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Postcard #1 - Hiddensee - Songs for the Apocalypse
2012
| 1 - Bleached Bones | Lyrics | Listen |
|---|---|---|
| 2 - Solitude | Lyrics | Listen |
| 3 - The Dream | Lyrics | Listen |
| 4 - The Last Day | Lyrics | Listen |
In the last few years I have travelled more than ever before in my life. Physically, in terms of seeing foreign countries, walking through wastelands, kissing new friends goodbye in distant airports, as well as mentally, just gathering new experiences and insights.. And sometimes I managed to record those journeys, let some of those moments curdle into sound and song. Those acoustic artefacts of different points in time and space now lie on my desk like postcards that I bought and lettered yet never sent.
Now if I were to travel back in time to those points that were signficant, where would I end up? What's written on those postcards that I'd find now that I forgot about?
I'm not quite sure, but either way it's time to go and send them, one by one, until we have a collection that traces the steps on this journey.
The trip starts on an island in the Baltic, summer 2010, will continue to spring in Turkey, move back home from there.. and end in Berlin as we move from past to present tense. It will contain songs about apocalypse played on water bottles and resonating flintstones, the very first attempts to play a piano, explorations of vocal music, discoveries of new instruments, songs about yearning for departure and songs about return.
You will see, as each month from now until the end of the year, you will receive a bunch of mixed and mastered memories from me.
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An island.
A room to myself for seven days, far from
everything, detached from motorized
traffic, from city noises, from the entire
world. The only sounds being the sea and
its boats, horse carriages and birds in the
heath.
I spend the days climbing over rocks and
dry bones of sea gulls, collecting flint
stones and shimmering shells of dead
beetles, lost in thought about how they
are all tiny traces of lived life, discarded
and left there to dry and weather, just as
a song is always a piece of slough, slipped
off the moment it‘s written and left as a
trace, a piece of the past being cast into
some kind of graspable artefact.
But the instruments I brought remain silent
for most of the time. While I had hoped
that the peace of an island would give
my wry mind enough space to unwind,
instead it feels muffled and all that it spits
out are fragments, loose thoughts and
musical miniatures that I scatter across
my apartment‘s floor like the flint stones
and shells I brought home.
I‘m not really there. Not really anywhere
at all.
Well, these are the few sounds I managed
to harvest. A sense of absentmindedness.
A peace. A yearning. The sea and the
gulls.v
Hiddensee, August 2010
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