The best men
"i don’t have any white in me and i don’t want white people claiming me"
Rhythm is both the song’s manacle and its demonic charge. It is the original breath, it is the whisper of unremitting demand. “What do you still want of me?” says the singer. “What do you think you can still draw from my lips?”
“Exact presence that no fantasy can represent; purveyor of the oldest secret; alive with the blood that boils again and is pulsing where the rhythm is torn apart. How your singer’s blood is incensed at the depth of sound.”
Lacerations echo in the mouth’s open erotic sky - where dance together the lost frenzies of rhythm and an imploring im/mobility. The voice is slow, heavy, like the voice of a woman awakening from a time of betrayal. A voice like the slow rising, the slow opening of the dark. (…the impression is of moving in the shadows of syllables.)
Words are inside breath, as the earth is inside time… enslaved to its rhythms. The singer’s body finds its release in such confinement.
A voice of non-participation: not so much a song for any “you” as the ruthless solicitation of disappointment, of disappointment’s immense pleasures… a maniacally glacial position taken up on the outermost limits of expectation. A perfect dissinulation: unabridged violence of the voice affirming a subjugated state. Annihilating rhythm.❞
(via ifiseemalittlestrange, moved-to-ddarkahn-deactivated20)