Across the Northern Hemisphere, out of the demonic molten fog splinters light, slowly and sporadic at first. And then all the way up there the machines start to function again.
Somewhere in amongst Cirrus and Cirrocumulu and Cirrostratus there’s emerging total light, soft as snow and warm inside. In refueled planes breaths the collective sighs of relief, as metallic wings phoenix forever.
Long before technology made connectivity religion, people and things could grow, nurture, die in isolation, anonymous and unknown. Back when the world was the biggest thing imaginable.
But that now belongs to the past. A past Bhurgeist probably didn’t even live through.
Now barely out of their teens kids can make records that sound just like bands a lot of people have barely heard of and no one will think twice. No one will commend their good taste or their ability to search and emulate and transgress richer sounds. Not when history and the world as it is now are served up on a plate for whoever cares to indulge. It’s what we expect.
But Bhurgeist, here’s your props: you like great bands. You’ve written a great song. And you’ve made it sound like the easiest thing in the world. Whatever era you belong to, we all know that’s the hardest thing in the world, no matter how big or small.
Houses, in motion, across the lake, bed sheets knotted into vast sails, gliding to meet in aqua conurbations, only to then divide and dissolve into the endless endless.
Laura sounds like the kind of girl who can ruin a weekend.
You’re waiting on that return call, re-reading that text for the billionth time, imagining all kinds of morbid reasons as to why she hasn’t got back to you. But there’s no drama, there’s just her games, playing out a ritual as old as sex itself.
Your phone rings three days later. Your heart skips a beat.
I was blind, but now I can see. But only just, squinting through the hazy fog of vanilla cigarettes into the half light of Anton Newcombe’s mind’s eye. Then suddenly through time lapse and meditative will, all the way back to a dimly lit paisley back room just off the King’s Road in 1964.
The Proper Ornaments can be found here, have a record out on Make A Mess soon and feature the guitarist from Veronica Falls. That might not have been clear from the above. But then again…
