Tag Archives: headphonemusic

At the izakaya named Oysy (oh-ee-she), the song “Selfish” found its setting. And deep fried rock shrimp.

Of course it did. Indulgence is this track’s pivotal drive, its focus point, after all. And Oysy (japanese for “delicious”) delivers just that. Right there on the plates next to their mouth-watering food. If the above product deserves any merit is entirely up to the distinguished listener/spectator. But frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.

Give me what I want
And when I please.
Fuck you for mentioning
That I say my “w”s like “v”s.

I just want a triple shot
And I want you on your knees.
Get on your knees.

I read my news out loud,
Don’t care what you do.
Play these 5 chords for hours
-when did you leave the room?

Won’t take that call past 8
And probably not before.
To hell with all this othering,
Don’t want it anymore

I’ll stay awake and take and take (and take)
Until I crash and burn.
You’ll whisper something
… I won’t hear

I just want you naked now,
So close your eyes and listen to me.
Listen to me:

I’ll take you where and how
And when and as I please.
And know there’s no one except for you
More selfish than me.

© 2010 th(is)how
all rights reserved

RELEASE!             The debut album “S” is finally out

“Rich on cinematic effect, layered with aural surprises, this narrative piece of program-music disguised as postpop/postrock beckons you to decode its heart and soul, blood and bones. This is how it feels to be lost by design and still safe. Somewhat.”

It’s been in the making for a while but now it’s happening: the baby is out and one can finally approach new sonic shores. It’ll hit iTunes shortly, but CDbaby has it on the shelves already.

 Go buy it. Reviews are welcome.

… -.- . – -.-. ….

(Title: Scetch)
– …. .. … .. … -. — – .- … -.- . – -.-. …. .-.-.-
.. – .. … .— ..- … – .- … -.- . – -.-. ….

What started as a sketchy squabble turned out a serendipitous session, from the lick of a lip to the noodling, fiddling, uprooting of the treacherous third, to sliding shifts in major and minor monotones, crossing every bridge in compliance, only to return on sweeping feet. The inane little play of my exile fretboard came together as a mellow mouthful.

As it is, before the juicy apple lets go of the tree, all is just sun and reckless wondrous activity, all play and abundant inspiration, before the end of the road catches you between beats and on a down strum (it’s done?!) It’s done. Leaves you sitting there agape, wondering, overwhelmed by fleeting bliss and you scramble, miss a step, rush to revisit and sponge up a little gratuitous heart-throb, a little now and then, here and there, losing time only to reminisce a few, before you part ways again, leave the room, enter the hallway, exit the stairwell and slip into the vacuum of the streets, the valley of awkward disconnect becomes the function, and just like love, unites mouth with teeth in a smile and a bite.

Please observe: as no words found matter, the offer is for you to croon, purr, growl, hum, bend a note, pitch a key, find a pulse under the rustbelt sun. These men from 1951 battled dirt, heat and dust for us to bate our breath and put our naked eye to their tracks of rock and metal. Do not strain to imagine what this might add to a scant song, or rather, if the music applies any sense to the sights, but let it propose a mere question like: what did these men dance, hum along, sing to in their cars, homes, bars and beds? Will their night be welcome and their radios silent at last? Will they bend their backs to father songs between shifting sheets? Will they shuffle their feet in jazzy circles of eight and come next summer, will they pound out a beat, a beat, a beat, a beat, a beat, a beat for dear life, stroke their favorite sweat-sticky chords, deliver harmony from strings, lay down firmly another shiny leg of warm winding road to somewhere sweet?








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