Obsession One

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I think it was mud, but it could just have easily have been shit - the significance was minimal. The mound was about two metres high, and was situated just to the right of the grass land that we were hurtling towards. Our hands gripped the roll cage with all our strength, the absence of seatbelts meaning that this grip would almost certainly determine the brevity of our lives. The fact that the speedometer had broken somewhere along the ride was perhaps more worrying than what it would have read had it not been. With one last shank of the wheel, T* turned the contraption sideways and we skidded sideways for a few metres - our wheels leaving deep trenches in the grass - before shuddering to a halt in a haze of exhaust fumes and sweaty panic.

Amongst the dimming engine noise and lifting cloud of smoke, we could now hear it much clearer than before. We were close. C* must have alighted at some point prior to our arrival, as I glimpsed her behind the rear of the vehicle, stumbling forward onto her hands and knees, desperatley trying to cover the ground before it was too late.

The ringing noise was getting shriller. We knew that she did not have long.

The floral print dress she was wearing had deteriorated so that it was no more than a mess of dirt, blood and and the odd segment of a sunflower. It was ripped so badly that with each lurch forward, parts of it began to fall from her body. I think she was screaming, none of us in the vehicle could tell. We were all transfixed by the ringing noise, now so loud that it drowned out our thoughts - let alone her pitiful yelps.

With what appeared her last scraps of energy, she launched herself at the horrible mound that lay festering to our side. Now naked, her hands quickly became absorbed by it, and before too long she was covered in a foul brown membrane, her tears cutting white lines down her cheeks as she clawed frantically. She pulled herself to the top of the mound, each length forward accompanied by the shrill ringing, as if she was feeding of its energy. Finally atop the putrid mountain, she raised her contorted face to the sky. With one last agonising sob, she plunged her open mouth into the peak of the mess, instantly muffling her screams and throwing the once deafening scene into complete silence.

The ringing had stopped.

Music Criticism in 2k9

With the blogosphere rapidly descending into a raucous din of voices, each clambering to be heard over the next, the role of the music critic is fast becoming buried in the cacophony. In fact, the very definition of a critic seems to have evolved into lumbering mutant of criticism, commentary, opinion and (particularly with the increasing prominence of snark blogs), provocation – resulting in the modern day perception of a critic as any bedroom-dweller with a Mac and an axe to grind.

The blurring of the line between criticism and opinion is exacerbated by the sheer volume of words accessible to the average music fan, and this leaves the critic floundering for an anchor in an increasingly deep sea of blogs.

The concept of anchoring is, and has always been, one of the most crucial elements to master when forging a voice on-line. Having a clear and specific motive in which one’s audience can grasp creates a sense of certainty – which with the right content can hopefully lead to familiarity and regular traffic. The problem for critics in two thousand and nine (and one which music journalists from all eras have had to contend) is convincing this base that your opinion is the right one and it should be regarded above the competition.

Whilst not professing to propose a solution to this concept of authority (although there is no doubting it would certainly be a lucrative one!), it is worth contemplating how a critic today makes the transition from one of many to one to watch.

When trawling through one’s bookmarks on the prowl for sonic enlightenment, the most likely lure (apart from the obvious catchy name and design of the page), is the relevance of the review or song being posted. The freshest sounds, the groundbreaking new experimental artist or the exciting new festival line up are consistently the most buzz worthy. The critic’s role therefore, is to not only be a sharer and promoter of content, but a finger for its collective audience to rest on the pulse of the industry – heightening the sense of connection and, crucially, the blogs authority.

It is the well connected blogger who can capitalise on this, making their voice ring out over the rest. Whether what they are actually saying has any more credence than our friend in the bedroom is the worrying question…

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l'horreur

Vendredi 18 juillet 2008 -

Quelques part du coté de Tours, nous errons vers un village inconnu grâce au Renault traffic de Pierrick. De la lumière, une cave troglodyte, du son qui sort des platines d'un Australien gaulé comme le diable de Tasmanie. Ça aurait pu être cool si 15 mecs n'étaient pas passés plus tôt pour voler des ordinateurs et taper sur les gens. C'est même complètement l'horreur quand je m'installe aux platines et que je découvre ça :
Publié par Jean Paf! à l'adresse 07:35

1 commentaires:
bouleafacettes.net a dit…
cette fameuse horreur n'a meme pas été volé va savoir pourquoi?En tout cas notre région est juste ghetto

http://lejeanblog.blogspot.com/2008/07/lhorreur.html

Run Into Space

I left the room with a feeling of satisfaction accompanied by a tingling of guilt. My fears had been confirmed, and in the aftermath of the sex I began to question the motives behind my actions. My prediction of remorse was accurate; however I could not expect it to manifest itself so evidently when I returned home.

