You’re soaking in the substance of memory when listening to Young Heart Sound. It’s a big glass fishbowl of remembrance and, even more than soaking, you’re sinking down, calmly, through the years of fragmented memory, right into the fishy lungs of history, fluttering about in the liquid pulse of the stuff. –Or– Young Heart Sound is audio oxygen. Something you take in without a thought. Something you are sustained by. Something automatic. Something that you have known, perhaps unconsciously, since you were a child. A slow moving float of voices and subtly electric streams. –Or– Young Heart Sound is a surrealist home video where your mother, after she finds out that you’ve been out all night collecting leaves, begins to softly weep. She tries to hide it, but it’s no use, the tears float up through her fingers, eventually contacting the ceiling. You look out the window. You’re on the first floor and naturally the view is of the endless, arm-wrestling ocean lapping up against and salting the bricks. The bricks start to unbrick themselves from the house and to float away and you have the distinct feeling that the bricks are your history, so you go up into your room and bury yourself in the night's-worth of leaves you've collected, hiding from the deterioration of your past. You can't see the glass, but you know you are in the fishbowl. –Or– It will be ok. It will be ok. Everything will be ok.
I Miss You // So Much // When I'm // Messed Up by chinquapinrecords
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