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This album is beautiful...
You can only find it on YouTube. I imagine it's some kind of bootleg.
...
The most intimate and confessional side of Sparklehorse...
A collection of sad enchantments, as if Neil Young were Nick Drake.
Have you ever noticed when noise is a kind of silence? No pop, no rock. Nothing at all.
Mark is speaking to you. The others aren’t here. The others don’t listen.
...
Now, I have a flaw, or maybe a virtue, I don’t know: I go off on a tangent, I take a flight of fancy. For instance, if I listen to a track and then cast my eyes on something, in this case, a small picture in the living room, that track and that thing immediately reveal a secret connection. If then I have a poet's verse in my head, heaven opens up.
They are gifts of chance, I imagine, and chance is the most important of all deities. Being in the car on the 11th of any month, at 11:11, with the odometer reading 111111 is like receiving a kiss from a nymph.
...
A whisper of fog. A whisper of voice.
The fog is grey-blue, the voice a breaking material. Noteworthy also is a gentle beat.
When the interlude comes, you wonder how it is possible to build on nothing. That would be art, dear countess. Art? Really?
Then, whisper upon whisper upon whisper, a feminine voice is added... the usual yin and yang.
Thus, every sense datum is the surgeon digging into the wound. Cure and pain coincide. And the words are stones falling like snow.
...
The snow is like that of a naive painting, a gift from my father long ago. Only the poet is missing and the poet is Robert Frost.
“Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.”
And, since my words might be like those steps, I think it's time to fall silent. After all, what more is there to say? Buzzing? Pale luminescences?
Trembling beauty?
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