Loss of control makes my man legs turn into quivering boy bones. But it’s the motherfucking goal in everything. Love doesn’t exactly work swiping with a knife liked a caged, crazed monkey at whatever wants to shock your heart into the stratosphere. Adventure, like the drunken kind that gets you into intercultural taxi ride arguments at 2am in Bangkok doesn’t arise by sitting in your closet with a bottle of whiskey and hugging a postcard, hoping to gain experience by osmosis. And a ‘lust for youth’, as the eponymous band avidly advocate in their smashing synth record, ‘Armida’, is losing control when everything feels deprived of you. And that’s the most terrifying of all. I’m convinced you can choose to fall in love, and adventure–while feeling a necessity–can be sacrificed to survive at a basic level. But when ‘control becomes out of your reason’ and the will to bust out ‘shakes your feet’, well that’s when loss of control feels a bit like life or a slow death. That fertile, anxious territory is “Armida’s” stomping grounds.
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