Cerbs makes an exception of the digital front because we’re readers (or pretend to be with frou frou glasses, pocket protectors, and a stack of books which are really just shells hiding nudie magazines). So when a dude goes out of his way to write 16-pages to accompany a lengthy composition, we take notice. So allow us, subservient and faceless, to tell you a bit about Tim Feeney’s work. The music? Yours to hear right now for free because art is not chained to the physical. And that’s good because not everything should be sent as digital files over fiber optics to screens millimeters away from our faces. It’s the multi-page confessional that not only draws upon the music but lends it much needed context and soul. Feeney discusses his dedication to the craft of drumming and how, either due to fear or disinterest, he became rusty. He wanted to become rusty to see how those pocks that only the untrained ear may miss became music all their own. It is a treatise on all our worries, and though an insular bit of non-fiction—not only to the music but to all of us—it is kindred with those fears in all of us. In the end, this is 16 pages and 42 minutes of deep shit, so don’t waste it by doing chores or texting your crush while this plays in the background. Give it your undivided attention to reassure Feeney and yourself.
More about: Tim Feeney
