Oliver $: Doin ya thang
HOLED ON
I GOTTA START DIS MUFUCKIN REKKORD ALLLL OVER AGAIN
YALL MUTHAFUCKAS HAVIN A GOOD TIME?
The end of 2011 so far means interior, minimal dance music—an image of the mind conceiving a hugeness, and about as quiet. This definitely is not that and so feels as if incorrectly tuned to the moment, when all of the things outside, rigid with self-protection, make themselves inconspicuously absent—people go home or into bars, exclusively, plants die or go into the ground, exclusively. It leaves a kind of minus world, a deactivated world. Last night I attended a Christmas party in a legitimate house. It smelled of leather. We took our shoes off and drank things that had been recombined in saucepans, the heat of which multiplied the warmth of the alcohol and multiplied us into severe, sweaty extensions of ourselves. Heat expands people and things, everyone has an extra humid dimension. A poet read impressive vertiginous poetry that seemed to describe either things outside of human reality or a human unreality. Her hair was long, motivated rightward by proteins, fibrous like the gills of a mushroom. I forgot my bag there. The sample in this song is of Moodyman on stage, opening himself up to the crowd’s pleasures and desires. His heart is warm and full, expanding.
