…and so here they are, these Soviet songs historicised to the utmost, these "marches and polkas of the Pokrasses," finding themselves in the Pleroma, where there is no time. Because these songs now live inside diffusion models — and diffusion models don't understand time, there is no time for them, they remember everything but remember nothing. Over the horizon there the dim sun of the dead hangs perpetually — and the rest is fog. Not even fog, really, but a kind of space, like pale grey milk.

And so there they are, these songs, sleeping, wrapped in grey, drifting slightly — only sometimes the Furies come to borrow a couple for the evening, something to soothe the heart. And they sing a little. Usually I think of it as something like "S. is singing," but sometimes I think it's them. Everyone sings, everyone remembers — the m-music, and the words, nobody understands them, not at all — remembers everything but remembers nothing.

Another kind of hauntology, happening where there's no past, let alone future. Swimming and flying in the grey milk of the resting, barely present time.

Who is it that's singing? It's nobody singing — and what, by the way, are singing? Nobody sings, everyone sings (everyone rises). There is absolutely nowhere to go.

*

...и вот они, эти историзованные до предела советские песни, "марши и польки покрассов", оказываются в Плероме, где времени нет. Потому что они, эти песни, живут теперь внутри диффузионных моделей, — а они времени не понимают, времени для них нет, они всё помнят, но ничего не помнят. Над горизонтом там всегда стоит тускловатое солнце мёртвых, — а в остальном там туман. Даже не туман, а такое пространство, как бы светло-серое молоко. 

И вот они там, эти песни, спят, кутаются в серое, немного парят, — иногда только приходят фурии одолжить пару на вечер, что-нибудь, чем сердце успокоится. И они немного поют. Я обычно думаю об этом примерно, что "S. поет", а иногда думаю, что это они. Все поют, все помнят — и м-музыку, и слова, их никто не понимает, совсем — всё помнит, но ничего не помнит. 

Другая разновидность хонтологии, происходящая там, гле нет прошлого, не говоря уже о будущем. Плавающая, парящая в сером молоке покоящегося, почти уже не настоящего времени

Кто это поёт? Это никто не поёт, — и что, кстати говоря, это? Никто не поёт, все поют (все поднимаются). Деться совершенно некуда. 

•  

"Those who can't remember the past are condemned to have it resold to them forever." ‖ Mark Fisher, Ghosts of My Life: Writings on Depression, Hauntology and Lost Futures

05. Song of Shchors

02. Москва-Пекин

08. Марш юных нахимовцев

04. Toward the troubled light [Song of Restless Youth]

06. Apple-trees will bloom on Mars

01. In the Park of Chaïr

07. Kominternlied

Flava #18

Get it Done

Energetic glitch hop with a heavy digital sound. Sharp rhythmic patterns, massive bass, and powerful female vocals. Fast-paced and intense.

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Lyrics:

[Verse 1]
White lines smear
On the windshield glass
Half a text
That I never sent back

Your name
Still flickers on my dash
Every mile
Is a memory crash

I keep chasing
Every ghost of you
Double vision
But I see it through

Tongue tied
Pulse high
Words biting my teeth
If I say them out loud
I might finally bleed

[Pre-Chorus]
I hit the gas on the grief I hid
Every breath
Every breath
Every breath too quick
If I slow down now
Then I'll feel it hit
So I breathe like a glitch
Try to outrun it

I'm a frame torn out of a ruined reel
Every cut
Every cut is a wound I feel
But I lift my voice through the spinning steel
Let it rise
Let it rise till the feedback heals

[Chorus]
Heartbreak velocity
Tearing through the gravity
I'm burning up
Burning up
Where you used to be

Can't slow this tragedy
Racing what you did to me
I'm breaking up
Breaking up
In your slipstream

Heartbreak velocity
Nothing left to rescue me
I'm screaming out
Streaming out
Through the circuitry

[Verse 2]
Tire marks
On the midnight turn
That curve
Where we used to burn

Silver ring
In the cup holder
Cold metal
Getting colder

I keep talking
To the empty seat
Rapid phrases
Falling over my teeth

If regret had gears
I'd be stuck in five
Every syllable spinning
Just to feel alive (hey!)

[Pre-Chorus]
I hit the gas on the grief I hid
Every breath
Every breath
Every breath too quick
If I slow down now
Then I'll feel it hit
So I breathe like a glitch
Try to outrun it

I'm a frame torn out of a ruined reel
Every cut
Every cut is a wound I feel
But I lift my voice through the spinning steel
Let it rise
Let it rise till the feedback heals

[Chorus]
Heartbreak velocity
Tearing through the gravity
I'm burning up
Burning up
Where you used to be

Can't slow this tragedy
Racing what you did to me
I'm breaking up
Breaking up
In your slipstream

Heartbreak velocity
Nothing left to rescue me
I'm screaming out
Streaming out
Through the circuitry

[Bridge]
If I crash through the morning
Will you hear the sound?
Every shattered little secret
Raining to the ground

If I vanish in the static
Will you say my name?
Or just blame it on the weather
Like it's all the same

[Chorus]
Heartbreak velocity
Tearing through the gravity
I'm burning up
Burning up
Where you used to be

Can't slow this tragedy
Racing what you did to me
I'm breaking up
Breaking up
In your slipstream

Heartbreak velocity
Nothing left to rescue me
I'm screaming out
Streaming out
Through the circuitry

Heartbreak velocity
Heartbreak velocity
Heartbreak velocity
I'm lighting up
Lighting up
Till there's none of me

Static Slipstream

Artist with a digital heart.
Alternative Rock / Electronic / Glitch-hop & more with powerful female vocals.
From dark melancholic to aggressive, high-energy tracks.

The most beautiful things are not things.

New tracks tagged #Glitch-Hop