Aug. 22nd, 2015

cybermule: (lava)
Sitting in the crypt of an unused church right off the central circus of Bristol city centre. It's dark and the ceiling's fan vaulting is dimly sketched in the overarching gloom.

Some people are sitting on those cloth and metal chairs that I remember from school speech days. Others are flopped or curled on bean bags and cushions growing on the darkened floor like fungi. There are three figures at the front of the crypt.

Cross legged.
The tools of their trade are neatly arrayed before them.

One takes a brass bowl and lights some vegetable something with a bright flame and copious smoke. The city sounds of a summer Friday night coerce their way through a broken pane of dust filmed leaded window. Revelery, sirens and buses are then obliterated by the unholy noise of unearthly instruments and inhuman voices.

The harmonious din is all together disproportionate to those three slight figures on the floor before us peaked with pointed mage-hats and cacooned in deep dark veils.

Occasionally passers-by look through the broken window then wander off befuddled, as this is truly an aural wilderness - there's no particular graspable frame of reference of verse-chorus-verse. No expected song structure. No words, even.

Just three circumspect men quietly and methodically weaving a cradle of of unplaceable soundscape.
And by the end of it, my head was ringing and entirely happily baffled in their tightly laced wailsong cage. One of the most confusingly peaceful places I may have been in the name of art :)

July 2017


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