The journey starts late; six weeks into the making of Grief Point. First off is May Day, the song in honor of May 1st and the workers. Can you still be against the strike that only strikes for more pay? By ‘you,’ in this instance, I mean ‘me.’ There is a certain kind of person to whom things come with great facility. They say this is the noise that gets made as my life is lived. So be it; but don’t feel the need to record it. For a second I thought this meant that they were not interested in history, but that’s wrong; wrong, wrong. A bad reading of the situation. The right reading is that I just don’t understand it; at all.
Grief Point, and May Day by extension, suffers from the same old shit: a potential complete ignorance of ambiance, real ambiance, in that can you really construct it, every last bit of it, and just let the listener feel its effects? And is this the right treatment? Always the same question. In this case, I would maybe say yes, just because it forces form onto the thing. "Thing" is a bunch of words to melodies, and the words sung in a handful of ways.
Between J and D, of course, the same old war rages; one into a tight and perfect digital palace, but super true to the genre, the other wanting to throw in actual sounds, mix it up, humanize.
It's cool how, for my part, this sleight of hand, the trick of making something confounding and great and potentially horrible, drawn up from air; all this is no longer of any interest. In fact, even seeing things in this light depresses me. And so I often come home at night depressed by what we have done, what we are doing. It's good, it means I've changed.
I have lost interest in music. It is horrible.
I should only make things I understand. I should only make things I know how to construct, however imperfect. It's not even like dictating to someone; it's less than that. May Day itself is pretty cool, I have to admit. It condemns the world at such an easy pace. I intend to tell it to you: it’s like happy shooting rockets, a disgusting description of anything, to be sure. I think the world does not like me grim; it likes me melancholic but not miserable: English on the Mediterranean, which is oddly enough, some of the worst people there is. At some point when it is made, I will explain this record word-for-word, swear to God. When I know if that is good or bad, I’ll know what is good and what is bad.
The answer to the making of Grief Point is picnic baskets filled with blood.
Too rich, nothing at stake. If "blank" had to write lyrics for his songs, they would be cumbersome, pale blocks, like his riffs, but pale. So instead, he went out and found a wailer, too stupid to commit to a single thing.
I assume not lighting up at the sight of your mother is a sign of madness in an infant. Pattena, no name for a baby, you were first born before they threw you from the bridge.
Wagner wrestles his dogs to the floor; such a beautiful scene for some. They write plays, don't perform them.
The message from the critical reception of Dreams was quite clear: we will not be listening to you any further.
Of course, some tension is created; Cosmonaut in a breadline, etc.
I watched a pig devour the classics just to get to you. The barge endlessly circling, your mind finds out.
It is done.
Grief Point, and May Day by extension, suffers from the same old shit: a potential complete ignorance of ambiance, real ambiance, in that can you really construct it, every last bit of it, and just let the listener feel its effects? And is this the right treatment? Always the same question. In this case, I would maybe say yes, just because it forces form onto the thing. "Thing" is a bunch of words to melodies, and the words sung in a handful of ways.
Between J and D, of course, the same old war rages; one into a tight and perfect digital palace, but super true to the genre, the other wanting to throw in actual sounds, mix it up, humanize.
It's cool how, for my part, this sleight of hand, the trick of making something confounding and great and potentially horrible, drawn up from air; all this is no longer of any interest. In fact, even seeing things in this light depresses me. And so I often come home at night depressed by what we have done, what we are doing. It's good, it means I've changed.
I have lost interest in music. It is horrible.
I should only make things I understand. I should only make things I know how to construct, however imperfect. It's not even like dictating to someone; it's less than that. May Day itself is pretty cool, I have to admit. It condemns the world at such an easy pace. I intend to tell it to you: it’s like happy shooting rockets, a disgusting description of anything, to be sure. I think the world does not like me grim; it likes me melancholic but not miserable: English on the Mediterranean, which is oddly enough, some of the worst people there is. At some point when it is made, I will explain this record word-for-word, swear to God. When I know if that is good or bad, I’ll know what is good and what is bad.
The answer to the making of Grief Point is picnic baskets filled with blood.
Too rich, nothing at stake. If "blank" had to write lyrics for his songs, they would be cumbersome, pale blocks, like his riffs, but pale. So instead, he went out and found a wailer, too stupid to commit to a single thing.
I assume not lighting up at the sight of your mother is a sign of madness in an infant. Pattena, no name for a baby, you were first born before they threw you from the bridge.
Wagner wrestles his dogs to the floor; such a beautiful scene for some. They write plays, don't perform them.
The message from the critical reception of Dreams was quite clear: we will not be listening to you any further.
Of course, some tension is created; Cosmonaut in a breadline, etc.
I watched a pig devour the classics just to get to you. The barge endlessly circling, your mind finds out.
It is done.
