The PMX Subspace Communication Station
I remember next year
I remember next year mp3
(click to play, or right click and "save as" to download)
This is not an easy one, though it came easy. Amy played guitar. Mike and I played amplifiers. My father was lying in bed, dying of lung cancer. When we recorded this in the summer of 2006, the disease had already metastasized into his brain. His death three months later was the latest in a series of difficult illnesses and deaths in our extended family. The first was Mike’s mother, who also died as a result of lung cancer in 1998. Then Amy’s brother died in 2004 for no known reason. This song is for them.
The melody starts and then starts again. It hesitates, then drifts off, then starts all over. It engages the listener, but then gives the listener nothing to hang on to. As a result, the listener begins to pay attention to the noises rising under the guitar, the sound of electricity, the static of sleep, the spaces that exist between unconsciousness and death. Steeped in melancholy, the mind drifts, is tricked into a daydream. The sweetness of the guitar disappears into reverb and the harmonic center shifts. As Mike noted, rock and roll is recollected in amplifier squeals that break into the reverie and relaxation is replaced by anxiety.
–Alex
***
In high summer 2006 the three of us started playing. It was strange space. We found ourselves some brand of wordless in a time when we were slipping on the edge of hope and were quite conscious of death. The thoughts may have been off to the side that day, as we were trying to stay "in the moment" if you will. If you're lucky this is the place you stay when you still have the person you love. But for me, the dread that the moment was going to pass was present.
We began to make sound. And the sound said something we could not, so we followed it. It went straight here.
Please take it and send it out as far and wide as you see fit.
–Amy
***
posted by Prosolar Mechanics
9/29/2007 11:44:00 PM Got something to say about it?Go on then.
