Hangnail On The Road To Defrag

Hangnail On The Road To Defrag



My time was spent stargazing, wisdom fitted into empty head now moving on.



The lights twinkling in the peripheral tear dwindle into new found understanding and the overload of the as above, so below allows my head to spaz back, nodal; taking cuttings of the fresh fruit of the seeds to replace the darling buds of the tear n' share weed left behind – sweet milky logic in abundance as the newly hopeful template.



I get a page to interrupt my motive poetry – I pull back the loose thumbnail…there's a show highly recommended so I hit back with my faq – the frankly answered question being 'Groovy'.



No need to 'port home in the sonic shower to take a regular wet one, I just 'port bag and blanket home and push the thumbnail into 'port control before stepping into the cubicle…destroyed…reconstructed.



Crunch my new toes deep within heavy boots to remind myself I'm not fused to them (by the process, an old paranoia commonly chosen for us by circumstantials of digital existence) and carry my new string into the club; dank and massive, industrial and gritty; place throwing chimes of the folklore of just how much space was supposed necy to build cheap Yokohama crap for the masses…



Apparently I'm just in time to see the first rising star of the night's true grit – 'porting in with a console of scattered antique tweakers and filter beakers; slowly building layers of bright, shiny stars and deep supernova closeups, crunchy and moving in still life twix the loops and guitar sprinkles laid over; I move my head in slow moebius circles, almost crying at the near bliss of it all as cold, digital grey becomes green and the black walls turn to white and blue light in the warming bleakness of the black noise gently raping my ears with well planned bass frenzy.



A half dozen calimochos later, warm and strong, my ears have their resigned cigarette afterwards as Oxbow take the stage.



The guitarist in loose fit suit and tie beats out his high space jazz spined rusty flamenco and I'm so baffled by dude's ability to trick my secondary eyes into believing the man don't got no clue; my third eye, so to speak, gradually waves the giant suited behemoth crooning blooze melancholy with such sheer demonic insanity and deceptive precision, flailing across the letterbox format of the stage I almost fear for my being there; relative safety in hanging back in middle of the audiotorio's floor.



Dude got 'death by misadventure' written all over his dark flesh, tattooed densely yet just sparingly…just…



My ears take a second and almost welcome penetration as he screams the splendors of his manic, old-timey space gibberish – scratch manic, dude once again deceptive in controlled chaos – all calamity seeming almost planned amid the intensity of his 'performance'; neither I nor the crowd can get a fix on laughter or recognition of heartbreak – dude clearly hurts – so we eventually settle on calmly hysterical awe they swim thru the third and fourth, numbers, 'til we realize we can pinch ourselves or concede defeat and dash off to the bar, assuming control of higher purchase purpose



But screw that on my behalf, I'll settle for absently awaiting the warm reward of another warm half dozen of strong 'mochos so I can hold on to the milky moment of the rare experience of frights of fancy as the behemoth shifts his considerable bulk, wildly yet paced, across the box of analogue truth in front of me; shock as the bulk continues to gradually shed layers of fabric skin and clutches at his considerable black manhood for comfort…



…better not to shirk the responsibility of experience in the life of this magic moment for the tenapenny riposte of crap wine and syrupy cola in another life…



The bulk increible tries, at one point, to shun the mic stand and in doing so, inadvertently loses the mic cable; yet barely seems to register this as he casts the impotent microphone softly aside and continues to bellow his puzzle, dynamic like a broken waterfall record



The warm, wavy pulse of the audio 'mocho continues it's slow and confident onslaught on our gathered psyche and later, long after headliners Isis have folded us into their pocket in the wake of their paradigm shift of time signatures – precise and nodal – I'm lost in my gutter of 'mochos, spewing pink rebofires into the dawn as the winter of discontent drifts inexorably into hayfever head sneezes of rolling soul summer hills, chill; and I know I'd easily have enough material to fill a heavy book, a light fingered and translucent tome; if I didn't spend my entire broadsheet on the road to defrag>>>>>

                                                          Counting To Zero,

                                                          Hull, 1AM, 28/5/2007

Currently listening to: Counting To Zero and Thee Cathartistic Fires Ov Rebo: 'Many Cassettes Were Harmed...'