1. |
Fog Over Appalachia
10:52
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These souls came to Earth in tact, mesmerized in the lushness of youth.
I never drank from the fountain.
You never grew in my garden.
Tell me what it's like in Birmingham. Do the streets wind like the roads in the mountains? Do the feral spirits still run from your touch?
Please write me one day. I hope the leaves grow greener.
Please write me one day. I hope the leaves grow greener where you stay. Past Murphy and Marble, I feel further from home. But in these hills I'll decay and become new.
I buried our love deep in the garden where nothing else could grow. I can look you in the eyes and know it was never meant to be.
What could have been?
Now it could never be.
And you feel content,
So I feel content.
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2. |
Violence In The River
05:30
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3. |
Hemingway
11:22
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I picture you on a window seal reading Hemingway; pondering life in London or somewhere you're far from here.
Somewhere you're far from here.
Let me know you're safe. I just hope you're safe.
"Let go."
I'll tell myself that until the sun burns out.
"Let go, let go."
I just want to let you go.
Your home feels so alien to you. You find yourself deep in another world where no one knows your name, no one knows your face.
It brings you peace to know it will all end one day. We will grow old and slowly fade away.
Your eyes well against the pages of Hemingway's prose that you picture yourself in. You see yourself somewhere else.
I wish I could take you there.
I wish I could take you there.
But still, we grow older.
"Isn't love any fun?"
Teach me to be unaware the world seems bleaker when I am alone, when I grow old.
When I grow old, will you still be there?
Nothing seems like it will ever be greener.
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4. |
Growing Always Older
08:12
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5. |
Irrevocably
13:06
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Your body wrinkles into green dust as each passing anxious moment recoils your spirit. And in your home, you wilt like wildflowers.
I ponder a simple life.
I ponder.
I ponder a simple life.
I ponder and note what could have been.
No word in my ancestral tongue can describe the calmness of withering age. But through simple lives, we feel it on every nerve ending. And in every way, you were a garden of empyrean light.
A blinding bed of flowers, indescribable.
A binding of sorts, twisted by roots and bare hands.
I find it irrevocably calming. I can feel age wither me into wrinkles. The summer clouds remind me of where home used to be.
And I wither into dirt, but I'll be resting at last.
I still feel joy.
I still feel joy.
Even against the ambience, I still feel joy.
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Wounds of Recollection Atlanta, Georgia
Atlanta based solo artist, Wounds of Recollection, weaves bright bursts of black metal and crushing detours into doom metal
in between somber moments of shoegaze, emo, post-rock, and drone to fuel a sound inspired by loss, coming to terms with aging, and long-forgotten simpler times.
Formed in 2014.
Created and produced anonymously and independently.
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Wounds of Recollection recommends:
The Ninth Incantation
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The sinister depths and the triumphant highs of black metal.
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A haunting stroll through an ancient forest.
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My Misery is Carved Into the Flesh of This World
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My side project. DSBM, post-rock, slowcore, indie folk.
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NONE a opéré un virage dans Where Life Should Be et ça se confirme davantage dans Damp Chill of Life. Le temps des métaphores est révolu : l'humidité froide, c'est celle des larmes qui coulent sur le visage à cause de la dépression. Tout pleure dans cet album : les guitares typées DSBM grésillent, les solos ("The Damp Chill of Life", "It's Painless To Let Go") sont liquides et coulent, les voix prennent à la gorge ; même le piano, étranglé par les sanglots ("Cease"), est aphone. Insoutenable...
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On ne frappe pas un homme à terre : c'est ce que dit la règle mais NONE a déjà prouvé qu'il ne les suivait pas et si son album éponyme retirait toute perspective de béatitude spirituelle, Life has gone on long enough, son deuxième opus, nous interdit l'accès au bonheur terrestre. La vie n'a aucune substance et la production plus distante le confirme. Le DSBM s'empare de textures sonores blues, mettant en relief une dépression urbaine. Les cris partent en fumées : ne restent que les pleurs...
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