Love Will Follow, the soundtrack to She Rides the Ghost Bike will be released as a digital single on May 29th via iTunes and all digital channels. Even more new music, my dear kittens.
Congratulations to Daniel James Huppert on his directorial debut “She Rides the Ghost Bike” getting selected for the Hoboken Film Festival. I am honoured to be part of the project and proud for him. Watch the trailer below:
Event info: http://www.hobokeninternationalfilmfestival.com/events/
A young man fell in love with an older woman. That woman was a teacher adept in the ways of Thelema and magick. To ensure their love remained everlasting, they committed their souls into a painting.
That is the abbreviated subject of the article I read that inspired Touloun.
It is called Touloun (pronounced in my mind as TOO-LON) because my subconscious, (or the essence of these lovers,) told me that was the name. I didn’t question it. But I do know that Touloun is a location in France. Perhaps a clue? A message? I wonder…sort of.
Musically, it’s one of two favourite songs from the No Souls in Manchester misadventure. This song embodied the aspirations of that “band.” The song least shackled by the traditional metal idioms I attempted to follow.
I remember a feeling of driving through an Arizona desert at night in the song’s verses. An immense appreciation and infatuation with bass guitar began while playing that bass line.
The words of Touloun reflect the feelings of the young man and the vows he made; indifferent to the static environment. Indifferent to possibly being a mere decoration for an insufferable socialite’s vegan dinner charity.
“Purpose?” is a modular statement nestled in the ambitious sprawl of “Smoke and Origination.” The songs on the album were, overall, long and ornate statements. But this little vignette tempers and humbles all that ambition.
The composition holds the fundamental concept of the album: Bach is present in every song on “Smoke and Origination,” but “Purpose?” is the only composition where Bach is the central motif and not a subliminal theme; 50 seconds of Bach’s “Air on G” transmogrified into sludgy stillness and uncertainty.
“Purpose?” is the aged conundrum:
Do I have a purpose?
Do you have a purpose?
Does “Purpose?” have a purpose?
Sometimes, you need not 77 minutes of vibraphone and tuvan throat singing to achieve an answer to such questions.
The recording of this piece is a mix of cello samples, real cello, and incidental classical guitar playing. Considering that my productivity is, at best, glacial, “Purpose?” being composed and recorded in a day was a supernatural achievement.
I recall the companion artwork for this piece vividly. Every song from “Smoke and Origination” and “Torched Laughter” had artwork. (I apologize that I have yet to post the art for these songs. Words get in the way of thought.)
While gardening, I came upon several roots that looked like Alien face huggers. I ended up taking one, spraying it with acrylic and leaving it aside. Shortly after, I found a light socket. Inspired by the concept of “Purpose?,” I placed the root into the socket.
Is there a purpose to have art for “Purpose?” and does “Purpose?” have a purpose?
Cue the vibraphone…
The concept of the “living dead” has been an obsession of mine ever since I was a child. My introduction was the movie “Night of the Living Dead.”
I watched “Night of the Living Dead” every day after school. In fact, every day was a double-feature of sameness: Night of the Living Dead and Blazing Saddles. I memorized all the dialogue of both movies. I could tell you the exact number of times mother was stabbed with a hand shovel, (16) as well as recite all of Cleavon Little’s choice lines. (“Baby please, I’m not from Havana.”)
Eventually, I insisted to my parents that I wanted to see “Return of the Living Dead.” Since I was already an auteur of some ROMERO zombie mythos, I felt confident that “Return of the Living Dead” would be just another zombie movie I could catalogue and re-watch with fascination. They acquiesced.
The first twenty minutes I laughed along with my folks. I got the dark humour, the slapstick comedy of the terminal duo exposed to the fictitious chemical 2-4-5 trioxin.
Then I saw tar man…
I am ascending a mountain. At the top of the mountain is an elderly white man wearing a grey/white shamanic robe. The sky, an impossible mixture of night and day. There are torches and ornate stone carvings surrounding him in a circle. I step into the circle to face him. From behind him, a blond woman steps out to face me in the circle. She is of similar age to me. There is barely an inch between us. The old man was waiting for me to ascend the mountain before starting a ceremony.
Was it a marriage?
Was it a sacrifice?
Was it an awakening of two young strangers?
Was I trapped in my own “The Song Remains the Same” dream sequence?
Was there going to be a drum solo?
The year is 1998. I am about to lose my band, a girlfriend, and a promising career as a well-abused full-time temp. A two year self-pitying sojourn rife with social ineptitude was about to commence. It would be tempered by a steadfast discipline to improve my craft, which is the needed excuse to remain miserable. Continue reading