Girls Names
Dead To Me

When I cut myself, scrape myself, or scar myself, I always use Bushmills instead of alcohol to disinfect the wounds. It works the same and gives me that smell which soon turns into the stench of a drunkard. Bushmills, however, I usually drink. It’s good for me and, above all, I like it. It wipes the coating off the taste buds and creates its own. It's hard for anyone to listen to you after you've had it. So it alienates, and it does so well. It’s precisely that kind of alcohol that has something rural, poetic, and out of place.

I drank it even at the Giant’s Causeway, some years ago, where I was playing and at home. As soon as I gulped it down, the atmosphere of my home, which although I have a real one, the one I feel mine is an interior hotel where someone sometimes comes to visit me. That day no one came. I thought it was a beautiful place, designed by the gods of order and chaos together. But it was uninhabited, like myself at that moment, after all. I thought the sea was playing its ghostly elegy that has lasted since the first day of the earth and that everyone stops, says “how beautiful the sound of the sea” and then walks away and returns to their life. It has been speaking for a number of years but, in the end, no one listens to it. If we had listened to what it has to tell us, it probably would have stopped. I didn’t want to be the first to listen to it, so I pretended nothing was amiss and left. With a thought in mind. That perhaps it’s a place of ghosts. Ghosts of men, of genres, of fish.

I recently listened to an album that immediately took me back to the period when I lived in Ireland. It is by a band from those parts. A trio that, I imagine, can understand well what I have written so far. This album, "Dead To Me", confirms that ghosts live in certain places because you may no longer be there, and even from a distance, things appear clear. At the border between God and men, there is music that isn’t anything special, on the contrary, it creates a wall too high to climb, for both one and the others. A wall made of sounds closed off long ago and yet still current in 2011. Post-punk and shoegaze that have lost sight of a certain horizon and entertain spirits who drink spirits and pass the time waiting for eternity, generating it, paradoxically. It is an album that presents itself well, that does its work with meticulous care, that makes you think of a connection linking the distant Smiths to the very close J&MC and Crystal Stilts. In short, a damn album, it would seem even to me. However, precise. An opportunity they created for themselves, managing to take full advantage of it. A way to make you feel like the classic blind person who doesn’t want to see. Yet it's enough to listen, to pay attention to the music to understand the sea, to let yourself be stimulated to understand that in certain places, old illusions dwell, which will never yield space to anyone because they have ended up in the limbo of the trap. Just sing these fierce melodies, which barely hide malice, to understand the distance between the flesh, the bones, and whoever created them. That's enough to convince me of being an atheist.

I drink too much but it’s not enough. Pardon.