Hello, everyone. Sorry for the lag, had to lock in and graduate real quick. Back on schedule now, though. Send music shit to my email [ fosterhildingmusic@gmail.com ] or DM me on Instagram.
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| photos courtesy of Partyteeth. |
I think I turned around thirty times and made a complete and utter embarrassment of myself in the King Pigeon parking lot, where there was about ten feet between the parking spot and the open, raging road. Somehow I made it. I didn't really take notes for this show since I was recording and filming, so it may be a little shorter. Watch our video here.
Desert Breath started us off with a tweeting clarinet, slowly whispering life into these expansive, pedal-drawn pads and aching soundscapes. The whole set was one song, a big wood whine through a quiet PA and the enclosed walls of the little thrift store. For a moment there was rhythm--synthesized drums giving us something to break us out of a meditative spell, yet back we were sent into ambience and a crescendo that swelled and swelled unto eventual silence.
The stage was the gap between a bathroom and a green room at the end of a narrow hall, walls bright colors and clothes spanning them. I think I remember getting stuck in awkward conversation more than once between claustrophobic stacks of vintage books, old clothes, and antiques of some fashion.
I usually despise this new brand of literary poetry--that comedic or one-size-fits-all slam shawl, but Shawnte was different, a fresh little breath from the static. Yes, there were those comedic moments, yet all very tasteful, and didn't distract from those strikingly heartfelt winks at something else. His poem on birthdays struck a chord, same for his piece on revisiting his birth home--between jabs, of course. There was something very genuine beneath the sardonic, entertaining front. Joe screamed through saxophone and flute between each line, masking the shop in a noir-esque smoke. Watching it all from the black and white viewport on my camera may have contributed to this.
I think the room shook with anticipation, and Kurt did, too, as Partyteeth donned his high-strapped guitar and Nick Cave persona, distortion pedal twanging-out the soft strings of his guitar in a parasitic haze. His album was the only Dead Mothers Collective release I've sent to my dad, so that says a lot. There's something enrapturing about Kurt's performances. It's like he's conjuring up words we've all wished we'd said before, draped in that robe of sobering truth and doused in shame. It bleeds the sentiments it was founded upon, a bygone passage that screams, "I have nothing left to lose, so here I am. Here's all of me." It's hard to put into words, so don't read me trying, listen for yourself. Stream House In A Sack.
Thanks for reading. Thank you to Kurt for entrusting us with your poetry.
-Foster
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