Viodre – Drawing Horses

[Joie de la Blumpy]

That’s right motherfuckers, the definite article. Not any ol’ viodre, no ma’am. As disorienting as scratch that mis-orienting as, or almost as, wait scratch that too, the reference to orientation or apparent dissuasion therefrom, cause like there’s at least enough meat, right, to like sink the earholes into, or around, or through, or possibly the other way around? Got you by the earlobes, coming and going. Ever. (Nope, never accuse your ill-faithed narrator of failing to finish a thought. At some point.) Or. Mmmkay yes no well here, let the narrator report the first inklings of the first impressions as they first hit, up to that point where someone threw a fiddle in the works, a small one but still, but he she they are probably getting ahead of your self. Quote,

Oookay. Just plugged and playing. Buncha muffly fluffleblub, dang think I got a bumb tape, fuckin tease! In we... whoops. Wheredidhe? Whooooboy it gets dark. Heavy. Biggly size. Tensile burl of the faux epic persuasion, made dense via the astute inveiglement of squirk-like pincer-through-skull incisions. Just as the finger be twizzling the knob, the pressure amplification knob, among other knobs, some freaky fucker flops out the fiddle. Like... Oookay, this is good, possibly great, even,

end quote.

Did I mention the not-entirely-hinged fella? The one doing the hollering? Seems be having a good time of it, as unhinged-doing-the-hollerin-fellas go, if I’m any judge and you know I’m not, guilty as charged, though I might in the event be inclined to keep a wide berth, just y’know for old time’s sake. Unhinged hollerin’ against implacable machines, plural, a tragicomedy in so many tiny twitching parts coming to a deep dive near you, wish you knew what he were on about though obviously wink wink that is the point, that you will never, I mean I’m sure I will, but will you, well, I think not. Or hold on here’s a juicy brainfart, maybe like pained and pathos-inflected expression of frustration at failure to get the proportions right, like maybe use chalk next time just a suggestion don’t mind me, aren’t I terrible. Would you believe this many words on a chap that barely registers but after all one relates right does one not. To chaps. Wondering as they might upon how the blame might be duly apportioned oh so is this more in the much ado about sense? The helpless powerless frustrated-ness in the thick of the bush cum storm palpitations. The sphinct of it. Pipe. Lots of pipe. Loads of pipe. And boy howdy does it get thick, and storm-like, tempestuous, even, sphincters sphincting up a proverbial sphinctempest. Yes. Sphinctempest. Put that in yer dictionary and smoke it. And ho, thar he hollers again, with nice almight ka-BLOWY just to keep em toes step step steppin, on Satan’s cloven footsies, like

Look.

(More to come, possibly. Cause, like. Good shit.)

[Joie de la Blumpy]

Ah furgh, looks like I'm probably going to have to explain what was meant by "mis-orienting".

I mean, at some point. (There's no rush, is there?)

[Joie de la Blumpy]

Gonna regret this in the morning (read: will very probably delete, get it while it's hot), but. Okay. Um. Misorienting. What you get when you have a fully conceived soundwork, exquisitely painstakingly inter-mediated, front to back, right, but which refuses to, like, choose a hole. Or holes, plural. Because there are holes, holes galore. Wormholes. Transportations, hither and thither. Fully composed soundworks, plural. One or two or three moments in the harsh and going y'know hard, harsh. Distorted splosive vectors ripping apart the assorted sphincts, spacial increments smooshed, blubbering. As harsh will. In the open air, even. Acoustic space palpable, warm. And there he blows, some spastic chap, screaming uncontrollably, drowned out, ultimately, but you know he's in there somewhere, poor bastid. Got a handle on this, I do. Next thing, right, dense balls of ominous ambiance, tense, tactile, consuming the periphery. It is making sense. Perfectly. Perfect making of sense. Non sense, but sorta perfect sense of the non. The sensibilities are-
Hello?
Hey, how ya doin?
What's up?
Not much uh where's Bryan?
What?
I said where's Bryan at?
-refusing to gurgitate. Even without the fucker pulling out the fiddle mid sentence. It is all so emphatically through-composed, compositional, conceived, but ill. Ill-conceived, let's say. Designed to suggest very clear directions, at the point of conviction determinedly suggesting other directions. So a constant game of re-orientation, perhaps not mis-orientation. But like. And really really going hard in the directions, convincing, right. Convinced at this moment, or perhaps at the previous moment because like this moment is fucked. But back to that moment, previously described. Knowing what it's about. Till not. At which point. Cue hollerin fella. I wonder how I could blame you? Cause really, it's your fault isn't it? For making it this far. Glad we could clear that up.