W00dy shares findings from metaphysical experiments. Passions and other potions bubble in beakers and travel through truly weird Rube Goldberg-like networks of resistance and doing, coming and wanting. At many points along the path, emotions explode from excessive heat, unpalatable pressure, risky reactions that fizz like baking soda mixed with vinegar but with an infinitely more incendiary result, all super sudden and nasty and ecstatic and absurdist and addictive and delicious.
My Diary insists its own imperatives. What could be understood as slightly more stable stuff, like vocal samples, for example, or even rhythmic drops, erupt in reaction or implode in relation. W00dy’s hypothesizing a wilder (as in yeastier) order built on grounds so biodynamic they’re practically immortal. (I recently read up on Hermes, Olympic god of trade, travelers, sports, athletes, and borders, able to move freely between the mortal and divine worlds, herald of Hades, famed trickster, father to Pan, patron of thieves.) It’s music sick with causes and effects that do not make straight sense, because they’re there to be sucked on, like a thumb. I have one hand with 10 fingers or 10 hands with one. It’s possible.
W00dy describes this album as “some of my most personal thoughts and feelings.” Its frenetic pace and extreme density make me understand my own mania, spirals, ecstasies, hyper-obsessions. What I hear is what I see when I close my eyes and try to focus on all of my thoughts at once. A totalizing mess, totally voided. If my picturing could be rendered into a coherent image, it would basically look this album cover: confusingly particulate and metamorphosed and tangled up in knots tied past solutions.
Gratefully, these songs acknowledge the way that things like dancing can tease and teethe at those knots’ twisted fibers — sinking into effects, spitting back affectations. Moving to this music might make your hair fall out if you’re not totally ready to throw your whole being into response, higher, higher, athletically (remember Hermes), aerobically, pogo stickily, bouncy castle-y, as silly as any act, theory, or food squeezed out of a tube.
I touch my tongue to your teeth on the dance floor. I swing out a frantic smile. Sounds for a world no longer suited to style.
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