I've not been in a chatty mood of late, and I feel no particular obligation to post with regularity. (I enjoy your feedback, of course, being the sort who relishes engagement.) Still, it's been nearly two weeks since the previous unspooling, and guilt looms...
I receive a lot of promotional CDs; most sit unopened, stacked to the ceiling. (My larder, mammoth though it seems, is miniscule compared to that of Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore's, which extrudes from the third floor of their home and arcs over the Smith College campus in a 50-metre-wide swath which blots the sun and seeds toxic alkalines into Northampton's once-prized rose gardens.) In my stash, one album is really busting my balls: Mira Calix's 2001 Warp release, Prickle. It just looks so fucking soporific; I can't bring myself to play it, regardless of its content. It sits sandwiched between Simian's Chemistry Is What We Are and Kool G Rap's Roots of Evil, which themselves are anchored within a larger, aging promo gift brick from Astralwerks containing Neu! and Virgin/Front Line reissues and Femi Kuti discs.
Fuck, I'm totally grateful, really; every time I visit various label offices I'm always presented with a huge-ass bag of swag, and I never sell any of it. (Well, almost never.) Instead, I prefer them to sit in dusty obelisks, shrink wrapping intact, unheard, context dissolved. They serve as humbling reminders that my albums likely rest in such static configurations, mere curiosities too bleak to confront, too odd to discard.
Anyhow, I've no doubt that Ms. Calix is an outstanding citizen, a goddamned saint (she looks kinda cute in her discogs gallery), but... can't... reach... incinerator... beam!