The next week I go back to Co-op in campus town. I
get the second album. There is a picture of what looks like a gypsy wielding a
sickle on the cover. It still has the skyscraper sleeve. I remove the disc out
of the elongated sleeve as the hippie behind the counter pints to a receptacle
reminding me to recycle.
It sounds like being ensconced in an amplified
cavern before slowly being suffocated by synthesized stalactites and day-glow
bulbs of light. It is the first album that martin Gore pens in its entirety and
which Dave Gahan’s vocals are threaded through the entire corpus. The album
begins with a breath. A plosive whisper, a secret in the shape of a
cosmological tear dripping like a wished for Chinese water torcher christening
drop on the frontal lobe after each track.There is a syncopated warble. There is a constant
echo, yelping into a chasm, an emotional abyss, the voice ricocheting back of you
being not of your own, but of a British Angel.
The title track feels like the synthesizer is overturned and it a tempest is pending, looming. It is benevolent. It came out a year before Construction time again. It came out when I still would have been in preschool, an incantation of drones, there is something still-life- muffled porcelain in he way the song SEE YOU sounds, like it is trying to traverse through the heavily rococo slits of stain glass cathedral.
After listening to a Broken frame I still can’t
move. I arrive to school an hour early to do laps in the pool. My stress
fracture is not healing as plan. I can hardly walk much less run. I feel like I
did at the outset of Young Columbus—it seems like the harder I want something
the more it perennially eludes my grip.
No comments:
Post a Comment