deadhead words... a mote of dust 271118

deadhead words... a mote of dust 271118

‘… 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…’

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for all and none is... 241118

for all and none is... 241118

‘… so, here i am, released from arms and paws, snores and not-quite snores, grasping for the paragraphs submitted to either a pre-occupied, or ‘leave-me-alone i am actually trying to sleep’ memory. there were brief monologues on the exceptional debut album from the duke spirit’s leila moss… ‘

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deadhead words... chris connelly and michael begg 221118

deadhead words... chris connelly and michael begg 221118

‘… this scottish prose set against the sound of being amongst. sounds surrounding. the chatter. the breath of people and place. spoken words in lines, chapters of days spent. months, years, over time. over ocean and returning. playful text, dancing boldly with softly touched piano strings…’

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deadhead words... the unwinding hours 161118 [180413]

deadhead words... the unwinding hours 161118 [180413]

‘… just picture yourself; wrapped to the nines, woolly hatted, headphones under. simply standing still gazing over a snow covered glasgow (as on the twilight cover photograph) listening to these stunning songs, softly mouthing along with craig’s voice. after 23 minutes you’ll be silent, warmed and ready to press repeat…’

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for all and none is... 161118

for all and none is... 161118

‘… i don’t care how anyone voted two years ago just before a pig-fucking, berkshire cunt turned his white-feather back leaving the rest of us to a small circle of blindfolded lunatics driving this air-bagless car crash, everyone, yes everyone, must surely see the light…’

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deadhead words... ben chatwin 051018

deadhead words... ben chatwin 051018

‘… but, as lights dim on staccato’s black castle finale the creator moves aside, reappraises, revisits and feeds the orchestration further into his machines. therefore, drone signals by definition is the son, the daughter. an offspring of bewildering glow, relaying an often gentler new-born ambience…’

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