Life, at its grandest, surpasses all definition of sublime. The depths of winter, however, with the god damn snow and blackened slush and 6:00 mornings and the monotony of grey cannot be understated in its oppressiveness.
Get music to the label. Call your mother. Work? Fuck work (I mean seriously, if quit smoking and drinking whiskey and you want me to tone the language down, at least leave me my f-bombs for work)!
Babies need attention, wives need food to feed babies, babies need to be entertained until moms can get to babies for the mere hour they have together. Multiplied, aggregated, repeated.
As I was saying, as your dream eyes descend that debit column, tallying all that hubbub needed for today, this day, you begin to feel the dull ache rising from your heels. The beady red eyes of the alarm clock gaze at you violently like a lurking thief, patiently waiting for the pinnacle of dark to rob you of your final precious minutes before the day's onslaught, just before night gives way to the faint gray of yet another sunless day.
Coffee, shower, kisses, bag, car, work, car, bag, kisses, food. Multiplied, aggregated, repeated. Sans wife, sans baby, the song remains the same, only in a different key...coffee, shower, weather report/sports center/bagel, brief case/purse, car/train/walk, WORK, car/train/walk, brief case/purse, drinks, maybe food. Multiplied, aggregated, repeated. With no intent to dredge up buried angst or intensify the preexistence of an undoubted and collective case of seasonal affective disorder, yet with every intent to instill the desire to seize the moments that give worth to it all, I make music. I blend records to my will, sometimes with clarity, often with a novice hand. I fashion rhythm sections that make me sway. I listen to songs that make me feel happy that music exists and that I have the freedom to chuck the garbage out of the window and to create my own music into an amalgam of fragments from the subconscious of a childhood spent glued to a substantive MTV and my adult experiences with the rarest of musical excavations from locales exotique and domestic.
Outside of a show, I once heard an acquaintance of a mutual friend explain to me why our friend made music. The aquaintance said, "Ryan makes music because he needs to, not because he wants to. If he didn't, he would probably murder someone." I am not hyperbolic when I assent to this definition in totality.
With that, I present to you a mix. It is not the most technical that I have ever made, nor is it the most soulful. It is, though, at base, totally me. Enjoy. Click Here To Download These Prime Cuts
Weareallmachines, Pipé Scuttleworth, Hameish Corothers, and a multitude of other personalities.
- weareallmachines
- Life is art. The way we walk, what we write, what we eat and how we make it, how we move, what we say and how we say it, the things that we listen to, and how we teach one another. Everything we do is art, so be creative and make something from nothing. Beautiful art from nothing.