Survival Cokes

Trading hacks and bites for color coordination and fresh breath for the usual boxy attic ratio or the wide factory of the scape tuck, Survival Cokes was not merely a formal development for its discreetness, but a leap in superintendent menace as the winds and tsunamis intensified. 

The confined strings of domestic quartets and urban chamber orchestras are replaced in the frou frou flicker, for the most patient patina gazers, with the sweeping humours of rural bossanovas, where farmland meets motets and outfit sodas become polyphonic creamsicles. 

Here, in a cavernous craft farmhouse that evokes the homesteads of attack ships on filigree filters, a melodrama of colliding epistemologies oozes out in period drama dresses and nostalgic dinners as the patriarch of a multigenerational peasant feeling, resists the shifting tongues of modernization. 

Wan and wa-wa-wa-ing all the way home. Meanwhile headstrong winds depart-in-gales of ta-da-da-da’s! 

We’re caught between a need for meaning and the stubbornness of the individual artistic  impulse to create. A divide amplified by post-postmodern tendentiousness.  

The fever will break…

I’ll marry a cloud instead…

Listen to 12-minutes of Toxic Shock…

And find meaning in that.

What I’m Reading:

It wasn’t over. The past could come back, fully formed, at any moment, unlocked by a random combination of sounds and movements.

— Miranda July / All Fours