Usually we say "let the beat drop", but for this particular arrangement of music it's only fair to replace "beat" with "eerie-monk vocals". Voices ghost in like a Gregorian chant, one by one, then on to the dozens, it sounds like. Don't know if you remember the finale of 6 Feet Under, but it's like that- where the chick is driving cross the country chopped with a montage of each character's death. Whether it be old age, murder, health reasons, or just circumstance, this drive is broken up into scenes of each passing. Then the kick drum pulses. No snare, just a soft kick assisting the voices and acoustic guitar, slightly strumming offbeat. Record label Jagjaguwar would've re-recorded the whole thing, but they told the guy that it sounded so organic that they might as well keep it that way (say "bullshit" here). The record label clearly wanted to hold onto the recording cash to pool it for distribution. And somehow, throughout my in-and-out phases of Lauryn Hill, Talib Kweli, and Aerosmith, this quandry of music fell in my lap.
You have to listen to it while your driving, otherwise it won't work. Yeah, kinda like a spell you cast on yourself. Call it the incantation of denial or a disappearing act, but Bon Iver pulled off something magical while recording Lump Sum in his retreated cabin after being dumped by an ex-gal from North Carolina.
I can forget. Easily, we can forget if we'd like to, but it takes effort. It's not so simple as the maneuver of escaping an arm-bar or turning the other cheek, but you have to impress it with effort. And I'm not talking about the Christ-when-the-Twins-lost-like-a-bunch-of-losing-losers-to-the-Yankees forgetting... we call that denial... or the hard truth, but I'm talking about forgetting for the moment, cleaning the slate of your mind and confronting the fight for what it is. I accept this rock band is dead, and whatever happens after this will ultimately be my own doing. I wouldn't have it any other way: The Blend digging its own grave to stardom & infamy, Lazlo Supreme vying for buzz band success, and me... piecing together a mixtape like memories to a brain injury. Even in the death of this rock band, the rejuvenation is what I get butterflies for. Never have I stood on stage and felt so uncomfortable. The 200 demos of promo didn't show up to the venue, guitarist can't remember the dopest song we have, and I can't wait for the night to end because tomorrow promises better than this... as long as I keep my end of the bargain as well.
Those damn cathedral-echoing voices dawn on the HBO Montage in your head. You can see it so clearly, I'd swear it was the windshield in front of me if I fell anymore delusional. The future. The future somehow pacts with the present and everything is a clear path of action & consequence. You see everything prologued to now. Not a single word of Bon Iver have I ever made out from this song, except for "all at once" and "so the story goes". That's it. Nothing else. I'm tempted to look up the lyrics online, but I'd rather rewrite them in my head everytime I listen.
Less a delusion, more an acceptance as the song goes on. Guitarist and Bassist must go. Reconstruction has to start. This side project with Reid needs to be taken as serious as my coffee addiction, as serious as I take the mixtape. Music is somewhat my lie detector for myself. I can tell when I'm absolutely being untrue to myself while on stage or recording. You can take that ethereal step back from your body, look at your image in motion, and think "Seriously. Toussaint, seriously. Negroe please. You're not fooling anyone with this emcee, frontman, bullshit bravado act. Think about what you're saying, and stop going through the motions." The show got better... way better that night, before this whole ride home thru the night while listening to emotional charges via Bon Iver started. You wouldn't've been able to tell the show got better, but for me, confronting that truth of everything that needs be after the concert, I could remember the exact coffeeshop, dates, reasons, and moments I wrote everything I was speaking. It'll disconnect and connect in a circle like that until the day I croak, I believe. As long as I step away from the lights, mic cords, and elevated piece of floor with the confrontation, then I'm fine. This damn music, ringing, like halo'd angels. It solidifies the truth for me. It's a damn annoying/ thankful reminder. The alarm that wakes you for the audition of your dreams, but wakes you from your dreams. Horrible analogy, I know, but think about it and maybe it works. My sense of humor isn't for immediate gratification, moreso the laugh-now-cry-later gratification... if there's anything gratifying to be taken from it.
I swear I can see Chase sitting in the car with me, along with my dad, and everything else amalgamed to a lucid dream of something subconsciously trying to speak to me. It goes from hard reminder to easy recollection. The hardest part now, is putting it all in motion once I land to Minneapolis. It takes a bit of submission to conceive all that needs be done. I love coming to terms of what needs, and must be done. Something very compelling about it, something not for words and simply for action. Matter fact, I should get to work.