You can't just hand me a new album and a good pair of headphones and leave me to drift, floating on a bed suspended by heavy ropes for fifty four minutes (which stretched into a hundred and eight so I could listen to it again) and blow me away with an easy breath for the profundity some men can reach with a piano and a pen.
I am so readily in love with those men. Sort of like men who speak Gaelic fluently. This is my kryptonite, it's my biggest flaw because those are the men who navigate their own charms, wielding a power immeasurable, a stunning display of emotional peacock feathers by which we are levelled flat.
Hello, Mick Moss. Welcome to the inside of my brain.
He's what I wished Pearl Jam would have been but isn't. Like a hotter, deeper version. Tighter instruments, but he's just...let the fuck go with his words, something I wish more people would do. That's something I require, it's a dealbreaker, in fact. If you want to talk to me you have to drop your walls. You have to tell me of your deepest darkest thoughts, fears and wants. You have to go one step further, opening yourself, being vulnerable, being unabashed, shameless and pure. I don't care if it makes you look bad. I don't care if you're embarrassed, just give me what I crave.
Like this. This is fucking awesome. Antimatter's Black Market Enlightenment is now safely ensconced in my top ten Most Perfect Albums of all time.
(If you want to check him out listen to Wish I was Here. GodDAMN.)
(Happy Saturday. Our virus cases here in the southern half of the province have tripled every day over the past week and I'm never leaving the house again but as long as I have some amazing music and my deepest boys around I'm good for the rest of my life, thanks. Deliver Vietnamese food and I'll not complain with a single word. August laughs when I tell him this. I was so drunk when I explained exactly how I work, to his amused face as he nodded. I know all this, he reminded me, but I told him again anyway.)