noise, tape hiss, and the occasional ecstatic squeal from a handmade analog synth.

The intro spills like a waterfall through the structure, free and flowing, its current ripples down the stairsteps blissfully fluctuating between order and chaos, falling in love with both, ushering in a lo-fi hymn that sounds like Cluster getting baptized in the sacred waters, beckoning you to enter, lose yourself, and be born again. Indra’s voice cascades through the sunroof and etches prismic patterns on the walls that spell out divine messages of sky deities, aural silhouettes of imaginary falcons.

From Imaginary Falcons on

Night People // Not Not Fun

Epilogue -
This post is tagged with Cosmic