EMPTY CELLAR BALLAD, by Cola Ritz, is from a thirteen-track album of recent, mostly moody instrumental soundscapes, meandering listlessly between the digital loops, .wav samples and captured sounds of my discomfort, sentimentality and paranoia. It is a peripatetic inventory of aural and confessional aspects loosely relating to the Covid19 lockdown. The times are rough, nervy and unexpected. Time and space seems to have taken on the throbbing dimension of fear; an endless plateau of sameness. Disruptive misinformation, apocalyptic thoughts and conspiracy theories abound, congealing as a weirdly pulsating unidentified drone image on the radar of your brain.  A B-side playlist of waking hours have merged with the buzzing mix-tape of restless dreams of the night. Outside, things are eerily quiet; a beautiful vacuum of ambivalent evil. It feels like we are all starring in a badly directed Exodus movie; a surreal dramatization of a banal biblical plague. And everyone’s personal Jesus has been hastily dusted off and displayed rather prominently near the TV. The mood everywhere is decidedly autumnal. Unsurprisingly, children suddenly act old and teenagers break out in more pimples than usual. Desperate adults, who should know better, throw their toys out the cot. Lame and/or funny Whatsapp memes somehow stiffen the daily lack of resolve; gloss over the increasingly apparent results of personal hygiene neglect. Everyone is drinking too much tea; too much coffee, probably taking too many drugs, and either way, just staring endlessly into space. That is to say, if they are not furiously scrubbing the kitchen for the umpteenth time. Disinfectant is the new Chanel no. 5. Where graveyards have filled up, mass graves suddenly appear in unlikely places. Like the sound of frogs, croaking deliriously before a shower of rain, there is plenty human chatter of a new normal; a changed world. Yet much residual self-righteousness, much fresh foolishness and much guilt-driven self-pity conglobulate as a ceaseless a-rhythmic pandemic dirge. So far, unhappiness is the only proven vaccine.

But hey, there’s a bright side; it looks like the old planet itself has bounced back in a sprightly sort of way. Birds and fish have returned to places where the waste pollution of man’s mad existence had previously driven them away. Nearby mountains can be seen again from large cities where they had for years been obscured by smog. Clear skies reveal stars we had forgotten. I can now hear the birds in my garden singing so clearly it almost hurts. I secretly hope that this interlude may last.

Cola Ritz
DARLING
April/May 2020

nicolaas maritz's Album

Empty Cellar Ballad

FOREST INTERLUDE, by Cola Ritz, is from a thirteen-track album of recent, mostly moody instrumental soundscapes, meandering listlessly between the digital loops, .wav samples and captured sounds of my discomfort, sentimentality and paranoia. It is a peripatetic inventory of aural and confessional aspects loosely relating to the Covid19 lockdown. The times are rough, nervy and unexpected. Time and space seems to have taken on the throbbing dimension of fear; an endless plateau of sameness. Disruptive misinformation, apocalyptic thoughts and conspiracy theories abound, congealing as a weirdly pulsating unidentified drone image on the radar of your brain.  A B-side playlist of waking hours have merged with the buzzing mix-tape of restless dreams of the night. Outside, things are eerily quiet; a beautiful vacuum of ambivalent evil. It feels like we are all starring in a badly directed Exodus movie; a surreal dramatization of a banal biblical plague. And everyone’s personal Jesus has been hastily dusted off and displayed rather prominently near the TV. The mood everywhere is decidedly autumnal. Unsurprisingly, children suddenly act old and teenagers break out in more pimples than usual. Desperate adults, who should know better, throw their toys out the cot. Lame and/or funny Whatsapp memes somehow stiffen the daily lack of resolve; gloss over the increasingly apparent results of personal hygiene neglect. Everyone is drinking too much tea; too much coffee, probably taking too many drugs, and either way, just staring endlessly into space. That is to say, if they are not furiously scrubbing the kitchen for the umpteenth time. Disinfectant is the new Chanel no. 5. Where graveyards have filled up, mass graves suddenly appear in unlikely places. Like the sound of frogs, croaking deliriously before a shower of rain, there is plenty human chatter of a new normal; a changed world. Yet much residual self-righteousness, much fresh foolishness and much guilt-driven self-pity conglobulate as a ceaseless a-rhythmic pandemic dirge. So far, unhappiness is the only proven vaccine.

