Review Summary: The underside of awaiting dreams.
As I set aside the pink tinged glassware from my eighth...no, thirteenth glass of chambourcin I can’t help but gaze into the glasses' sedimental dregs; which rests like tea leaves at a gypsy reading. I realise quite quickly a couple of key points; mostly that this diatribe would be better with fewer words and that the world is a ***ty place. But there’s tasteful additions to the world of the perfectly imperfect. The assasination of Hitler, and the resulting decaying flesh improved on what was. Sure, history could’ve been written differently; we are not the victors - just the result of a legacy that’s pre-determined by others.
Have You In My Wilderness is a pretty vase on a window sill, placed deliberately to stop those inside looking at the horizon, and filled to the brim with “ugly”, peppered by moments of “faux” introspection; designed to tease, distract, isolate and remove us from the fact that life is ultimately insignificant. So with that all out of the way… the rambling, mindless rant shall truly begin:
It’s these moments of
joy that disseminate among the masses, enabled through a commercial niche. We want to be a part of it. We want to feel ‘different’ than what we are. Is it something natural that drives an individual to look to their internal being... in order to change some sort of perceived external views? I mean - you
could hate yourself; so a few crunches a day will make all the difference right up until that time you need a breast reduction. The hokey-pokey bounce of “Feel You” feeds off jangling syncopation - but even the melody changes the interpretation of a world that surrounds it. The dramatic smoothness of intertwining synths push and pull at a door battling contrasts of reprehensible nuance with sombred happiness. It’s this avant garde motif that’s hidden in plain sight.
So if the world itself is judgmentally unattractive, who are we to decide what atrocities should be deserved of our judgement? What about that one guy sitting at home, beer in hand and decimated wing bones spilled, scattered on the floor? Is he ugly because he can’t see his own “little john” over the bulge of a grease splattered midriff? Or because he just nibbled on some unidentifiable crumb from the day before - lodged somewhere deep within his beard? Hitler probably thought he was a good person too! “How Long?” itself may not be the best party guest, dressing up in a regal, flowing gown dress, smelling of flowers and other wholesome attractions. It’s only natural that she would receive stares of a questioning nature surrounded by faceless entities of boardies, beer bongs and fraternal nuance. Still, it’s undeniably beautiful when the very core of “How Long?” is measured against the rest of the world. Turns out, it’s okay to at least, try to stand above the hideous noise in one way or the other. Even the corseted prostitutes of old had perfume and a wet rag - lusting after their own sense of perfection as they wash away the muck of a wasted seed.
Maybe there’s a certain level of brainwashing going on here? Think about it; part of our DNA tells us unambiguously that certain things are a bad idea. It gives us perspective. That pit in your stomach? It’s probably telling you that the call and response style vocals in “Lucette Stranded on the Island“ will harm you… at least a little bit. And with all the wine gone there’s little wonder why a pillow would feel so good. It’s too dark to read, too cold to stay outside - even the mosquitoes want nothing to do with you. Are we that ugly that even the bloodsuckers want nothing to do with our now-currently thinking, rotting corpses even as we walk from one pointless endeavour to the next? It’s here that the slow build of “Night Song” builds and entraps. We’ve stopped thinking. We’re just waiting as each chord ebbs into our dying subconscious.
The folks-y tinkle, “Vasquez” snaps tautly in a shapeless atmosphere. We’re invited to an unwelcome party, but for whatever reason it seems/feels enchanting in a world of landmark simplicity. From a vantage point of a lonely corner you see the crowd battle with the same thoughts you try so hard to dispel. Nobody leaves, nobody wants to - they couldn’t even if they tried. It’s this that makes
Have You In My Wilderness shine. For there is no faux sensibilities, no beasts smote upon the mountainside or even a chance to breathe like our self-entitled, self-absorbed...well, selfish pieces of *** we are. The atmosphere is palpable, with no sense of urgency. It’s the take what you can get from this questionable existence and think of yourself as a complete, perfect and beautiful specimen. Say it aloud now: “I am pretty!”
Maybe from here we can learn to love what comes with the “ugly”, rather than spend countless moments changing what exists into something theoretically potential. Babies are [generally] born with all sorts of fecal gore over their bodies - ripped from the safety of their mother’s protection. Whether it’s the forced removal from a parents arms, restrained by pepper spray or the labouring expulsion within the “safety” of a clinical wing - there’s ill-favoured and often hideous surrounds we must embrace as we do so. With new light comes the titular morning rapture and with reddened eyes we look (once again,) to the flowers by the window. They are not the same as yesterday - they too join the world’s more unprepossessing features in death. The cycle begins anew, a watered down version of itself. A few petals litter the shelf, all manner of fresh dreams gone, not remembered - ready for the corporate cycle to repeat itself.
