This is a tale of the heart.
At first glance, the subject exhibits symptoms of a tarantulated cardiopath.
His cardiopathy, however, is neither congenital nor pathological. It is... let's say... phono-kinetic.
Upon further investigation, it is revealed to be a "pathological" tendency, punk to be precise.
A particular oscillation between the melodic and the raw, well-balanced and never polarized.
The pulses rise as soon as he gets out of bed, accelerate and each day tend not to diminish, but rather, to heighten the peaks.
What drives the pulses? The sound, but not only that, also the rhythm. The union of sound and rhythm creates in the subject a spasmodic search, and possibly the breaking, of the limit through extreme musical entropy.
In itself, wanting to be objective, this is a limitation of the patient who cannot keep their ambitions in check. But not wanting to be objective, it is at the same time his greatest quality.
His way of understanding his existence and, consequently, his music is unstoppable, accelerated, tireless, incurable (it is indeed a case of acute unaware pathology).
There is no cure because he does not consider himself ill; rather, he can and wants to just ride the wave. [Lonely days / and sleepless nights / This doesn’t seem so right / It leaves me wanting more / More than I did before].
He must get on stage, or in the designated performance place, take up his instrument and modulate gesture, word, action, and atmosphere according to the accelerated beat of His heart.
Clearly, the doctor advises taking it easy with drugs, as they could have disastrous consequences. The advice is ignored and the outcome is inevitable: death by overdose.
The heart, that huge, sincere and always at the edge heart, explodes; it cannot withstand the speedball rollercoaster and, above all, the will of the mind to which it is tied.
The instrument, Gibson Flying V, can not do anything but reflect and remind us all of the fundamental concept: it stylizes a white heart, because pure and seminal.
And with His remains, it rests, being in all respects a secondary heart; the circle closes.
Jay is gone, too soon. It has been almost ten years now. He didn’t have the time to show (but did he care?) the whole world his nature, although a keen observer only needed five minutes, no, five seconds to understand who they were in front of and what we lost, almost without realizing it.
The diagnosis attempted to fill the gap by profiling the subject as best as possible.
Two words on the flavor of his creations: punk structure, pure content. Punk music, punk lyrics. Given that the core is the heart, it must be specified that in his songs there is a lot of feeling. The presence of keyboards may be a clue. We find blood-red emotions [Blood Vision] in adolescent form, torn family relationships [My Family] and, for the most part, all the boredom seasoned with alienation, cynicism [When your friends are dead / It's so much easier / When you don't even care / All these faces mean nothing to me]+[Alone in a room / Needless I sit / I close my eyes / And try to forget / Death is calling] and lack of stimuli of the American people from its origins to today.
All this leads to a state of conscious youth dementia, deliberately violent, ironic, and disenchanted. But also forced to deal with emotions that, little reasoned, are thrown abruptly into the current and emerge that way. Beautiful. [Time will heal the wounds but I / will kill you / Slowly / fading all away / Hear / the voices cry and watch / the feelings die / Slowly / fading all away / I won't stop / until you're dead / because of voices in my head / I won't stop / until you're dead / Helping you / and hurting me]
Phenomenology of the subject: a tall, curly, and wild troll with a guitar. Accompanied by a chubby and curly troll with a bass (later translated into the Wavves world, in the series: the apple never falls far from the tree).
Distinguishing marks: a strange accent that hinted at Albion’s language. It is not known whether it was a whim, a reminiscence of the overseas origins, or his serious and mocking dementia.
The fact remains that he was unique.
"And so he goes: one of God's prototypes. A high-potential mutant not even considered for mass production. Too weird to live and too rare to die," Raoul Duke would say.
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
05 Blood Visions (01:31)
blood visions
blood visions
blood visions
blood visions
its what they wanna give me
blood visions
its what they wanna give me
blood visions
oh
these things will change
oh
these things will change
blood visions
blood visions
blood visions
blood visions
its what they wanna give me
blood visions
its what they wanna give me
oh
these things will change
oh
these things will change
oh
these things will change
12 Death Is Forming (02:05)
Alone in a room
Needless I sit
I close my eyes
And try to forget
Death is calling
Get in line
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Forming death
Forming death
Forming death
Forming death
Hear it calling
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Forming death
Forming death
Forming death
Forming death
Hear it calling
Get in line
Alone in a room
Needless I sit
I close my eyes
And try to forget
Death is calling
get in line
Death is calling
Get in line
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Forming death
Forming death
Forming death
Forming death
Hear it calling
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Death is forming
Forming death
Forming death
Forming death
Forming death
Death is calling
Get in line
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