But hey, there’s a bright side; it looks like the old planet itself has bounced back in a sprightly sort of way. Birds and fish have returned to places where the waste pollution of man’s mad existence had previously driven them away. Nearby mountains can be seen again from large cities where they had for years been obscured by smog. Clear skies reveal stars we had forgotten. I can now hear the birds in my garden singing so clearly it almost hurts. I secretly hope that this interlude may last.

Cola Ritz
DARLING
April/May 2020

Forest Interlude

GLOVE LOVE, by Cola Ritz, is from a thirteen-track album of recent, mostly moody instrumental soundscapes, meandering listlessly between the digital loops, .wav samples and captured sounds of my discomfort, sentimentality and paranoia. It is a peripatetic inventory of aural and confessional aspects loosely relating to the Covid19 lockdown. The times are rough, nervy and unexpected. Time and space seems to have taken on the throbbing dimension of fear; an endless plateau of sameness. Disruptive misinformation, apocalyptic thoughts and conspiracy theories abound, congealing as a weirdly pulsating unidentified drone image on the radar of your brain.  A B-side playlist of waking hours have merged with the buzzing mix-tape of restless dreams of the night. Outside, things are eerily quiet; a beautiful vacuum of ambivalent evil. It feels like we are all starring in a badly directed Exodus movie; a surreal dramatization of a banal biblical plague. And everyone’s personal Jesus has been hastily dusted off and displayed rather prominently near the TV. The mood everywhere is decidedly autumnal. Unsurprisingly, children suddenly act old and teenagers break out in more pimples than usual. Desperate adults, who should know better, throw their toys out the cot. Lame and/or funny Whatsapp memes somehow stiffen the daily lack of resolve; gloss over the increasingly apparent results of personal hygiene neglect. Everyone is drinking too much tea; too much coffee, probably taking too many drugs, and either way, just staring endlessly into space. That is to say, if they are not furiously scrubbing the kitchen for the umpteenth time. Disinfectant is the new Chanel no. 5. Where graveyards have filled up, mass graves suddenly appear in unlikely places. Like the sound of frogs, croaking deliriously before a shower of rain, there is plenty human chatter of a new normal; a changed world. Yet much residual self-righteousness, much fresh foolishness and much guilt-driven self-pity conglobulate as a ceaseless a-rhythmic pandemic dirge. So far, unhappiness is the only proven vaccine.

But hey, there’s a bright side; it looks like the old planet itself has bounced back in a sprightly sort of way. Birds and fish have returned to places where the waste pollution of man’s mad existence had previously driven them away. Nearby mountains can be seen again from large cities where they had for years been obscured by smog. Clear skies reveal stars we had forgotten. I can now hear the birds in my garden singing so clearly it almost hurts. I secretly hope that this interlude may last.

