Monday, May 10, 2004

Deerhoof - "Milk Man"

I forgot I had hairs on the back of my neck until I, until I... this music danced in my brain, just a woman’s voice and a guitar, a couple, with other stuff, between, then (recipe: half human, half japanese, some nothing-at-all, plus space, negative space, and dash upon dash after dash of happiness and excitement and joy, head up, legs apart, let’s dance!), then I start to want to know things, the first thing I want to know is why cleave a space in milkman, the second thing I want to know, it’s silly too, why marry deer and hoof, I know, I know, I have a psychopath’s view of the world, I’m not entirely sure what I mean, at any point in time, ever, I think, how do you guage the affordances of things, of objects, their weight, I know what I mean here, I mean books can buckle tables, that books have personal gravities or, songs can collapse a whole bedroom into dark distraction (‘distracted from distraction by distraction’), O no wonder I worry!, dense songs can torque time y’know, noses bleed, imaginary rail-tracks? they crack, I’ll walk a whole hour without moving, live a whole ‘our’ without living, deterioate, then die, destruction total, at the hands of a song, or band, almost, Deerhoof are sometimes this good, honestly that good, so good, sometimes not bad, then other times? bad, though never sad, yes I am aware I have a psychopath’s view of these things, commas? no, my worlds, not other worlds, I don’t look too closely to be honest, not at them, OK I do, but they sometimes have crotches full of patriotism (Toby Keith) or, so I can’t look, can’t stand to look; these are, actually, other Americas, I’m talking about other Americas, haha which I guess do count as worlds, I don’t mean it like that, anyway, Deerhoof, they didn’t discover slowness, and they’ll cede nothing to (that idea I liked from Farley:) the groundsman’s quiet by making, I mean scraping, noise developed over and over, in your (meaning ‘my’) memory’s darkroom, little stuck polaroids of streets you (meaning ‘we’) never walked, can you imagine we made sense of our cities, so hard!, perhaps, along ever-shifting Maginot Lines of taste and, we could, I mean maybe, maybe we could, maybe every city has a soundtrack, or each soundtrack finds a city, Los Angeles, London, Trieste, Luomo, these are all cities, with music - a light with no shadow cast onto emotions with no reserve - helps make sense, or comfort, of all of these cities, maybe, and happies you’ve never been, nor felt, you might feel them now, don’t sigh, Deerhoof aren’t worldweary, are you?, am I?, they’re an old springy mattress pummelled into the shape of a kid, and held firm, though political, by string, it’s so hot in here, I think I need a lie down.

Oh my