A coked-out dive bar of the 1970s, filled with smoke, playing slow music, full of rhythm. The shiny twang of a country guitar, heavy with dead dreams, a sleepy-eyed cesspool. A dull soft heaviness of another guitar, the light absent tapping of the symbol, the drummer numb-eyed, light headed. Candy-blond hair, straw eyelashes blinking thoughtlessness, dry tears; moving in the stirring panic of motionlessness. the crashing of the drums and raw vibrating hum and drone and clutter of the guitars when the coke panic starts to twerk, awaken, shake the players as he mutters. Eaten alive by memories stirring in the sound that surrounds them. Fighting the beast that remains nameless. All searching for land between peace and chaos; the blur of booze drenching their minds in smoke and the pain of vibration, movement, and release, elevated to the next stage of consciousness. We are not who we were before.

Melanie Beth Curran's music is an old-fashioned and cozy comfort to the world-weary weirdos of this bountiful earth. Her music sounds like potatoes.

sound diary
album: https://coraorca.bandcamp.com/

Engineer, session musician, songwriter, and film composer, Olympia WA > Los Angeles

I post things that are not very good on here. 

pshmell is following