Much of this is written from the cruciform inflexion. Music flows – cascades of sound, entire cataracts, these heady torrents of aural fixation, and then I’m splayed out upon the floorboards, arms and torso describing a letter T. There’ll be a goblet of wine close at hand, and from time to time I’ll lean over to jab words into the laptop. Words such as these, in fact; ill-formed and tainted by uncontextual shards of lyric, or whatever random thought is flickering across with the alcohol.
It isn’t all that long ago that discovering something wonderful took some effort. Back then, you had to listen to the radio to pick up something that connected. Or put yourself at the mercy of some music journalist’s faddy judgement. Or hope that the unheard-of support act at whatever random gig would blow the headliners off the stage. T’was a hit-and-miss affair at times, the swapping of pocket money for shiny vinyl of dubious provenance – which explains away at least some of the dodgy records hiding away on the shelf.
These days, of course, you just have to press a button to fill your ears with whatever grindcore death disco floats your personal flotilla. A nominal price, a peppercorn rent, instant gratification. And it’s all very marvellous of course (and call me a music snob if you must), but there’s a thrill of the chase that’s been lost somewhere along the way.
Below the words: Germany’s answer to Portishead, perhaps; fragile, wispy electronica, but with the vague threat of onrushing welders, eager to beat the crap out of the pipework. With hammers. You listen, I’ll go grab another bottle from the wine cellar.
Donna Regina / Northern Classic