Cola Ritz
DARLING
April/May 2020

Glove Love

LUCKY NUMBER 13 EXIT LOUNGE FACILITY, by Cola Ritz, is from a thirteen-track album of recent, mostly moody instrumental soundscapes, meandering listlessly between the digital loops, .wav samples and captured sounds of my discomfort, sentimentality and paranoia. It is a peripatetic inventory of aural and confessional aspects loosely relating to the Covid19 lockdown. The times are rough, nervy and unexpected. Time and space seems to have taken on the throbbing dimension of fear; an endless plateau of sameness. Disruptive misinformation, apocalyptic thoughts and conspiracy theories abound, congealing as a weirdly pulsating unidentified drone image on the radar of your brain.  A B-side playlist of waking hours have merged with the buzzing mix-tape of restless dreams of the night. Outside, things are eerily quiet; a beautiful vacuum of ambivalent evil. It feels like we are all starring in a badly directed Exodus movie; a surreal dramatization of a banal biblical plague. And everyone’s personal Jesus has been hastily dusted off and displayed rather prominently near the TV. The mood everywhere is decidedly autumnal. Unsurprisingly, children suddenly act old and teenagers break out in more pimples than usual. Desperate adults, who should know better, throw their toys out the cot. Lame and/or funny Whatsapp memes somehow stiffen the daily lack of resolve; gloss over the increasingly apparent results of personal hygiene neglect. Everyone is drinking too much tea; too much coffee, probably taking too many drugs, and either way, just staring endlessly into space. That is to say, if they are not furiously scrubbing the kitchen for the umpteenth time. Disinfectant is the new Chanel no. 5. Where graveyards have filled up, mass graves suddenly appear in unlikely places. Like the sound of frogs, croaking deliriously before a shower of rain, there is plenty human chatter of a new normal; a changed world. Yet much residual self-righteousness, much fresh foolishness and much guilt-driven self-pity conglobulate as a ceaseless a-rhythmic pandemic dirge. So far, unhappiness is the only proven vaccine.

But hey, there’s a bright side; it looks like the old planet itself has bounced back in a sprightly sort of way. Birds and fish have returned to places where the waste pollution of man’s mad existence had previously driven them away. Nearby mountains can be seen again from large cities where they had for years been obscured by smog. Clear skies reveal stars we had forgotten. I can now hear the birds in my garden singing so clearly it almost hurts. I secretly hope that this interlude may last.

Cola Ritz
DARLING
April/May 2020

Lucky Number 13 Exit Lounge Facility

MASKED CRAWL, by Cola Ritz, is from a thirteen-track album of recent, mostly moody instrumental soundscapes, meandering listlessly between the digital loops, .wav samples and captured sounds of my discomfort, sentimentality and paranoia. It is a peripatetic inventory of aural and confessional aspects loosely relating to the Covid19 lockdown. The times are rough, nervy and unexpected. Time and space seems to have taken on the throbbing dimension of fear; an endless plateau of sameness. Disruptive misinformation, apocalyptic thoughts and conspiracy theories abound, congealing as a weirdly pulsating unidentified drone image on the radar of your brain.  A B-side playlist of waking hours have merged with the buzzing mix-tape of restless dreams of the night. Outside, things are eerily quiet; a beautiful vacuum of ambivalent evil. It feels like we are all starring in a badly directed Exodus movie; a surreal dramatization of a banal biblical plague. And everyone’s personal Jesus has been hastily dusted off and displayed rather prominently near the TV. The mood everywhere is decidedly autumnal. Unsurprisingly, children suddenly act old and teenagers break out in more pimples than usual. Desperate adults, who should know better, throw their toys out the cot. Lame and/or funny Whatsapp memes somehow stiffen the daily lack of resolve; gloss over the increasingly apparent results of personal hygiene neglect. Everyone is drinking too much tea; too much coffee, probably taking too many drugs, and either way, just staring endlessly into space. That is to say, if they are not furiously scrubbing the kitchen for the umpteenth time. Disinfectant is the new Chanel no. 5. Where graveyards have filled up, mass graves suddenly appear in unlikely places. Like the sound of frogs, croaking deliriously before a shower of rain, there is plenty human chatter of a new normal; a changed world. Yet much residual self-righteousness, much fresh foolishness and much guilt-driven self-pity conglobulate as a ceaseless a-rhythmic pandemic dirge. So far, unhappiness is the only proven vaccine.

But hey, there’s a bright side; it looks like the old planet itself has bounced back in a sprightly sort of way. Birds and fish have returned to places where the waste pollution of man’s mad existence had previously driven them away. Nearby mountains can be seen again from large cities where they had for years been obscured by smog. Clear skies reveal stars we had forgotten. I can now hear the birds in my garden singing so clearly it almost hurts. I secretly hope that this interlude may last.

