Brent Wilcox
Leisure With Dignity

Who will lend me a hammer because I want to hit a nail in my head? Let me explain, I used to have this 7-inch that played at 33 rpm, but one day (I've mentioned it elsewhere) I was bothered that I had too much stuff at home, and I got rid of 80% of what I owned: clothes, books, objects, various knickknacks, records... And among the records, this one happened to be included, damn it! That's why I'm asking for a hammer (I have the nails), because I deserve nothing more than to give myself a nail in the head!

It’s easy to say don’t cry over spilled milk when upon a listening revisit, I catch things I didn't even perceive before: harmony, logic, perfection, linearity, estrangement, projection, disappearance, reality. Here’s the hypnotic exaltation that now floods me during the listening. I deserve two nails!

You will rightly tell me, after listening to the record, "go get yourself checked out by someone," but never more than now do I embrace stubbornness and stomp my feet in supporting and advertising to the death the immensity of this sonic universe that the magnanimous Brent offers us.

Enough with all those annoying choruses from all those musical genres that mirror themselves by offering up. Here, triumph stands close to ruins, ruins of scrapping that help us solve vain exchanges of induced beauties that have nothing to do with us. And let’s stop at least for the duration of this record from being "all of a piece."

Let's not miss the opportunity to encounter the unexpected that comes out in the form of music, proposing a revision of the idea of celestial harmonies. And do you think they start playing melodies in Paradise? Violins? Singing like castrati? There are serious folks up there, mind you. There are people trained for eternity who play with the noise of eons of "leisure time" that "with dignity" sip a concrète, which, linear in its familiarity with alien material, introduces us to the invisible part around us with variations we label as experimental only because the unusualness of a crystalline engagement with life is clouded by egoic dictates that divert from the bacchanal of unity.

I must say I feel "classical," the sonic apparition that calms my horizons in the company of the imperceptible evolution of all present particles. The apparent message is to take as much time as you want, calm down, think about "health," and start working concretely and consciously on oneself and the lies in which we are continually immersed.

Surely the composition denies any identification, thus the performance blesses us with the certainty that a (transcendental) hand is denied to no one.

Served by the glorious label Happy Squid, already in 1981, this vinyl is a (great)view of glimpses from the era of magnetism.