head dress - dead in his saddle (tape/digital, dionysian tapes)

brain-warp right into it desolation, city activating the blot-it-out filters. moving past the gear options at first glance, digging into the guts, removing the care and disassembling the extraneous artifact. find the gold in the exploratory ritual. unconnecting in zoom-in study, concentrative poet-dive, table has the feelers on it, make the badder mood sit and remember the zero-ness. sketch it back up in builder-to-knob accuracy/take-a-chance. 

new electronic music being put through the heady minimal-sound slicer. churning/chewing the connectors into mulch. then dicing it into moody and unsettling disarray. properly formed. there's a skill-set. the bare choices allow for maximum stretched-out aura.

scorching builds jumping over peppering beats in tension-rising cubic fulfillment, a bare desert heat sweating the loner'y drips and pops. 

i'm hearing wet sounds misting their way out of bottles, falling on melodies in random call-out. line-drive percussive stabbing running alongside, then falling back in wheel-turning pulley display/charm. there's a soft intelligence peering through the clotting laundry-line of wind-blown puttering. rhythms first sit then rumble along against the tide, trained/chained by beautiful pocket-droning wash. 

anti-pristine yet somehow spotless dotting taps/hits tether polite for the steel string ender. sliding chords pulling away at chapters of worn-down and cloudy repeating country.