IF I COULD BE YOUR CLOTHES
Two ways of thinking about clothes. One, you’re a coat hanger. Your skeleton serves as nothing more than a way to see the cloth-sex that Salvatore Ferragamo sewed. Your gait, only a way to get a gander at how that Gevinchy, Galliano, or The Gap moves in the wind. You’re not really there. Could be any skull poking through that t-shirt dress. Two, clothes are like extra skin. Prosthetics put together in a fashion house to make you something more than you are. Cavalli can make you cyborgean. You don’t need it. Your bare skin, breasts abounding, and unshaved chest can exist beautifully without. But when you put it over your bones you feel [insert positive adjective here]. Left it open ended because I’m not going to foist what fashion can do on you. That’s between you and the designer you sheath sex-beast you in.
I’D HANG OFF ALL YOUR BONES
Mura Masa, by way of Khamsin’s remix, use clothes as a metaphor for relationships/bedroom banging in the second way. But if you’re drunk on some kind of damn love and the usual, lazy lyrical fare, you might think the first. When we think ourselves a clothes hanger for someone else to (re)make, (re)shape and re(design), we think of our loves songs that way too. Which is why most love songs tend to skew on the spectrum somewhere between copdependence and restraining order. But clothes don’t act like that. When we take them off we don’t rip our skin off also. When we wear them, we don’t become bones for someone to bone and own, losing ourselves. You can live without them. No matter what Celine Dion says.
(EVERY HOUR, EVERY DAY)
That’s why Mura Masa’s three lines, delivered as they are and in this remix, feel like that kind of sex where you’re looking someone in the eye. Painting their bone structure into your mind before all your neuroses kick in and re-draw the whole scene. They’re that coat you let that boy cuddle you in on the C train back to Brooklyn. While he braved a blizzard to breathe down your neck and warm you like a scarf. Just so he could turn around and beat it on the B train back to the City. Khamsin’s remix is all about the tenderness that goes into the seconds you decided to let someone else’s satin sheets, chiffon and fingers stroke your skin. When they looked at you, saw your skeleton as some kind of perfect and said I want to adorn the fuck outta that shit every hour, every day and you said Sure, hitch a ride onto these bones.