Cola Ritz
DARLING
April/May 2020

Masked Crawl

NON-SWING CHANDELIERS, by Cola Ritz, is from a thirteen-track album of recent, mostly moody instrumental soundscapes, meandering listlessly between the digital loops, .wav samples and captured sounds of my discomfort, sentimentality and paranoia. It is a peripatetic inventory of aural and confessional aspects loosely relating to the Covid19 lockdown. The times are rough, nervy and unexpected. Time and space seems to have taken on the throbbing dimension of fear; an endless plateau of sameness. Disruptive misinformation, apocalyptic thoughts and conspiracy theories abound, congealing as a weirdly pulsating unidentified drone image on the radar of your brain.  A B-side playlist of waking hours have merged with the buzzing mix-tape of restless dreams of the night. Outside, things are eerily quiet; a beautiful vacuum of ambivalent evil. It feels like we are all starring in a badly directed Exodus movie; a surreal dramatization of a banal biblical plague. And everyone’s personal Jesus has been hastily dusted off and displayed rather prominently near the TV. The mood everywhere is decidedly autumnal. Unsurprisingly, children suddenly act old and teenagers break out in more pimples than usual. Desperate adults, who should know better, throw their toys out the cot. Lame and/or funny Whatsapp memes somehow stiffen the daily lack of resolve; gloss over the increasingly apparent results of personal hygiene neglect. Everyone is drinking too much tea; too much coffee, probably taking too many drugs, and either way, just staring endlessly into space. That is to say, if they are not furiously scrubbing the kitchen for the umpteenth time. Disinfectant is the new Chanel no. 5. Where graveyards have filled up, mass graves suddenly appear in unlikely places. Like the sound of frogs, croaking deliriously before a shower of rain, there is plenty human chatter of a new normal; a changed world. Yet much residual self-righteousness, much fresh foolishness and much guilt-driven self-pity conglobulate as a ceaseless a-rhythmic pandemic dirge. So far, unhappiness is the only proven vaccine.

But hey, there’s a bright side; it looks like the old planet itself has bounced back in a sprightly sort of way. Birds and fish have returned to places where the waste pollution of man’s mad existence had previously driven them away. Nearby mountains can be seen again from large cities where they had for years been obscured by smog. Clear skies reveal stars we had forgotten. I can now hear the birds in my garden singing so clearly it almost hurts. I secretly hope that this interlude may last.

Cola Ritz
DARLING
April/May 2020

Non-Swing Chandeliers

OUTSIDE DREAMING, by Cola Ritz, is from a thirteen-track album of recent, mostly moody instrumental soundscapes, meandering listlessly between the digital loops, .wav samples and captured sounds of my discomfort, sentimentality and paranoia. It is a peripatetic inventory of aural and confessional aspects loosely relating to the Covid19 lockdown. The times are rough, nervy and unexpected. Time and space seems to have taken on the throbbing dimension of fear; an endless plateau of sameness. Disruptive misinformation, apocalyptic thoughts and conspiracy theories abound, congealing as a weirdly pulsating unidentified drone image on the radar of your brain.  A B-side playlist of waking hours have merged with the buzzing mix-tape of restless dreams of the night. Outside, things are eerily quiet; a beautiful vacuum of ambivalent evil. It feels like we are all starring in a badly directed Exodus movie; a surreal dramatization of a banal biblical plague. And everyone’s personal Jesus has been hastily dusted off and displayed rather prominently near the TV. The mood everywhere is decidedly autumnal. Unsurprisingly, children suddenly act old and teenagers break out in more pimples than usual. Desperate adults, who should know better, throw their toys out the cot. Lame and/or funny Whatsapp memes somehow stiffen the daily lack of resolve; gloss over the increasingly apparent results of personal hygiene neglect. Everyone is drinking too much tea; too much coffee, probably taking too many drugs, and either way, just staring endlessly into space. That is to say, if they are not furiously scrubbing the kitchen for the umpteenth time. Disinfectant is the new Chanel no. 5. Where graveyards have filled up, mass graves suddenly appear in unlikely places. Like the sound of frogs, croaking deliriously before a shower of rain, there is plenty human chatter of a new normal; a changed world. Yet much residual self-righteousness, much fresh foolishness and much guilt-driven self-pity conglobulate as a ceaseless a-rhythmic pandemic dirge. So far, unhappiness is the only proven vaccine.