We meandered through the car park, arms entwined, witling away the walk in idle conversation. The lights were dim; however not dim enough to prevent me from admiring her ***** hair. It was framing her pale skin, illuminating her face so that I could read every minute emotion that flickered across it. Her heels tapped against the concrete floor in a metronomic rhythm, like a clock ticking ominously towards an unwanted hour. It was then I felt the first chill and a rush of apprehensive tension surge from my heart outwards. The exit we were heading for was beckoning, but for a green sedan parked in our way. We separated our hands and each chose a different route around the obstruction, her walking around the rear end of the vehicle, I around the front. As I emerged on the other side, green exit light luring me away from this increasingly yet unreasonably fretful scenario, I paused to allow her to catch me up. The second chill ran up my spine when she did not appear as would have been expected by our walking pace. I called out her name, but the only reply was the timid echo of my voice that came from every corner of the car park. I leapt around the far side of the car, hoping to see her. I did not. Desperation rising, I fished my mobile from my pocket and hit redial. As the busy signal beeped monotonously against my ear, I realised that she was no longer in that car park and I knew that she had not left of her own accord. I ran underneath the exit sign, my heart constricted by a chain of barbed wire that grew tighter with each frantic step.

Some hours later, back at my apartment, the memories of that ill-fated stroll washed through me again, and I felt the chill return. Fuelled by this bubbling unease, I quickly arose from the kitchen table and strode purposefully towards the hallway (of which my bedroom was situated at the end). The barbed wire returned, tighter this time, as I noticed my bedroom door ajar, and a pale yellow light emanating from the gap. I quickened my stride, curious to know who had been in the room, although something told me that I already knew the answer. I reached out the palm of my hand towards the door, scared of what lay ahead of me; I noticed my right hand glistening with sweat. The barbed wire tightened agonizingly further, constricting my breath as well as any last remaining drops of hope.

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Befitting the degree of illumination I had observed from the hallway, the only light in the room was from a bedside lamp. It cast a dim aura over the entire scene, which made it hard to distinguish her malformed body lying limply on the end of my bed. She was in a horrible variation of the foetal position, knees up around the chest but arms splayed in opposite directions, face buried in the mattress. She was wearing only a **** *** *** skirt, hitched high around her waste. Her ****** hair had lost its lustre and now enveloped her once youthful face like a death mask. Pain filled the air, and as tears began to well in my eyes, I realised that she would never be the same again. I quickly covered the five or so metres from my door to the end of the bed in two large strides, and slid my hand underneath her midriff to turn her onto her back and witness the damage that had been done. The whites of her eyes had long since disappeared, replace by the kind of red that I deduced was from a mixture of methamphetamines and sustained crying. Despite this, the loss of innocence in those eyes was heartbreakingly evident. She was murmuring and sobbing, and I joined her in a moment of complete despair. “***** ***** ***** *****”, she managed to mumble, before seeming to give in to the horror by lolling her head back and crying as though this was the end. I took the warning quite literally, and with fear and sadness suffocating my every move, I lifted her resistless form onto my forearms and about faced, returning towards the door carrying both the physical burden of her body and the much heavier emotional weight which multiplied with each disgusting shuffle forward. I was too afraid to look into the shadows of my room for the culprit. I knew he was there watching, and I remember briefly wondering as to his reaction to this sorry sight. I left the room with her in my arms, but I knew that there was a part of her that would never leave that dimly lit chamber. A part that was forever lost; and a part which I had played the lead role in destroying. Neither she, nor I, would ever be the same again.

Lead Generation

In a room so often decorated with vibrant wallpaper and colourful toys, the thick layer of dust that has settled in Karen’s nursery hints ominously at a time less sorrowful. The discarded bridal magazine lays haphazardly strewn across one of the many sealed cardboard boxes, the newly wed couple’s blissful smiles beaming from the page only adding to the sense of despair that floods the room.
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The chunks of vomit wedged between her incisors and her bloodshot right eye are the least of her worries. Karen is eight weeks pregnant, but is keeping it a guilty secret, the memories of her daughters causing her to grip the porcelain tighter still.
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The doctor assures her that there is nothing to worry about this time, but like the surgery clock ticking monotonously towards the hour, Karen feels like she already knows the outcome.
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“If you are fine, then why are you crying all the time?"