Being a fallen angel, a loner, a soul in a great rock of flesh, a cyborg in need of repair; living your life as if you were a Trojan Horse, a download code, a crypto-body w/ no currency value, a virus on a comet going nowhere, a poem. Outside of our vicious frames, outside of our time and inside another and given a sign: a phrase in a song, or a drumstick hitting the rim of a snare, blanket-like and exigent. To enter into a dross that mires, a tangle of sphinx riddles, a shock of analog tape against the stars. To listen to Lunar Influence.
Steeped, eminent, tangled, with its nuances dangling and dripping, Lunar Influence throws splotches of sound into outer space and lets them fall onto the surface of an exoplanet. We listen to it in the flow of some sort of semi-linguistic space: an architecture that beckons for a language to sprout from a tongue, yet that tongue does not move and cannot speak because it is not in a mouth. There is no mouth. It’s like having something to say, and instead of saying it, you reach for your 404 and start to envision how it would sound instead.
Shards, semi-rhythms, dense geometries, shades of noir, the voice of an older man singing (or maybe he’s confessing to us his ultimatum about his own life?), a drum kit nowhere near a nightclub, a saxophone as if locked in an abstract painting, and other electro-acoustic sounds that give the whole thing an Asiatic sense of tranquility, despite the buzz of would-be beats that never truly get going. It’s that feeling of something never arriving, of being surrounded by the incomprehensible searching for the sublime, of feeling like your life hasn’t even started yet. It’s as if Pun Collins has made use of the useless, of the hidden moments of our life, of the unextraordinary and the dull, the dainty and the dumpy.
From there: the rocket launches, the atom splits, and the soul, sealed in its own frenzy, somehow finds a kind of peace.
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