But hey, there’s a bright side; it looks like the old planet itself has bounced back in a sprightly sort of way. Birds and fish have returned to places where the waste pollution of man’s mad existence had previously driven them away. Nearby mountains can be seen again from large cities where they had for years been obscured by smog. Clear skies reveal stars we had forgotten. I can now hear the birds in my garden singing so clearly it almost hurts. I secretly hope that this interlude may last.

Cola Ritz
DARLING
April/May 2020

Outside Dreaming

RED VELVET PLUSH INTERIOR WITH VENTILATOR, by Cola Ritz, is from a thirteen-track album of recent, mostly moody instrumental soundscapes, meandering listlessly between the digital loops, .wav samples and captured sounds of my discomfort, sentimentality and paranoia. It is a peripatetic inventory of aural and confessional aspects loosely relating to the Covid19 lockdown. The times are rough, nervy and unexpected. Time and space seems to have taken on the throbbing dimension of fear; an endless plateau of sameness. Disruptive misinformation, apocalyptic thoughts and conspiracy theories abound, congealing as a weirdly pulsating unidentified drone image on the radar of your brain.  A B-side playlist of waking hours have merged with the buzzing mix-tape of restless dreams of the night. Outside, things are eerily quiet; a beautiful vacuum of ambivalent evil. It feels like we are all starring in a badly directed Exodus movie; a surreal dramatization of a banal biblical plague. And everyone’s personal Jesus has been hastily dusted off and displayed rather prominently near the TV. The mood everywhere is decidedly autumnal. Unsurprisingly, children suddenly act old and teenagers break out in more pimples than usual. Desperate adults, who should know better, throw their toys out the cot. Lame and/or funny Whatsapp memes somehow stiffen the daily lack of resolve; gloss over the increasingly apparent results of personal hygiene neglect. Everyone is drinking too much tea; too much coffee, probably taking too many drugs, and either way, just staring endlessly into space. That is to say, if they are not furiously scrubbing the kitchen for the umpteenth time. Disinfectant is the new Chanel no. 5. Where graveyards have filled up, mass graves suddenly appear in unlikely places. Like the sound of frogs, croaking deliriously before a shower of rain, there is plenty human chatter of a new normal; a changed world. Yet much residual self-righteousness, much fresh foolishness and much guilt-driven self-pity conglobulate as a ceaseless a-rhythmic pandemic dirge. So far, unhappiness is the only proven vaccine.

But hey, there’s a bright side; it looks like the old planet itself has bounced back in a sprightly sort of way. Birds and fish have returned to places where the waste pollution of man’s mad existence had previously driven them away. Nearby mountains can be seen again from large cities where they had for years been obscured by smog. Clear skies reveal stars we had forgotten. I can now hear the birds in my garden singing so clearly it almost hurts. I secretly hope that this interlude may last.

