On August 25, 2017 In Sloth
The mechanistic body, that old Newtonian trope, mesmerising put to music that techno-grooves to the didge. Fluid streams of shared sweat, beginning as one, moving apart then together like water under stress, pushing the flow of the other to the gawp.
See the work from wherever you’re situated, so why not read these sisters as eating the patriarchy, baring teeth to the cult of stolen flesh. Vindication, cold despair, waxing fingers nibbled to the bone and a two-finger (what a waste) hairball choke.
On March 19, 2017 In Sloth
Dancing in Melbourne sunshine like eating dark chocolate the moment I wake up. Strong sweet luscious love. Much depth in the groove, all of us digging in hard for the dance. Only CCDisco could get my arms up to the Bee Gees.
On March 14, 2017 In Sloth
Men of love throw their heads back and sing of bitter lips, white shirts. Sweeping selection of 1,500 songs recorded by Kazantzidis, some from long before his time. After his time, here we are. Octogenarian up on a table, clicking, swaying with song.
On February 14, 2017 In Sloth
A film that makes me hug my spawn tight. One mother loses a son, seeks a son, shares a son. Another mother seeks a son, gains a son, shares a son. And the son himself finds himself. A loan askew (The Prophet).
On December 7, 2016 In Sloth
Eulogy. Dave McComb’s absence in every note, still that tightknit wall of sound. Save What You Can? They do. Gareth Liddiard transcends with Lonely Stretch, hits Stolen Property in the guts and croon-punks the cut of that dark pleasure-slide, Fields of Glass.
On November 28, 2016 In Sloth
White sculptural mass that glances, calls, holds me in its folds. A regression in these hand-stitched entrances. Alone, I indulge. The sound seems connected, then disconnected. Then I don’t hear a thing. I return to my stitched-up bear, perhaps my mother’s womb.
On November 26, 2016 In Sloth
A fabric loved for years, tactile as those sticky notes. Step closer and the materiality changes to a veneer with a fresh dimension. A poem slides its way through the tears of time in this pulled apart white muslin. A fluttered curtain.
On September 11, 2016 In Sloth
Melodic squawks, the didge and voice. Birdlings in soft dress stretch their wings. Then the brutal hangings. Custodial melt to the floor. Material grief that tears the heart, this brutality of generational violence. Yet still the guitar rollick (Buried Country) creates dance.
On August 15, 2016 In Sloth
Play of red on white. Punch-drunk female vegan Cain, myopic carnist female Abel. Closing cries. ‘Naturally.’ ‘Thank you.’ The blood-stained fourth wall stretches open. As a dog whistled, I hear this testament, old as it gets, as the fall in eating flesh.