The return of Everett True | 111. Law
Late night listening.
Stunning live, no doubt. You wouldn’t know what the hell had happened.
I might leave this to your imagination. Too many conflicting images. Too many sounds occuring simultaneously. A time portal. A trap. Multiple possibilities, stunted and caught, trapped, in the headlight of time.
You and me, sister. You and me. I’m not guessin’ here, just appreciatin’. This music reminds me of many things but mostly… solitude. Damp walls. Shadows blanching shadows. Beats trippin’ over beats. A voice warbling quietly, spooked. Beats tumbling down. FX. Edinburgh in the spring. Lip gloss layered like tactile cement. An ongoing dialogue. Sound used as enforcement. I know who the singer reminds me of. I know who the singer reminds me of. But that would spoil the enjoyment. I know who the beats are. I know what the beat is.
Lust. Lust in loneliness. Lust in loveliness. Lust in isolation.
Divorced of a name, or a number. Just lust.
(I’m still here. I’m still listening.)
Better than sex (with me).
Better than your imagination, assuming your imagination has dissolved over time. This is a comment not a comparison but it reminds me of discovering the allure of allure. When?
Better than whistling into the wind tunnel. I don’t know how this criticism beast works but I do know I would rather review the music than the video. The video limits your imagination, focuses your senses. Music surrounds you, comes at you from all directions. It encompasses. It does not cut out. A crimson divide. Which side would you prefer to keep? The safe. Succour.
Change, always change.
All of this beguiles. I hate the word beguile. All of this beguiles.