#the+rush

[named-after-a-planet]

HOLY FUCK I JUST CAME OUT TO SOMEONE FOR THE FIRST TIME

[amalthea-felsblood]

𝔅𝔢𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔅𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢𝔰

[blackthornish]

use me by jade as the soundtrack for a sex charged scene of heated rivalry.... excuse me,,, 'our rhythm is unbeatable, so get down while I perform'‼️ isn't this ilya to shane?!!? and!!! 'better make me your mission, you got permission to use me more????' what the fuck. 'that's all you use me for so won't you come and use me just a little more?' 🗣🗣🗣 this is them™️ before getting officially together.

[pastelle-rabbit]

how i feel every time one of you says i’m funny

[keonscarter]

ㅤㅤㅤ𝖎 𝖆𝖒 𝖜𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖗, 𝖎 𝖆𝖒 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖊𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖘, 𝖎 𝖆𝖒 𝖋𝖑𝖚𝖎𝖉, 𝖎 𝖆𝖒 𝖉𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖊.

ㅤㅤㅤ.𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖉 𝖊𝖛'𝖚𝖔𝖞 𝖙𝖆𝖍𝖙 𝖌𝖓𝖎𝖍𝖙𝖞𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖊 𝖍𝖙𝖎𝖜 𝖘𝖊𝖊𝖗𝖌𝖆 𝖉𝖓𝖆 𝖘𝖓𝖔𝖎𝖙𝖈𝖆 𝖗𝖚𝖔𝖞 𝖋𝖔 𝖑𝖑𝖆 𝖘𝖊𝖎𝖋𝖎𝖙𝖘𝖚𝖏 𝖙𝖆𝖍𝖙 𝖉𝖔𝖌 𝖆 𝖙𝖊𝖒 𝖚𝖔𝖞 𝖙𝖆𝖍𝖙 𝖐𝖓𝖎𝖍𝖙 𝖚𝖔𝖞 𝖙𝖚𝖇 𝖉𝖔𝖌 𝖘𝖆 𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖚𝖌𝖘𝖎𝖉 𝖋𝖑𝖊𝖘 𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖘 𝖍𝖙𝖎𝖜 𝖙𝖊𝖒 𝖚𝖔𝖞 𝖙𝖆𝖍𝖙 𝖉𝖔𝖌 𝖆

[lovestereo]

Visit Original Link

[dustedmagazine]

J.WLSN — The Rush (Room 40)

In the wonderful and frightening world of electronic music, whatever flavor the month might bring, there are clean sounds and dirty sounds. This distinction has little to do with home or professional production, especially now that high-end equipment innovations have graced lower-cost equivalents. The clean/dirty dichotomy is an aesthetic choice, something like a world view with just as many gradations. J.WLSN’s sounds are dirty, by which I mean grungy, a cultivated and grainy imprecision of pitch amidst sounds coming remarkably close to the whims and whiles of life as we know it. The opening moment of the ironically named “Lulled,” first track on J.WLSN’s new album The Rush, hits home like a hammer and then oozed outward to each side with the felicitous  fuzz, thump and goo of reverb-soaked technology in familial decay.

So it goes. Even when a more crystalline timbre would seem to be on tap — the first sound in “Rushed” takes a page from Robert Fripp’s Soundscapes book — it soon distorts, begins to wobble and finally exhibits a mutating subtext of pitch complexes, growls, sibilance and snap that overtake any semblance of modality. When the piano on “Dropped” threatens to inhabit center-stage, to clarify its textures too completely, it’s already masked high frequencies succumb to the grime of something sounding like overlayed ululation or demon-speak. Listen at 10:42 for the latter in stark relief. The piano can hit so hard that tone threatens to split, and in fact, by pieces end, those chafed pitches are all that’s left.

My descriptions make it all sound ugly, and nothing could be further from the truth. Like Vanessa Rossetto’s painstakingly constructed homey landscapes in apotheosis mode, the sonic unpredictabilities subvert and reenforce the terms on which each piece exists. The technology itself is not simply a part of the process but just as often guides it along an increasingly labyrinthine path. Sounds stretch beyond themselves while also somehow, and miraculously, remaining contained, not simply in a repetitive way but as objects encased in their own self-perpetuating skins. Each piece sounds like a haiku stretched beyond breaking point, a small-scale meditation with mountains in view. The fact that this sound-poetry can be stark and lush simultaneously, as the compositional processes break their boundaries to become the compositions, gives the music its power and delicacy, setting it apart in a more than crowded field.

Marc Medwin