"A compression of duality back into it's passive womb. The way back is through Heroism, an enunciation then renunciation of the terror of knowledge. A path shaded grey through aged glory and devotional pain. There is a part of your soul left unchecked and unforgiven that has a story to tell. A story of androgynous gods telling another story. About an offshoot of perfection that has a habit of promising much, and producing locality. An abyss once said to me: 'You are a dream I'm having.' The abyss was murdered, became mountains and grass. Despite the opportunity and benefits, I didn't become the abyss, I became the having. I, having developed we, produced a land of nightfall and stars, of wooded coves and stars, of dead stars."
"An underworld. A pale, southern turn from across a river. He believed in force, as heavily and dimly needed to reach someplace around the next corner, the next bend. Draglines pull the wretch from a brown gulch to a brown water skimmed flat and topped with a thin, white break. Force has been exerted, a bland roll in the hay from objects to numerous for useful communication. A nudge and a push gone unnoticed result in a nudge and a push gone unnoticed. This is how spiders listen, how their Gods prey. A hand on the rail track speaks and murmurs so effectively, so sweetly, due to its theism. Its belief in itself as self, that Gods are unknown, that Gods are prey.
You found a redundant temple - wrapped in coil from a previous incarnation – to be wholly underworld. The colors and lines drawn by a people who've named the wind and wild corn by gesturing in ecstatic motion, signaling someone, anyone."
"She'd fall for the density of overcast greys and the special conditions contained within. She felt warmth from territory unmarked and passages read, from something Solar. Most times they assemble a series of lights found in waves that never need a carrier or aether to damage. A blue darkly with hints of Persephone's fear of cycles arrives in hand, and a tiny, tedious green originating from treetops in Germany. This is what the ancients spoke of? The ancients spoke of fools. The sky holds truths for those in the sky, with access granted from a formula the Lower Ones haven't met and likely never will. She knew this was true, it was said to her seven lives ago in a garden. Understanding came slowly, in a perfect dim slope rising. Over years, back a few years with multicolored timelines that overlapped but never fully touched, gave only hints and hues. Now she stood at the apex of a hill designated for royalty first and warriors second, covered by an assembly of different grasses and weeds. The sense of distance is truncated, worn down by density and weight; a heaviness pulled from hope and bards changing the tune for the audience. The greys were an infection for her. A change in the code from bright greens and browns to a universe kept back, hidden in a quiet drone our eyes were not designed to see. Hers were different, she saw the drone was constructed by another, also hiding. An alibi for ravens. It had the look of Creation, of the void. These were lies, she knew. There were terrors ahead. A slick substance that stung and kept one in place. A language. A wild horse that stood waiting. Perversion had some benefits, some angles to play; but not here. Not with ravens. This was a love affair gone down, under an ugly crust. This was the unknown, not the unknowable. This was Drone."
"I had a partnership before, with someone who aged slowly and drank nothing, ate nothing. The partner rose for work, accomplished minor goals set by minor men, and tried – desperately – to become one. Hate is the opposite of loathing when love is involved, which it always is. Try finding an excuse, a cure, for persistent mediocrity as a result of persistent cowardice. It's hate...and it shuns loathing. It's blood. Old Testament blood with wrack and fire, Elohim and her. The first agriculturists called them gods, fates & wisps...which is what happens when you don't understand. When your filter is off and unpronounced. That's the point, that's the damn point: definition. Sniper fire on a nickel head from 600 yards and a west wind. Exit wounds that leak elements and spill fire. The element feeds, processes the dirt with a redundancy mechanism that couldn't possibly fail. Herein lies a life, a strength that was soon devoured by good luck and a mammalian brain. Mammals do what mammals do best, feed other mammals. Fruit flies hunt around, smelling death and weeds and confusing them both. Processes fire and fire becomes a process, due to some rule of thumb hidden in fractals. Man, that's it. That's the damn point."