Cola Ritz
DARLING
April/May 2020

Red Velvet Plush Interior with Ventilator

TIME LAPSE, by Cola Ritz, is from a thirteen-track album of recent, mostly moody instrumental soundscapes, meandering listlessly between the digital loops, .wav samples and captured sounds of my discomfort, sentimentality and paranoia. It is a peripatetic inventory of aural and confessional aspects loosely relating to the Covid19 lockdown. The times are rough, nervy and unexpected. Time and space seems to have taken on the throbbing dimension of fear; an endless plateau of sameness. Disruptive misinformation, apocalyptic thoughts and conspiracy theories abound, congealing as a weirdly pulsating unidentified drone image on the radar of your brain.  A B-side playlist of waking hours have merged with the buzzing mix-tape of restless dreams of the night. Outside, things are eerily quiet; a beautiful vacuum of ambivalent evil. It feels like we are all starring in a badly directed Exodus movie; a surreal dramatization of a banal biblical plague. And everyone’s personal Jesus has been hastily dusted off and displayed rather prominently near the TV. The mood everywhere is decidedly autumnal. Unsurprisingly, children suddenly act old and teenagers break out in more pimples than usual. Desperate adults, who should know better, throw their toys out the cot. Lame and/or funny Whatsapp memes somehow stiffen the daily lack of resolve; gloss over the increasingly apparent results of personal hygiene neglect. Everyone is drinking too much tea; too much coffee, probably taking too many drugs, and either way, just staring endlessly into space. That is to say, if they are not furiously scrubbing the kitchen for the umpteenth time. Disinfectant is the new Chanel no. 5. Where graveyards have filled up, mass graves suddenly appear in unlikely places. Like the sound of frogs, croaking deliriously before a shower of rain, there is plenty human chatter of a new normal; a changed world. Yet much residual self-righteousness, much fresh foolishness and much guilt-driven self-pity conglobulate as a ceaseless a-rhythmic pandemic dirge. So far, unhappiness is the only proven vaccine.

But hey, there’s a bright side; it looks like the old planet itself has bounced back in a sprightly sort of way. Birds and fish have returned to places where the waste pollution of man’s mad existence had previously driven them away. Nearby mountains can be seen again from large cities where they had for years been obscured by smog. Clear skies reveal stars we had forgotten. I can now hear the birds in my garden singing so clearly it almost hurts. I secretly hope that this interlude may last.

Cola Ritz
DARLING
April/May 2020

Time Lapse

VIRUSVILLE BLUES, by Cola Ritz, is from a thirteen-track album of recent, mostly moody instrumental soundscapes, meandering listlessly between the digital loops, .wav samples and captured sounds of my discomfort, sentimentality and paranoia. It is a peripatetic inventory of aural and confessional aspects loosely relating to the Covid19 lockdown. The times are rough, nervy and unexpected. Time and space seems to have taken on the throbbing dimension of fear; an endless plateau of sameness. Disruptive misinformation, apocalyptic thoughts and conspiracy theories abound, congealing as a weirdly pulsating unidentified drone image on the radar of your brain.  A B-side playlist of waking hours have merged with the buzzing mix-tape of restless dreams of the night. Outside, things are eerily quiet; a beautiful vacuum of ambivalent evil. It feels like we are all starring in a badly directed Exodus movie; a surreal dramatization of a banal biblical plague. And everyone’s personal Jesus has been hastily dusted off and displayed rather prominently near the TV. The mood everywhere is decidedly autumnal. Unsurprisingly, children suddenly act old and teenagers break out in more pimples than usual. Desperate adults, who should know better, throw their toys out the cot. Lame and/or funny Whatsapp memes somehow stiffen the daily lack of resolve; gloss over the increasingly apparent results of personal hygiene neglect. Everyone is drinking too much tea; too much coffee, probably taking too many drugs, and either way, just staring endlessly into space. That is to say, if they are not furiously scrubbing the kitchen for the umpteenth time. Disinfectant is the new Chanel no. 5. Where graveyards have filled up, mass graves suddenly appear in unlikely places. Like the sound of frogs, croaking deliriously before a shower of rain, there is plenty human chatter of a new normal; a changed world. Yet much residual self-righteousness, much fresh foolishness and much guilt-driven self-pity conglobulate as a ceaseless a-rhythmic pandemic dirge. So far, unhappiness is the only proven vaccine.

But hey, there’s a bright side; it looks like the old planet itself has bounced back in a sprightly sort of way. Birds and fish have returned to places where the waste pollution of man’s mad existence had previously driven them away. Nearby mountains can be seen again from large cities where they had for years been obscured by smog. Clear skies reveal stars we had forgotten. I can now hear the birds in my garden singing so clearly it almost hurts. I secretly hope that this interlude may last.

Cola Ritz
DARLING
April/May 2020

Virusville Blues

I create soundscapes rather than tunes. It is like painting with sound; layer upon layer. I use a combination of ready-made loops and self-generated sounds. Collage, assemblage - these are words from the art world, but they apply here too. Contact: bignick098@gmail.com