September 12th, 2016
“Piano Attic is Martinas Rakshtinas aka Martin Rach`s another issue from the year of 2016 (Late Autumn Quartets, Winter Quartets,Fall Quartets were issued before it). The Lithuanian musician’s 2-piece composition, especially the title track used to draw upon piano-driven experiments where are represented a pile of broken, ragged chords being subjugated to the force of electronic algorithms. The soundscape is a slow-motion one where any of the chords used to have enough free space around to be amplified and progress into another second of time. Of course, because of that the issue is slightly lethargic and even dreamy. It is built on a simple base, where the keys are disguised by electronic effects at a part extent. In a word, the title track is a case of the transmission and modification though sounds. The second track The Portrait of a Lame Man starts off differently with faint glaring droning being saturated with skipping “errors, which later will be complemented by lone piano chords. By listening to it one can see ghosts coming from the attic, from the slots of an old piano. The more you listening to it the more you can hear the music sounding like a dropping piano, which in turn is transposed and as if moving further and back spasmodically. In a word, the result is intriguing and playful. ”
July 25th, 2016
“As the title suggests explicitly the whole consists of 4 compositions. It is a notch in a series of seasonal quartets. It’s a peculiar issue where different and intriguing facets and methods in music are juxtaposed against each other. Martin Rach, the artist from Lithuania uses various instruments (metalophone, zither, kalimba, bongos, Korg Volca bass) and at times special treatments for those ones. More profoundly, improvised noise, droning scalloping and ambient hisses are the follow-ups to lone string plucking the outing started with in fact. Furthermore, there are represented a bunch of grey, superimposed areas of sound thereby providing two folded sonic appearances. The issue comprises some definitive turns – from exquisite stringed and glockenspiel-tinged arrangements (at least they used to sound in that way) to rough and strident synthesiser-based shows (at Raving Threads); from new weird-esque folk tunes to pummelling yet variegated noise beams to ear piercing droning (at Root Architexture). In spite of it throughout the course the listener can perceive the determined direction on these diverse elements. Indeed, it is not chaotic it is expertly built up. It is a pre-eminent issue indeed.”
April 16th, 2016
February 19th, 2016
January 10th, 2016
December 14th, 2015
October 17th, 2015
All the languages identify me. Even the loving ones. Especially the loving ones. Devour me, unidentifiably inclined. Must use words without language. Must demand for words outside languages.
Otherwise, hands down, neck down – you can’t see me in my sands. Oh, you violent lovers and haters, brothers and sisters, mothers, fathers, friends who are too sober to lose your tongues in the foreign border zones.
When I close my eyes, I see war. When I open them, you nail me where you want me at. Between war and martyrdom I’m neither torn, nor released.
Switch that light, get me a rainbow that changes all the colours. Inverse inverse. Ride it, my pony.
Fucked up by wars and stalked naked by your knowing where I am nailed at, I lay onto concrete roads and pavements. The leaves of weed that crack it, enter me, unidentifiably inclined, through my holes, light and dark ones, ease up into my bones – I know the sky for a moment (….) it rains.
Won’t close my eyes for the warlords, half close them for the lovers and the haters, that – for reasons unintelligible – have disguised themselves in the drops that drop the rain.
I know the sky.
Through the weed pupils I am a master of unidentifiable inclinations, declaring now – once and for naught – the time of no one, which will be unlanguageable and date-free, thus exempt from murder and caress, that permeats all thornless things.
October 17th, 2015
Crossfire, double dire, I will be something you never guess. Imma appropriate your cultural habits, your material habitat. I will dance so , that your wife starts doubting your marital vows. Imma seduce your husband, Imma offer you a chance. You practise in manufacturing monsters I have to find home for. If only because they become the bringers of the lights, the Lucifers to the gods you pray to.
My god is a water. It dissolves the paint I paint your kitchen with, it dissolves the pain I get paid back with. I gonna be the best worker you had. I will plan the revolution, that’ll leave you houseless – that might gift you a home. Free. If you manage to suffer through.
I will be a liar at night, so you will give me shelter – you’re conscientious, right? I will wear the portraits of the men you despise on my chest, and the men you worship – down. I will sell you anything, just to be in your pockets – I can strike the lowest there.
When you’ll want to know my name, I’ll hand a card, that will change the second you’ll think of remembering it. Imma follow all your rules, so you keep me in high esteem, and then break them, thus making a hole in your understanding trust.
On saturday evenings I’ll become an existential terrorist, so you can’t relax enough to forget. And you won’t. You’ve forgotten much already.
