“While the swamp settles in and the mud’s warm and easy, I forget, shit, I’ve actually DONE stuff. I kick myself for ignoring the joy that I’ve found creating and making and producing…”
“This collaborative work between Broads and Milly Hirst finds a home in intensive close listening. How well we engage will entirely depend on the time we give ‘Ollust’ to settle…”
(…and just what it means to want to be ‘somewhere else’)
A show reviewed last year at Rescue Rooms, Nottingham was the first time I really encountered Blancmange. I’d had an awareness, an occasional knowledge of the odd track or accolade, but that show was my main introduction.
Right after the show, once the lights got turned up, I tried grabbing a couple of words. It was last night of tour and then wasn’t the time but I was assured I could grab a word sometime.
Back home I had intent and purpose. I made shapes and sense of music and words and all time was divided, devoted. I made time to draw lines from without to within and direct them back out in new twists. People around me helped me build a home studio and they’d switch out the songs mine to ours. Back home I made time to make something with all of my tools at my tips.
Here we move place to place with a speed and a greed that breeds barely no time to take in. We breathe in the air but don’t pick up the scents, time to reflect slim to none.
Typewriters clack with their meat cleaver keys,
Stamping their feet in red letters,
White ribbon scriptures hang cracks to the walls,
And I cant catch a break of a word.
Fragments hang backs to the rafters,
Sheets pass their last owner’s best incantations
Up into my skin with precision.