"A flaw in the substrate. A tension built on the line between good and evil and whatever built that line. A general consensus among peers and others pretending to be, that what may design divisions, may itself be divided. A lack of consensus has benefits, has hermits in shrouded isles staring at a stepping stone lined by gods. Gods of water that dwindle and flow, of fire that shouldn't burn, of sky riding power astride and dirt that chose to learn. At a point, at only one point, you pen a covenant with someone you call liege. The remainder of the time spent here is trying to remember what was said. Mother told you it was of light and winged things, Father stated quietly with a diminished shrug by a dying tree, 'No. This is awe.' You giggle a bit when you remember, as you should, that you agreed to forget. To forget that a walk in the valley of death begins in the east, and ends further east. If this was something a god thought should be known, it would. If the instruction set included godhood, included domain and an everlasting tower that even He could love, there would be no covenant."
M. Ledovich - Theme for a will to power
All work copyright Kevin Murphy
'Lion & Lamb' now available from Lisbon-based label Test Tube. Download mp3 here.
"Theme for a will to power."
"Kevin Murphy comes from the U.S. of A. and mainly works around ultra-minimalistic compositions based on drones and electro-acoustic frequencies. The unusual alias he has picked up - The Jack Bohlen Book Club - was probably taken from a Philip K. Dick sci-fi novel called 'Martian Time-Slip', where the main character is a skilled repairmen and recovering schizophrenic. The story takes place on planet Mars around the year 1994. Why would there be a Book Club with his name? I honestly don't know. As for 'Lion & Lamb', it's a 39 minute two-dimensional drone trip. Not much happening here if you don't appreciate this kind of minimalist composition. For those who get high with this kind of sound, hell, just crank up the volume and trip your way into mars of some other planet! Get this!" - Test Tube
******
"A dense ultra-minimalist approach to ambience perfectly blending meticulous sound design and field recording. Distant voices and faint commotion emerge softly from gentle static and tones. Touches of slowly morphing melodies get sprinkled in along the way originating from various organic and synthetic sources. The album in its whole creates a truly unique melancholic experience perfect for those rainy Sunday afternoons and late nights. Falling asleep during a late night marathon of The Twilight Zone. Three in the morning at the abandoned warehouse. Two way radio interference delivering snippets of indecipherable conversation. The midnight hum from a nearby airport. A truly beautiful album intended not only for the sole purpose of listening...but of experiencing. Preferably in complete darkness and isolation where this album is sure to have its most profound effect." - Experimedia.org
'1979' LP available also for free download at Experimedia
Let us imagine this comment were weightless, Carried along by a snail in a sundress, Given, quite lightly, to fleet-footed mice, Then transferred hands to a finger-device, Shaped by a man who, obsessed with his digits, Daring, decided what he should do with it— He mailed this comment out just like a letter, Which did arrive to me rain-soaked (much wetter), Than when first given to rodent-like hands, Such is the way love finds transit through lands! Yet, now dear Reader, we’ve come to the moment When you shall thus receive this road-worn comment, Thus, I do hope you appreciate care, Slow-style delivery (and some slight wear!).
In appreciation of long-traveled correspondence and new e-friendship!
Love + Ruckus, Jordan.
P.S. Though I don't think we met, I really appreciate seeing you in the audience from where I sang. You are a model audience member, sir! May I return the favor, in the future! Beautiful sounds!
Just because we love the 1979 album, we'll be playing more tracks from it this coming saturday's show. Starting though 4 AM local time. But there's always the podcasts available
because we have learned to deal with sound patterns organically, for practical goals, from before we can remember, without reflection or instruction or conscious analysis, we all produce sounds, and understand them, with great efficiency and subtle nuance. Because of that skill, acquired like the ability to walk and run, we already have finely developed powers that let us appreciate the sound of even an isolated single line of poetry--even if we have very little idea of the meaning--that someone might quote with appreciation.
