I often think about injustice in life. Sometimes, circumstances turn out so that the life you lived yesterday no longer exists today.
I could feel it when I left my hometown to go to university and left my closest friends behind. I still miss them very much because we can’t see them often.
Music was once ‘the most important, unimportant thing we had,’ said music critic and presenter Robert Elms. This sums up my relationship with writing in general and music in particular. I want to keep it unique and avoid the fillers and the B-sides. One great song would make me happy. In an ocean of mediocrity, sea levels are rising, but starfish are still found in the depths.
How can you convey a song about a disease? Especially a disease like epilepsy that most people have heard about but probably know very little about. And can I express the feelings and the hopelessness associated with having a child with this disease without it being simply too much for others to listen to?
Among other things, it was with these thoughts that I started writing the song Epilepsy. A song that has now become very central to my album The Admirer, which is my most personal album to date. The song was also the first single from the album, and was released on International Epilepsy Day. That all made sense.
Many years can go by, and one would have just a faint idea at best of what was going on in the midst of those rote routines, cycles, ellipses that engulf the conscious mind on a daily basis. The constant whirring of the gears, the hum of the system casting a tint across one’s attention span to prevent any particular deviation from the expected routine of the machine as it rolls along in its tread.
An observation of Tennessee Williams’ characters that seems inescapable to me is that of the unconscious voice that breaks through that cacophony of time rolling along. It’s the precarious tendency of the soul to drive the outward behavior against the will of the conscious mind, and it’s inside this space, the point of contact where the winnowing drill of the conscience irks the daily systems in one’s life to force itself forward – that is the locus of creativity to me. A slow moving, but insistent, generative focal point.
Hi, we’re Parramatta from the UK. We write and record music that we hope would have been played by the late, much-missed DJ John Peel. If you have ever heard his show, you’ll understand; if you didn’t, let us explain.
My name is Peter Gilliver. I am in a London based band called Wondergeist, along with my bandmates Sam Stretch and Sam Lott. We released our first album as a three-piece this year called ‘The Gulf.’ This is how we got there.
Day & Dream is a husband-wife team, Peter Frizzante, the morning person, and Abby Amaya, the night owl – our band name is a nod to our opposite sleep schedules. We are often writing music or lyrics at home in between work and daily chores, finding inspiration in personal relationships, nature, and risk-taking.
It took a while to figure out what about music effects me the way it does. I knew melody was the first thing that hooked me into a great song and has always been my starting point when writing, but one day it just hit me.
As I was born by the Baltic Sea, (and this is way before I found out that I am a Cancerian), I had always been intrigued by her beauty. As if she’s a rose made of sequins one minute and then a shape-shifting platform of liquid frequencies the next…
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