And there absolutely lives a mystic within me. There’s something constantly telling my body motion. It’s a lively little thing, this mystic, that keeps me: me. Like a wet spot on the back of me head, but only me feels it when me wipes it. When me wife wipes it she be begotten me. So spit the lack of dead weight out with life and live afloat in this ocean of absolution in a mystical world.
Pluto awaits. In the Untitled. It’s beckoning amidst. Libraries en route. Collections of sorts. Goaty Tapes in the meanderings of outside. This planet is gas. Never look back. a Yellow planted stem. cHar713 5h33n. Addendum. To rip the reel conjugated in a flee market around south of Mexico City where pogs still resale, like.
Pluto’s music has the quality of a planetary emission. Signals emerge from a pall of tape hiss like alien frequencies warped by interference. Percussive vibrations orbit tones so remote they blur at the edges. It is as if Pluto’s melodies exist beyond some horizon—they are only partially available to us, distorted by thick ether.
Untitled belongs to a sonic idiom specific to Queensland, Australia—one set in motion by Breakdance the Dawn and refined by Essential Minerals. Pluto is a part of both circles, pioneering an ur-music where tonality reaches a minimum threshold. On Untitled, he infuses this mode with a raw melancholy, tempering it into something oddly affecting.
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