A delicate little review of a small but expansive album
"I have nothing." Certainly not the most elaborate of album titles, but possibly one of the most austere and accurate in terms of the ground covered on the disc. Nothing is Everything and Everything is Nothing.
This is something I covered in a Crowleyian manifesto called the Cycle of Naught for ftheworld.com when I was seventeen or maybe even sixteen and it was covered by some turtlenecked shitter before me when he invented the glass half full/half empty formula for assessing a situation.
You can look on this album as something balefully beautiful, something encompassing the vacant yet vast landscape of the world and its tethered heart, or you can look on it as a moribund shoegazing exercise in go-nowhere bleakness. You'd be right either way, but the former is less myopic and more deferential to the sentient Bipeds who conceived of its meticulous flow.
And it does flow. Like galvanized particles running through circuitry, circuitry buzzing through power lines or winds propelled through lonesome vistas, themselves abuzz with their own electric and achingly profound singularity.
The sounds here are what your emotional make-up allows them to be, but only a primordial douchebag could decipher anything less than vast and carefully researched universal orgiasm from the proceedings.
This isn't Noise in the sense of "Let's piss everybody off," which, in itself, is valid in our Century. But it does contain a muted and, paradoxically, blaring Nihilism that tugs at what's left of the sinewy, scar tissue-stricken heart strings of the keen listener.
For the sake of the god of effigies DON'T read the song titles! There hasn't been anything this misleading since Marilyn Manson promised us the Apocalypse in Circus Magazine or Hit Parader, back in 1996.
But suffice it to say that the tones and drones and tool-shed scratchy trenchant haruspex on something like "Cymbol" (You didn't read that title) is incomprehensible in any alphabetical combination. It surpasses language in written form. Like all worthwhile music, from Mudbelly and Mike Patton to Van Morrison and Maynard James Keenan. And "Crispin Glover" is as weird, multi-faceted and misunderstood as the human visage who goes by the name Crispin Glover.
By the end of that first song I shouldn't have mentioned by name, your hypothalamus is as serrated as your sixth sense, your guts are cowering in your asshole and your chest is thrust out like that of a mastodon on the defensive and you feel like it's raining Ronsonol in your weary eyes.
The next bit finds you opening those eyes, or maybe a new pair, hammered on Halcyon + On + On, in a virtual K-Hole, cocks at your feet and a screen door admonishing you of what the dog is about to bark.
Billy's caught in a well or Janis is in jail and the sun is black and dripping something foul on your crop and maybe it's not even your crop and what's it matter anyway because there's something out there and you know what it is but you're not at all sure that you are prepared to grapple with it even as you plod ahead with patina-laden spade at your side, you palm bleeding from clutching it so hard and crystalline tears drying to a film in the corners of your curious peepers as a spacey vibe emerges and washes over you in a most foreign way.
Maybe it's not so hopeless. Or maybe. Maybe it is, maybe it's just another dreary night on the corner. But you'll never know the difference and that's what makes it all so absurdly gorgeous, so lustfully, delicately, immaculately perfect.
It's why a David Lynch film makes you cum from the center of your chest in a quiet fashion, why you want to hug the old Eagle Scout for giving you Roy Orbison's "Cryin" in spiritually grinding and all-around perplexing Spanish splendor with a little blue box. We should all be so lucky as to dwell inside a radiator. Because the mystery is...
It just is. And its existence is reason enough.