I will not know who I am, nor who I want to be. I will be anything and nothing you want me to be. I’ll jog by your side, I’ll play tennis with you. We will talk about our jobs and beer and how your guts can’t take no more tomatoes. I’ll smile with the most honest smile there was. Then I will frown, my eyes dark and red.
You’ll be my guest and I will take care of you, then you’ll become unsettled, for I won’t answer or return your calls, won’t shake your hand at the grocery store.
I never knew who I was, why should you? I’ll be bad, I’ll be good, I’ll be joyous and sad. I’ll be the worst rhymer, the mediocre poet, the master of pose.
I’ll be a father, a son, a husband you want. I’ll be motherless, childless and alone.
When you’ll ask where I live, I will take you to the place the stars kiss the soil there. I’ll be gone. You won’t know the way back, the way forward. You can become the stars, the soil. Or the kiss. I won’t know.
I will never be something you want me to be, I will be nothing, that I know. Before that, though, I’ll be rude, obnoxious, cheap and absent minded. Dumb minded. Smart ass minded.
Whenever you will try to tell me apart, I’ll be another hole. I will lick it, suck it, as long as you get pleased with your pin downs. I don’t mind you being happy or satisfied, as I won’t mind your despair or your pain.
There will be a time the sun heats the sand, and I am naked and your hand naked on my naked belly, mine under your naked ass. That time can be said to be a time when I will suspend your disbelief and all’ll be calm, in its predestined place. I don’t have no problems being something neither I nor you or anyone else has or will ever be.
And when I’ll insist on making no sense, you’ll have to deal with that, motherfucker.
Deal with that, motherfucker.
Deal with that.
(open my eyes open my eyes open my eyes open my eyes open my eyes)
September 17th, 2015
The glittering new grey on your windows, so you can look at the tragic comedy of the world through the fine framed glass squares. Between which the brass coloured winds blow up into the interstellar space. So the rain acquiring each and every colour that has been or will ever be, can pass onto the grass, making it deeper green, onto the pavement, giving it its grey essence; under the planks of your red house, where sun don’t shine, making things rot, making shit rot, so you have your hands full next or the double next year, ripping the old ones off, nailing some new, wood colour ones, to paint it red again. Why does it drip? Why does your house act as if it’s bleeding?
I’m seeing red again!
The rain floats down, meets the river, water of unnameable hue, all hues as it were, not all of the rain, though. Move your hand in patterns formed through triadic memories, oh, memories of nothing happening, the best nothing of all. If the edges of grey cross the border invading the whiteness of the inside, be sure to check them in place, add white with hairtips of a brush, that has never brushed before – all must stay clean inside, so as not to let the tragedy make her stand up right in your face. Keep that outside. Shh, says the painter, his fingers and palms red, his smile must be hiding something else besides a few rotten teeth. Might be the pink of the inner skin, interskinnar place.
Red! Who’s seeing what?! I’m seeing none of that.
The glass gets some drips, scrape most of them off for the master, leave few for a boy, who dreams golden at night. Dark as the drainpipes are black. Sucking the rain that acquires all colours and some shapes, covering it with the blackness to save it from the yellow death hovering in the sky blue sky.
Can’t see red no more.
Must be far from the insides that frame the outsides so fine. Here the bench, at the border of comitragical world, your eyelids heavy from work, close that. Last traces of colours flickering away. The silence, fuck that!
April 4th, 2015
For the warrior one thing to love, so she does not tear it all apart.
For the lover one thing to fight for, so he does not whore it all out.
For me, to find three girls of the dream, with the sweetest lips, in need of tasting the salty ones – from work and the white crystals of seashore rocks. To kiss three soft opening of the mouths, to feel hardship forget its fate. Split the rock, extract the crystals – I place the history of being alone on the petals of your tongues. Suck it, melt the salt, swallow the days and nights of wandering by sea, devour my fate, drown me in the waters of the spring sugar. Don’t ask my name, I will be gone by the time of the question mark. Burn into me the memory of sweetness, which I won’t manage to sweat out, even if I go far into the shadowed shored, where, now fateless, I will fall asleep surrounded by black clouds, the sweet trinity having descended upon me. My loneliness, now diminished and shared, will have found a better home, one with the srawberry doors. During the time of uneasiness and disquiet, unable to sleep, I will lick my lips, and through the salt dust touching my tongue I will enter the kingdom there are no names, signs or annal registers for. Just exactly eight folds of the flesh, that, driven by curiosity, have found something that one only dreams of.
For a dreamer, one door to bypass the alertness of life.
For the living, to dream to dream to dream.