a mote of dust : a mote of dust [babi yaga records]
‘this life of destruction. in spite of creation.’
i’ve put finger to pad so many times. then erased. pen to paper... crumpled, discarded. trashed. recycled, or less than dust now. gone. those words in those forms removed from memory. perhaps to be repeated in shelled parts like some disfigured abstract abstraction. merely, ‘a speck in the vastness of all that we know’. but that speck has been troubling. an inner truth which has yet to be exposed and seemingly i cannot get past. it is far more than a mental block, surely? if only i could write something, anything, without seeing the cracks in the mirror film. those hands constantly following my start-stop ink-stream around blank pages, or in this instance right now, silhouetted over a stumbling, prodding finger. honestly shaking. afraid to reveal just what the hell might be going on here, with me and that song, that video. those hands. oh well, slowly inhale, smoothly exhale. positive breaths...
‘there are only solutions. born from the work of our hands.’
i’d like to believe i could put this to bed here and now. this string of sentences i’ve so wanted to splice together for so long, but i know deep down the hardcover hasn’t yet closed on this book. i don’t think it ever will be. for me it’s too personal and why this review is too heavily focussed on one song. craig’s voice always kills me as it breaks at the end, letting go. even with so much effort, I’m clearly unable to do just that. i am frustrated for you that this reviewer will fail to impart more than the tiniest speck of how these outpourings sound, but i shall try in these brief exiting lines. sincerest of apologies go to craig b, for i am sure he reached deep inside to share a mote of dust’s exquisite fragments of his ongoing immensely creative life. hence, no second-viewer thoughts can really express the extremes of emotion exposed in his reflective words - let alone my own voyeur prose... measured narratives of existence, life’s rights/wrongs and occasional (restrained) lone rage are all entwined within craig’s own strength of graceful acoustic and/or electric strings and graeme smillie’s softly sighing keys. melancholic. joyous... a collection of all the above unseen and abandoned rudimentary descriptives. a set of songs so completely unrivalled in their wealth of beauty and kindness of truth. a record beyond the warm liquid shell of the unwinding hours stripped bare of its loosest clothing and aereogramme’s stark, butt-naked meaningful existence... a record to take to the grave, but more importantly to live with now.
‘what kind of truth do you hope for?’
so, it’s now written. hardly as i intended and hoped for, but it is done. there may come a day when I will accept those hands i speak so frequently of as just being a part of me. a speck in my memory of everything and person held dear, perhaps passed, but always inside. that fulfilment of creativity so greatly needed. i must remain hopeful. and always thankful to craig b.
available now on limited vinyl and dl.