Boy Friend - Egyptian Wrinkle

The baby blue egyptian cotton creased furiously beneath rippleless teenagehood. “Egyptian Wrinkle” is the title track off of Boy Friend’s February release with Hell, Yes Records.

In the supernatural darkness of suburbia; the pastel color palettes of the scapegoats who’ll exist only between two criss-crossed highways till blue in the face, the house-warming parties contemplating the jazz to be played and ornaments to display, the angle-faced children who cringe at the lurking prisoner knocking at their skin. He sucked the crusty bits out of the joint bought with his parents blue-blooded dough. She held his thumb, walking wide-eyed through the haze of green steam, glossy highs of rippleless teenagehood - I imagine she was meant to be impressed by his lack of inhibition, mild, tepid juvenile delinquency. His stubble sketched scuffed little scars in her chin as his tongue presumed she was starving, and tonight felt like a full plate of ho-hum weed taste and a humid tongue as an appetizer. Seconds after, if that, his hands took to the jetway of her spine. Unclasping her pink bra - the kind of pink suburban mothers-in-law paint their newborns cage - seemed to be far too ambitious of a task. His chilled desert hand was thirsty, I guess, as he savagely caressed her b/c cup breast with her bra still on. This she couldn’t feel, since the 40 degree autumn of the city gave her breast and her near phantom frostbite. Their tongue twist-and-shout danced about in a monotonous swing and sway, sounding of a low choking noise, or rather just the noise of two teenagers. His hand skipped with suspicion, tapping fingers down her stomach like the woman with the long nails at the pawn-shop cash register. The waltz of humid tongues and breathless consuming continued, with short intermissions of the low choking noise orchestra, for inhale breaks and weed breath ingestion. Her feet unenthusiastically jolted the bushes of the house they made their stage - the house that pretended to be of suburban bore, on a street of upper class fatigue and tennis club grins - landlocked in inner-city burnout. He drove her back to the car she got from her dead aunts death, parked in front of the milk shake shop they met at hours prior. She had mint chocolate chip. He had raspberry something or other. 

Sina - Remembrance

The gate was opened and the exhale flood through. A sustained exhale into what would be the starting dock of my abysmal rememory. “Rememberance” can be found here. 

No marvel at a magic that is truly marvelous, the magic is in that you’d been there all along. I had little trust for my hands. Fingertips more certain of your presence than my crouched knuckles allowed them to be. And then a parade of tiny birds took off from my cliffs end, with ties tied to my ties. A sustained exhale into what would be the starting dock of my abysmal rememory.

G R E A T W A V E S - Are Calling

Britain’s G R E A T W A V E S  to be found via Soundcloud.

His house was landlocked. City too. He made crashes out of tin cans, waves out of the tiny wonderland hill avalanches, surfers out of soda pop bubbles, swished table salt sprinkled water in his mouth. At nearly 5 times the age, he took a trip to a lake. The moon was dim at noon, as he stood at the tideless lakeside, and pretended to be a sailor. 

Steve Hauschildt - Already Replaced

The descending of people into places drawn especially for them. Tragedy & Geometry fits into space. Steve Hauschildt’s “Already Replaced” is to be found on Tragedy & Geometry, released via Kranky.

The sky atop was a second universe - to the hand holding shadow children siblings. Fostering each others dance until it was wilder, more flustered. We watched them, the settling of people into places drawn especially for them. We spoke soft of them, the roaring of the children’s feet roaring up a grass storm loud enough for the four of us. 

Du Nord - The Sunset

Retrace the drippings of dewy desire till you find where you took one too many steps, two too many words, three too many second thoughts. “The Sunset” is easy, scuffing dust into dusk without making too much of a tangle. The riffs stainless, vocals seamless, and the times you’ll repeat it in hums countless. More from Paris’ Du Nord on Soundcloud. 

On rivers edge sometime towards the end of a summer and start of an evening, the two crept under a shower of silvery blue. How fine and loose and free for some mere evening between 5 daylight and forward. But its never as simple when its gold light time. 

Ohbliv - Let’s Explore

Shadow boxers, encased in mazes of oblivion, in naivety that nirvana exists in abeyance. Continually jolting their eyes from side to sides as they debate the weight of their lids. They explore. “Let’s Explore” is to be found on Richmond Virginia artist 0hbliv’s crisp New Black Renaissance (Side A). 

Eyes like shadow boxers, colliding with dust crusted corners, springing like rocks skipping rivers. Looking for a woman though the woman she knew was now a girl at best. But they breathed to the same beat, like one tired person trying to debate the weight of their eyes. Which is what made it so easy to find the girl. 

