And the dam broke with a mighty crack, and the water precipitated free like crazy horses, and a thousand birds took flight covering the land with shadows, and a sound as if the gasp of a thousand hearts had melded into one, or as if God had gasped at hearing the mighty crack, look at those columns of white water running furious over everything that was in the valley. And this way it ended, houses and churches and schoolyards and barns and fences and hills and forests sitting strange and uncomfortable in the turbulent green like polite hosts to an unexpected guest, while the possessions of a thousand spiralled to the white surface like the apparel of ghostly pilgrims, I look into the murky shadows and I see a closed room in a house standing where all these things remained trapped, sepia portraits in the walls staring blind at the water dripping through cracks in the yellow walls, and the dented floorboards, a bed unmade, a girl trapped inside singing a song that has haunted ever since the hearts of those that, on that day, stood by the emerging shores of the nascent lake.

U.S. Girls- Prove it all Night

We are ever so happy that U.S. Girls eerily beautiful incantations are finally embedded in the black vinyl of her ‘Introducing’ album released by mighty Siltbreeze (we heart). There was a soul to the music of the Shaggs, one perhaps taught by the ghosts of the prairie, it does shine strong in U.S. Girls heart, and her heart beats strong in her songs, and we listen enthralled because we can’t ask for more.

And the other night I couldn’t sleep so I sat in my bed by the window smoking a cigarette, staring outside into a shining fresco unreal in its silent stillness, all shades of blue merging into black interrupted by the stealthy silhouette of a cat jumping the fence precise with murder in its refulgent eyes, then, all quiet again save for that red firefly crashing capricious into the mound of ashes perched on the windowsill, then a cadence approaching slow but steady in the distance, turn towards the gaudy clock ticking and tacking indifferent by my bed, do trains run at this time of the night? Because my window looks, past the green- then blue- foliage into the tracks approaching the station, the cadence growing louder, carrying with it a mournful something I had never heard before, it could be that in the small hours every sound produced resonates deeper into the pit of loneliness of one awake and expectant, sitting by the window, and then a train crashes through this reverie obstinate in a mystery destination, surely trains don’t run this late, perhaps this is the way the dead travel, through empty tracks past closed stations, staring from their own windows into a world of shadows where the living sleep.

Arch M- 21st Union

You could imagine ghosts slender and sad performing elaborate ballet pieces full of drama across empty architectures while Arch M’s otherwordly music plays in the background, like dolls at the beginning of a Kitano film. Which would take your breath away rightfully.

And if you walk down a smooth path of stones polished by the wind, long after a hint of a footprint could last be read, and find yourself confronted by a dark crack just about the longest you ever jumped, maybe a couple of feet longer, tired and weary, the explorer inside you wiping his sweaty brow doubtful while the voices of your friends call your name in the distance, or is that their echoes chasing each other in the blue sky between the shapes of squeaking seagulls, and you half turn around, and then back, stare beyond the crack where the air shimmers uncertain, ionised particles dancing with a mischievous smile like they were about to tell you a secret, and then you mutter something, hold your breath and jump as long as you ever jumped to land precarious on the other side, and stare down steep rocky cliffs where a little beach lays curled calm past the echoes of your friends’ voices, descend. Because from there, you shall behold a majestic palace of gilded domes floating over the placid blue sea, the sun reflected almost blinding but not quite in its mighty spirals, around which the birds play their game eternal and free.

El Guincho- Jugadores de Juegos

Excellent gentleman Cristian from Discos Compulsivos/LUV LUV sent us today the very sold-out Folias CD-R by our favouritest tropical trovadour Pablo aka El Guincho, and seriously, while listening to it the sun has finally decided to shine through the merciless battlements of clouds under which we have toiled morose for so long, might the guitar strings gently plucked by Pablo’s fingers open up those heavy and grey curtains for good, so that we might behold into a blue sky smiling, the summer is here.

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Arch M’s Corey Reid shall be DJing at Brighton’s Ocean Room on Friday night, and New Look will be playing live. Good stuff, we’ll be there.

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Our friend George Quartz has a very nice blog called La Maladie Tropicale, go and say hi. Enjoy the colours and fonts. Classy.

We have taken ages to tell you about El Guincho, who Felix from Discoteca Oceano (who have released his record Alegranza: BUY) reported to us about a good half a year ago, well, it’s about time we did, amongst other reasons because his music is the perfect antidote against the razor sharp claws of winter.

El Guincho rocks joyous drum party jams with the contagious enthusiasm of Animal Collective if they hailed from Las Islas Canarias, where people communicate whistling (well, some of them do), instead of Baltimore where it’s cold and wizards craft spells in cellars which hide secrets, the vibe is one of omnivorous assimilation of a myriad influences with the mischievous disregard from conventions that sets M.I.A. apart from the rest of the mutant R&B whatchacallit pack, all these snippets bits and beats are then put together with magic Rubik cube skills and the sort of efortless flair that would make the Avalanches proud, and thrown into the air where they raise like dolphins straight out of the psychedelic shamanic hat, music flies into the cloudy coral reefs of the sky bringing down pastel coloured rain which makes the spirit swell like accelerated films of spring fields spreading, let’s have a beach party under the stars kids, El Guincho is playing.

El Guincho- Palmitos Park

We call it psychedelic sabroso yeh yeh, and it’s the fucking shizzle. Go to Gorilla vs Bear for another couple of tunes.

Continuing with the drum rain vibe, excellent HEALTH have sent us an exclusive remix of Lost Time done by Pictureplane as part of the HEALTH//DISCO thang, and to be honest we are having trouble writing about it because it’s so fucking awesome the sempiternal twitch of percussion-induced excitement has infected our gnarly pale paws, thank god telekinetic rays thrown via a hyperdeveloped pineal gland come to our rescue pressing the right letters in the keyboard of our battered computer, thank you Dr. Pretorius for all these handy mutations, but keep those fucking alien eels away from our faces.

HEALTH- Lost Time (Pictureplane remix)

Which is a circle of steam hammers pounding into the vast expanses of the desert and pumping out the spiritual power melange spice lying under the golden sands with the intensely focused energy of say Vitalic in Valleta Fanfares or OOIOO in Uma, all following the rotund lines of the magick ritual which Boredoms scribbled last year over the tattered pages of NYC, a heart-swelling image of kraftwerkian misty precision and beauty stretches enigmatically surveyed by magic birds of synth fire flying high above in a sky of perfect blue which slowly starts filling with magenta clouds of power, kids do the ghost dance in the disco too you know, and it works fucking wonders.