Home Sounds Dark Dark Indietronica [SHORT SHOTS OF SOUND] Ulysse// Wounds + TOYS//Golden Line

[SHORT SHOTS OF SOUND] Ulysse// Wounds + TOYS//Golden Line

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Short Shots of Sounds is a periodic series on the Sights And Sounds where we take a deeper look at what filthily beautiful art can tell us vis a vis a music video. To submit your video for consideration, contact senior editor Kavi at the info on his profile.

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ULYSSE// WOUNDS
We fight. Just you, yourself and the punching bag you dehumanize the world into. We fight, but don’t always win. I really don’t even think that’s the fucking point anymore. To win, heh. A thousand rounds you might go. Great, you landed a few left hooks. Right into the jaw of some enemies.lovers.strangers dancing in your orbit. And the blood, it might flow. With the spit from terse mouths and grim determination flying out their eyes like sweat. And they might see the ground, eat some dirt; but they’ll get back up on their feet.

They’ll wobble up on splintered kneecaps, bloody teeth like shields and the whites of their eyes littered with maces. A hurricane of fists coming back at you. And down you go. Round 7, 9, 46 for you. Round 1, 6, 937 your lovers. Round and fucking round you go. Eventually everyone gets KO’d. Everyone.

That’s not the point. Of life, or anything. To be on some hampster wheel of death. Dodging swords, acid-laced barbs from mouths. Swirling, with everyone, to avoid adversaries biting your ears off. As if life was a choreographed Hobbesian nightmare. Everything’s a civil war. Everything.

Yeah, no it isn’t. It’s about transcendence. About getting back to people. And sure, I might lose a bit of my jaw here and there. Have my arm ripped off for all the world to see. By errant assholes that come in my path. But I’ll sew it back on while walking down the street. Super glue my skull back together. Or learn how to speak a whole new language. If I’m going to survive. One way or another, I have to talk up, paint a different world. Life’s about ‘Wounds’ and what you do with them. The self-inflicted. Self-destructive. The vicious.malicious.inadvertent attempts at blackening the eye of your spirit until it can’t peer out anymore.

To Ulysse, we fight to escape drowning. As if punches were desperate attempts at swimming. Out of the thoughts in your head. Out of the multiplying feelings birthing in your neurons. Split.Clone.Mutate. all the dark thoughts they keep growing until they’ve filled a dancehall, rocking your brain chemistry. They won’t stop until your brain is a lake to swim in. For you to gasp for bits of air in.

‘Wounds’ isolate you. In your own world as you kick.scream.punch the water. Trying to get to the surface. Only to break the tension, between your thoughts and fucking breathing again; and peer out to find shore kilometres away. ‘Wounds’, isolate. The sun is hitting you. All it’s doing is painting a path, distance markers on the water between you.yourself.all of the rest of the anthroposphere. And the sun just shows that you, you have to want to survive. Or maybe you don’t. I don’t think winning is always the point. ‘Wounds’, isolate. Until you go down.down.drown.

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TOYS// GOLDEN LINE

We fight, because that’s all we have. To keep us from going gone. I. Pieces of me. All gone. We fight, before they try to erase you. Those that cannot handle you. That carry you over the Golden Line to make it happen. One moment you’re a presence. A fierce voice in the making the next. The next, pieces of my brain splattered on the living room floor. Pieces of my brain. Of what could have been my brain. A brain of a loved me. All the promise those neurons could have held. If I wasn’t raised by asshioles. Who took my body and strung me through a dreamcatcher like a meat grinder. Hard to put yourself back together when your leg is laying by half of your ear, the C1-C7 vertebrae. Sometimes we fight, to keep from dying.

I wish I fought, back in the day. Much like the child in TOYS’ video. Wish I swung a golf club the first time my dad sensed some queerness in me. What a little bit of a genderfucker I was. He could hear it moving through my bloodstream. Pounding through my veins like a degenerate discotheque. Your.Son.Is.Gay. it’d beat out from my heart. And transfer into his arteries. As if it infected him in the air. By osmosis. Communicable disease carried on my less than stellar manly voice.

And he tried to bleed it out of my veins. To purge me. Through fists to the face.neck.chest. Until, years later, I turned on myself: over.and.over. Took smashed lightbulbs, and tried to cut it out my arms.neck.chest. 5 scars on the left arm. 8 on the right. A giant traced heart on my pecs. Where I pretended I had one. One giant one on the left wrist. Took 7 stitches to close it. Was meant to be last words, a way of finally saying, you were right. Scars: tattoos of an era I fought for years to get out of.

TOYS’ video is cathartic for the children who fought to keep from dying. Violent, revenge fantasy for a pacifist queer community. A community that worldwide makes its mark by shouting ‘I’m here’, just to connect, to love; and is met with fists, gun shots and being thrown from the roof of buildings. It’s a vision of a man and the woman he wants to become. That zie clings to, that zie won’t let one bigot erase. That zie holds onto for dear life when the rest of the world starts spinning.

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Kavi Senior Editor. Currently based in Bangkok. I review dark indietronica/pop with my signature style of delving into the sexuality, sensuality and emotionality of every song. If you'd like me to premiere your track, contact me at the email below or at soundcloud.com/discordbeing