The Shouts from the Sea

In Ti Jean moments of far flung
Water-crash sound a literature
Blizzard of seeing live poem
Sit as open crest breathes

Shared wail shoring boats
In wobbled cursive unbalance

Waves tumble and call out
Reverberate and mimic previous cycle
Mist erases structure then-beautiful
Now in locked re-occurence swift

Cloud cover reaching for the low hang
Of crisp white tops in spiral
And splash
Teetering jungle-strength heavier
Than rain
Only to oblivion’s wearing retreat

Holed wood splintering
Flood pile-up in
Transparent fleet still dry
Dance-sway

For liquid hallucination

Rock forming moan-sing
Magic modernized as unblind
Scraped pre-painting in
Raft wind dock plans

Lost arch beginnings to see
Temple total relic shaping
Torrential

Original layers bell
Erupting ready
Cliff bound when overdosed
In soaring exclamation

Tidal to tonal
Necessary

For hallucinating liquid

Got a monster for you, some right gnarled sounds from the hands and minds of Patrick Cain and Phong Tran. Improvised and fully felt, complete immersion for the togethered flame, the fire sparkling light on dangerous terrain, this is an all-out ripper.

The burning is needed for warmth and deconstruction. Water too, ocean or river or sea – an array of punishing pools, whiplash, undercurrents, being thrown about, gracefully and glacially intact and howling sun-and-moon for day-long.

Howling.

The ancestral water mysteries turn proud. Paddling shore’s unfamiliar voyage, lost lands covered in archaic art-leafage. Mission of elastic grip-hold, tensions minimized through collective gift-offer. A mirage turns magic real, an opened page from the book of peoples.

Lineal every-sound following and zoning in on the source.

Voices shaped through the sea’s vast horn.

Moans and wails and screaming free association. Rocking boats traipsing through choppy waters. Explorers, kind to the land. Receivers, using the land.

A duo in friend thorn lock, on soft carpet, in a prayer reach, extended beyond the individual.

“Just playing music.”

Sink or swim.

Tapes coming soon, limited to 50 copies.

Hope you dig it!

Thanks for reading + listening!
Kev

Talugung – Multiplying Dead Ends

For reference: the concrete curtain will create noises.

Acousmatic: a motorized cooing antique.

Balletic signatures are carved on the mind-film with dull knives, splinters of computer burrow inside. Stitching strips in a long fragmented quilt, the backwards-forwards continuum is peaking.

Translucent snow fields of animal concerto shift to dominating leaves, stepping off metaphorical celluloid into cone and grill.

Research in to moving parts.

All colour removes itself when reels begin to turn.

Sharp edges pillow into the disappearing. Hands look like fins, tails look like eyes, all piled in no-special attention.

Light and shade and singular shapes find time to dance in paper-like movement, cut-up from screen and bow, wind blowing communal, fanning structural kamikaze drop offs, to hover and zoom near distant.

Laser-like precision lumbers to through-line directive, aim at end point reinvigorate, reinvention line-through, crossed out, left to write over, no such thing as scrap pile, no such thing as …

The sound the brush makes.

Patter of rain pallet, canvas interlocked with hands, wetness dries and attaches its new form to the painter’s descriptive bristles. The thin minute hairs animate the sound they hear when brushed free, ready for reload.

Hairs on film jar essence sound poet wave in miniscule statement aloud read invisible.

Clacking keys mouse note specifics.

Near-far away eating snake encircled in motherboard battery ink.

Moving tables, swivelling wheels, columns of artist-brain matter cavernous and castle-filled brimming with re-purpose, lined with play. To engineer for entrance.

For reference: seal with cubist abstract glue.

This is a magical set of curiosities from Ryan Waldron under his Talugung name. Live bowl strikes and bow-work overturn into laptop disarray. Small drips of water in purposeful allowance shorting original content.

Manipulation, sampling, seeing through the process to start again.

Removing the overdone, adding intricate art-flame to renew the ancient clutter, all-microtonal chord species living in chambered depot.

Seven tracks of warbled, pre-warped, angular attachments on graph paper poly-imagination. Hints of naive art history liquidate under heavy, random calculation. Scissor-tricks spark firework-like drawing, screen and speaker make original tools of wet/dry primitive composition.

Minor-crescendo is continuous, in two-dimensional flattened form, birthed from plastic box-spring and vibrant basement omni-directional vision.

Time-lacking, of this time, of another time-plane, alien and archaeologically-origin-settled, when water first touched land.

This is art in full caught-its-stride. Experimental in the outcome-questioning, but absolutely masterful and full of expertise. An essential document to push open the computer/electronic/hardware/software/live instrument dialectic.

An artist’s class.

Limited to 30 tapes, coming soon.

Hope you dig!

Thanks for reading + listening,
Kev