They say that in our DNA there are long strips of what seem to be nonsense in between the genes. Suggestively. Secret bits ignored by most. But not all. What’s felt there? Frye answers to some of those spaces.
These compositions release information the way cells store energy. In bursts. For later from now. They’ve been left to sit for so long that they have started to grow mosses and weeds. Watered. Warm, so alive. Frye’s laughing like a drainpipe.
This is wet music: its squelchings and chirrings. Gurgly monologues synthesized from swollen throats. Steady beats emerge amidst them, stable, like manicured trees (genes). Pretty. Addicting. Preened.
As a listener, we’re a biophilic blip in thickets of pauses, ditches, sudden silences inside of which spiders spin their webs into graphic formulas, or fences, hopped, failingly, dropped to earth and wiggling in time the way worms flounder on the sidewalk after heavy rains.
Each dance is eventually pulled back into retreat. The brambles draw back their thorns. Cats retract their claws. And all along, we’re never too far from that shadow movement, the movements of those shadows, which pulse, which spell out the distorted characters of a stammering alphabet scattered amidst interminable intervals of disguise.
The solution is obvious, as obvious as it seems insoluble for as long as Frye shows us that he will not solve it.
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