Published by Spork Press, 2015

Daniel Mahoney says that in these prose poems or microfictions, he seeks to “investigate the distance between sound and how we use language to describe sound.” Dan sent his “reviews” to some bands he liked—and in reply received some music written to his reviews, so the book also includes a cassette. Yes, a cassette. Here’s the title entry:

Orange Over More Orange
Artist: Muebles Pasados de Moda
Album: Silence: More Profound Than Pure Silence
Label: Akon

Sunblind Almost Motorcrash by Daniel MahoneySunblind Almost Motorcrash by Daniel MahoneyThe first few notes of Silence: More Profound Than Pure Silence feel like a blurry soundtrack of 1974, like some holiday couple on a walk near a river in Buenos Aires or La Paz or Lima. A down tempo warble bass line and slither-saturated  wheeze drift color the mix and mix up that romantic sun-on-water feel. Treated guitar licks sound like meandering dustups of languid planets or blissed out morning launchpads over superfuzzy otherdrift. The picture on the discsleeve is nice too.  Orange over more orange. On Silence: More Profound Than Pure Silence, a skitter FX dronestep blurs into echoes of hypnotic low-end whir, like an undulating crosswind or an unhinged heart-of-the-sun gauzescape bleeds into late afternoon drift and distant riversparkle. The textured expanse teems with lumber, spring days perfectly caught in a drifty hyper-saturated sprawlcore. An all-sun wrapped around a borrowed sweater. A super druggedup male sun. A hazy sweater  wearing South American sunblind almost motorcrash. All you need is time and headphones. The textures are an opal-hewn hiss of gauze and drum and slow heaving organsound blown in from an openocean endlessness. Half into it, the bifurcated spectacle does something that I, frankly, can’t explain. Reverb laden guitar hooks serve as a long-distance pulse to the song, a wet whir-warped echo chasm between sun-bleached bonedry and overgrown moistureary. Guitars whir, wah, hover over radiant insect sound, until slowly entombed by other silences in the songfabrick, like warm nights in tumescent  laundryhouses, or smoke rising in the drifting periphery where lunatics hold their lunatic ceremonies. So fucking awesome! By the end of the movement, we enter into an enormous enfolding of endless spacebliss and superdistant reverbed harmonica rivertwang. Past and future turn together like a bin of old 45s unearthed by a race of cosmic beekeepers and used as postcards to distant satellites. Silence: More Profound Than Pure Silence grooves, rumbles, croons, thrums in the ovulary steam baths of non-stop swirlcore and we emerge from it soulful, murky, warped: our singular transient bodies turning to transparent cinematic soundfields.


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