a stream today because I've already posted a track and would rather not release too much of the record for free. and I'm simply unable to write about anything else today, this is too good.

All strangers are your children. All strangers are your children and how far they've come, how much they've bested and how much they've left to learn. They don't know you, their mother, and they may resent you for that. But still in their heart of hearts they understand the sacrifices you made, and they also agree that mothering everyone who currently lives has been no easy feat. They understand that their relationship with you is not as important as your relationship to everything else. They are, perhaps unconsciously, humbled to be your child. You can see their wrinkled shirt and their mis-creased pant, their pained exhausted face, their steely resolve, and you are here for them. And they may choose to come to you, to nestle in the crook of your arm, on the subway or at the Subway, whenever they truly need to, but until then, they, like you, will be brave.

--

Carey's Cold Spring has stuck with me, it travels me, it swirls my head, speaks me before words can. And it is so much words. I've listened to every Frog Eyes song ever recorded*, most in the double-digit play count, some probably in the triple, and this album is where the poetry takes over, it's let loose. Frog Eyes don't often live in this world, they often create a place, an alternate brown leather world, with caravan breakers and wheat farmers and golden rivers, but Carey's Cold Spring is here, it's now and it's singing in your ear and somehow, even thought it's a record, a recorded and finished thing, it holds impermanence up in reverence, it feels like it could disappear, it knows it will. The world they see is a world with bright red Air Jordans, with dudes, with moving trucks, with rats chewing frayed HDMI, shitty boyfriends and bourboned liars, "The Speaker", David Bowie is there, The Black Bloc is there, capital e Evil is there. And capital d Dreams. The moon refuses to rise, a firing squad takes dead-eyed aim, a rioter screams so loud they take flight, an arrest is made on charges of being too good to be true. Last-dance songs, culminating reckoners, and songs made out of sap from the sun. This record has taken up residence in my heart.

[Buy]

*Sean introduced them to me at the beginning of our friendship in 2002

Posted by Dan at October 16, 2013 12:06 AM