Like most humans this past week I’ve felt that annual, almost ritual division of passing from one year into another. There’s the festivities circulating around mid December onwards and no matter how secular these things are in my world, there is always some feeling of daily routines grinding to a halt and increasing the frequency of soirées, parties, drinking or holing up and feasting. That gray area of time after Christmas and going into New Year’s will reach some sort of blowout of boozing and dancing as it did this year, surrounded by friends and music.
And as people wake up in the first day of the new year (often falling asleep only well into it) the massive intergalatic hangover reaches a red throb. Cloudy vows of alcohol abstinence echo in conversation and in the digital realm. Reducing the excessive, celebratory food staples of only weeks before to a soupy broth and blended fruits and vegetables. Everything goes a bit dormant. Sometimes you don’t really hear from anyone for days.
I didn’t feel that red throb this time around but there was a sense of elation and nostalgia over the past year as it was a memorable time of meeting great new people and doing great new things. It was a bit of a blue affair. The type of blueness of sitting on a hill on a cloudy day and enjoying the some sweet melancholy. Sort of soft and gentle. Sort of weird. I think you know what I’m talking about.
Closing out this block of time was a late night watching of The Hour Of The Wolf by Ingmar Bergman: contrasted monochrome cinematography and an expressionistic rendering of someone’s personal demons…
THE HOUR OF THE WOLF / Ingmar Bergman / 1968
On a completely different trajectory I may have started becoming a trash collector, at least for the moment. Nothing uncontrollable and perhaps even the term is a bit derogatory. I’ve tapped into some well affordable additions for the JJD home audio recording lab: a rack effects with a burnt out backlight for cheap, a 20-year old Denon cassette deck for a tenner, a clunky old box housing an Akai s2800 sampler: a relic of 1980s/1990s electronic music that seem to rest like rusting beasts on the consumer landscape; priced for liquidation. A few other bits and bobs: including the black mothership of a Yamaha CS-15 synthesizer acquired from a battered industrial street in Bermondsey; a setting lined with make-shift churches in former offices and taxi cab repair garages. Feel the electricity running through those old, durable circuits…

