I dive into shvt vp and enjoy the weather, and I'm immediately transported to the 47-year-old version of myself I didn't know existed. I'm living in the early years of the Clinton presidency. I was born the same day the atom bomb was dropped.
And I'm having a hard time remembering whether I've spent my entire life in the town (city? glorified village?) of Twin Peaks or whether it's a fictional place after all. Each guitar riff, slowly pulling apart the stitches that hold my insides together. Each open to a Julee Cruise vocal parry.
But I'm not met with that bleached blonde voice at all. Instead, this one plays around with layers, climbing Jacob's ladder one moment, later a key piece of the dirt holding together my new basil plant. I didn't know Bushwick existed when I was born. I didn't know that every time I meet someone new, it's like scrolling through Netflix, probably not worth it. Nothing is worth it.
But I'm feeling so good. This voice cares about me. And it cares about the solemn project it has undertaken. It's trying to talk to me, my positive and truthfully dark subconscious rising from the ashes. It knows it must range through all the human emotions in order to be at all meaningful, to pepper in references to things futuristic and strange. My brain tries to make sense of it. How does Magic Toaster make me feel the way punk will try, so desperately hard, to convince me I feel, ten years from now? These songs are a better version of everything I wanted from old letters and fireside chats.
I wish I could understand my own fiction the way these songs understand themselves.
No comments:
Post a Comment