Black Moth Super Rainbow - Drippy Eye, Neon Syrup For The Cemetery Sisters
my favorite band at the moment. psychedelia at its delicious acid-washed best. if the beatles were born in the eighties, grew up through the nineties and rediscovered their casio keyboards in the new millennium, they would prob sound better than this, but in a completely different way. black moth channel the 1960s beatles as much as they channel boards of canada and discotheque, resulting in a warm, fuzzy, and confusing sound that bleeds originality and colorful curiosity. i believe that my imagination as a ten year old sounded like these two songs. life is epic with soundtrack, and i plan on giving my children a very epic childhood. they may hate me for it, but they will appreciate me so much more when they discover pot.
// psychedelic.electronica.pop \\
Terrestrial Tones - Plowman
in a hazy brooklyn apartment, or parisian living space, the sounds of creative minds and the tweaks of distorted controls reveal the expansive experimentation of two friends with noise samples and robot voices. or, three lovers caught in bermuda with one bed and tied hands, two in love and a third deceived, but the third loved by the deer and doe and so this boat sails happy, so long as that closet stays shut and the dark settles in the dark where vitamin d dissolves into smoke rings. if i had my way, i'd listen to this song on repeat under the covers during a thunderstorm until my ears bled. with company.
// experimental.noise.psychedelia \\
Entrance - Valium Blues
ok, you've won me over. i will completely devote my carbon walls to protection from nuclear sounds, and if this guitar is radioactive, then so any strings will cause atomic winters in the corners of my floor's mattress. and if cats are oddities in beach beds, then dogs have taken ove r the shores and we must fight back to ensure that those-who-walk-on-two-legs retain control over the sand and the sun so they can bathe their paste in warm promises of beauty and acceptance at their golden prime. the spots on my skin are crawling out of my hands and into the grass of yesterday, before burns and goodbyes, before stupid mistakes, before i let you leave, before i couldn't last, before i couldn't hold you as close as i wished, before my ears bled out to my own errors and his keys, but honor all errors as hidden intentions so seuss believes me a genius.
// sludgerock.psychedelia.blues \\
Pretty Things - Private Sorrow
concept? who cares. if this sound broke my radio, then i'd be sixty years old now, with a graying beard and hair tied back thick under a hat i'd found on the road from here to somewhere different. like a dug up gem from indonesia, this breathes static and chokes on fresh air to cough up disgust at anything ordinary and typical in favor of the dust kicked up from old tires on the side of a louisiana route that has taken you too far from home for you to care which number. do you consider crackles and pops a pleasure? do you consider drugs an evil, or an indulgence, or an escape, or an opportunity? i think colors sound best in orange juice milkshakes, but you might like jam on toast instead.
// garage.blues.60's \\
whatever i say i mean it a thousand times more
because my lips are hindrances to the expressions they rear
that flesh that marks imperfection, should we instead be gods,
then we'd rule our own heaven and love endlessly
until the rest grew jealous, and we made to flee,
so run into the mountains and escape to the beach
and echo romance from summers into the sway of the breeze
so chills ensure my hands to touch, and your kiss to grace,
and a moment of night that spreads to decade of hope,
we stand together under trees to forget what obstacles,
what walls of people and consequence,
must be decorated with graffiti and notes you sing and i draw
to give our love's truth a better home than this roofless hostel we keep our sleep.
if there was forever, i wish it started now.
//photo by jj\\