Look Out For the New
Before we begin, a small reminder that I have zines for sale. Find them here. Any purchase is appreciated.
The big tent was restless, its occupants aware of things that were, as of that moment, secrets to me. The air thick with anticipation – an eery sensation when its origin remains obscure – yet it heightened the sense that something special was to come.
Camera ready, finding footing on the soft floor boards still soaked from morning dew beneath them in front of the waist-high stage, wondering what will come. Wondering if this was another hyped band I would take a few photos of to merely confirm its existence in this place and time.
This band played and I stood there, mesmerised, existing in a state where time could not touch me.
From the first few tones, Dödsrit had me in its grasp. A near-perfect blend of melancholy melodic black metal with crust punk overtones giving it just the right amount of serrated edge, the epic, sweeping music bored itself into my brain the way a parasite would to take over control.
Dödsrit
Witnessing the entire performance, indulging in a wider swath of photography than was strictly necessary, the spirit of the music moved me to the merch table to purchase their then latest record, Mortal Coil. Still the favorite. Older releases were ordered, shipped, obtained, played.
The only records to exist in my orbit for quite a while. It was a unique feeling.
This is rare, now. Growing older, it becomes exceedingly rare to form a connection with a piece of art in such a way.
Younger, everything is new and exciting, the freight train of life running through your head unloading its holy cargo as you desperately try to process every experience and rank it on an ever-shifting, murky scale of taste – in its wake creating a feeling of gross and disgusting elitist superiority which in itself took years to break down again. For this person, it was Beastie Boys. NOFX. AFI. Agnostic Front. Madball. 108. Modern Life Is War. Gulch. And so on.
But one lives, experiences art, grows bored of similar efforts and output. Artists build on one another, but the steps start to seem so infinitesimally small, a ramp with a gradient close to zero.
So then, when it does happen, when the new finds you – because you can never find it – the experience is a religious one. In this way, this is like finding love, elusive to the eyes in search of it. A facsimile, perhaps, something worth listening to, but it can never hit as deep as when it’s unexpected.
Then it’s the most divine undefinable feeling. It’s the sensation of the world being as it should be, of it being right. It’s encountering what you did not know you needed, but now that you have it, it seems absurd to have gone without it.
In a world where wretches exist that are merely looking to collect every version of every Pink Floyd record ever pressed because the last time they felt anything due to art was when they heard Dark Side of the Moon for the first time at age 16, it’s of vital importance to stay open to the new.
God weeps for this, but record stores run on nostalgia engines, chuffing out toxic fumes of musical conservatism. Thank heavens for the youths. We were all youths once, raging against the oppressive nature of pop radio stations, which merely exist to vomit out the next hit in an attempt to buy a record exec a new Beamer. \
Though now, having faced the never receding tide of time, I see its ravages shrivel friends down like raisins, unable to absorb, or merely disinterested to a degree to where it dooms them, irredeemably.
Curiosity and a fresh willingness to undergo new experiences are necessity presented as gifts – but don’t be fooled.
Keep you ears open.
Terror Management will experience a slight interruption of service as its proprietor works on some other projects. You will hear about these – unless you unsubscribe, of course.