Estasy - Wearhorses

Finally, she entrusted in he; her feet weren’t hurrying, she was still, loose as she’d ever been, and dependent in he. What views she could see through her windows when she wasn’t draining her feet. Depending on he was key to stillness, stillness was key to [finally] seeing. She was fatigued, allowed herself to be, and the breath that dove her into sleep was of falsetto sobriety. “Wearhorses” makes no apologies for it’s ebb and flow of inhale intake, the clicks in throat, strums with too much audacity. It is not sorry, as we all less often should be. “Wearhorses” is one of many wonders on Italian Estasy’s release Whitelaugh Blackcry.

She was walking past, on feet foretold to be stationary. To which he hushed in return, “ease onto me”. He held her by the feet, as she dove into his clasp. In time, she was loose, as loose as she’d ever been, plummeting into a dependency she and he could neither believe. And so suddenly, windows had a view, she was loose, and her feet weren’t hurrying. 

Do While - In Circles

Your eyes are glassy and your dreaming, your eyes are spinning and your dreaming, your eyes are swimming, and we’re listening. Quietly, we wade your dreams. Wading through circles of subtlety, twisting mystification, riddles of privacy. Awaiting when the water will above past our heads.  And when it does, we watch it like fireworks, or airplane displays, or balloons let go. We wade your dreams, sweetly. “In Circles” is on a split between Do While and Cache, called Hidden Houses/Spring Into, available on cassette via Culture Dealer. 

“Who could miss a ripple in a cornfield on a quiet cloudless day?”

Elvis Depressedly - Crazier With You

You make it through the night, you’ll make it all the way. Relieved and easeful, he should have felt, like a traveler who’d made it home. The day had gone blue without the sun, and there was an apathy in his breathing room that made him not relieved nor easeful. It was hard to be thirsty anymore, as it all felt to last too long. His cadence was off, and he was tired of trying to convince otherwise. “crazier with ou” is off of Mat Cothrans last release as Elvis Depressedly, disgraceland.

Step//Ramble//Pace//Hide. And next move on. He’d never been able to wait in one place long enough. When he did it was just as much because there she was. His and her quietness thundered about the static white walls like birds in alarm. They spoke indulgent and wandering conversations, brimming with misunderstandings more tempting than understandings can be, half sentences, truths, and half daydreams. The thirst she saw in him was immeasurable, a begging barely in its own ascendancy. If you can make it through tonight, you’ll know how to make it everyday. 

Teenhäze - Sea You

He had nothing much to say, really. He mumbled away, rumbling, muttering, making the sounds of leaves decay, synthesizing the warmth of a crimson autumn window in a room without windows. If I can’t sea you, I can at best believe I do. “Sea You” is the title track from Stockholm born Teenhäze’s EP release.

He made susurrus with the descending autumn tone. Babbling of drone, hum of rumble, muttering endlessly. He muttered about, whistling and humming as long as he could till his voice drowned hoarse. Waiting for his mimicking of the autumn to pronounce words, real words. He realized he had no windows. Gazing soft at the backsides of his eyelids. It felt soft in a waiting way. He muttered away through his waiting play, waiting for the sun spotted fall to freckle his eyes blinking. His eyes stayed shut and he made susurrus from nothing. 

Eliot - Around

“Around” was found on soundcloud via LA’s 6BIT Collective.

Slow-moving eyes. She looked at nothing. And spoke so briskly I couldn’t see how she’d breathed. She had more secrets than anyone I knew - stories she halfway told true surrounded by things she told so fast they were barely consumed. She breathed more carefully than she spoke. As afraid of her breath skipping beat as she was of relying on anything. It wasn’t the whites of her eyes [stark pale, glacier white], the blackness of the insides, the valleys that roamed grey beneath her vision board. It was that the black looked like wax, the wax looked like it was melting. My steam engine respiration was the flame, and the drifting wouldn’t recoil again. 

Cool Angels - Don’t Feel Like Holding On (Ft. Stef Hodapp)

For a girl exhausted from moving, there is something I’ve always revered in ghosts. Mountains move, seas expand and contract, people move the most, while their ghosts never do. But they are too fragile [like porcelain] for me to reach out to. An intimacy too porcelain to see. I felt like reaching out, and ever so I was to afraid to do so, in fear I’d hold on. “Don’t Feel Like Holding On (Ft. Stef Hodapp)” is off of Cool Angels’ Demure. Demure can be heard on bandcamp or through the tape hiss of cassette courtesy of Gnar Tapes & Shit.

There was a weight sitting at the doorway of my bed. In an atmosphere ambushed by highway mazes and the rapid eye movement of bustling boroughs, I always had revered how ghosts inhabit only one place. It was laden, staunch, obstinate, and I couldn’t move my toes. I tucked my hands under the one night mans respiring spine, realizing that I’d reach for it otherwise. I kept my hands there, gracelessly beneath, until eventually my toes were freed.