They call it ice fog, the ghosted weight unsettling our livestock. It's midnight, but grey - white moonlight white stars on tin roof & dead grass, on muddy rapids. Cows lay down in rain, but this fog bewitches; forward space uncertain, obscured, they hold. Still.
I'm warm inside but know the paralysis. I'm looking out and can't see a damned thing, looking back's the same haze. The whole year was troubled with smoke, but smoke, well, that's an end to a story we all know how to tell. The fog gives no history & no pattern to follow, and, my god - no reliable sign of lifting.
I don't need headphones to get to the Red House Painters; I haven't heard this song in ages and it's playing in my head so fully it may as well be filling the room, this house, that field. Kozelek's voice seeps and expands through the cracks like heat escaping frozen earth.
My Trusted MOGs
Mr. Kozelek has one of 'those' voices...i put Sun Kil Moon's Pancho Villa on a mixtape for a girl once and she would cry every time she heard his voice...'seeps and expands through the cracks like heat escaping frozen earth.' Perfect.
My Trusted MOGs
Romancing women through Kozelek-style audio devastation: a move I totally respect.
My Trusted MOGs
Such artful writing, I'm jealous with the way words answer your intents. - Fog may not bear any history but John Carpenter will tell you otherwise ;)
(Pity, I didn't get the whole track - only 30 "crapsodised" version of it. So be it.)
My Trusted MOGs
Lovely prose, n. Kozelek speaks to me and for me, too. (And not to undermine the power and deep, dark moodiness of his work, he's an amiable, down-to-earth guy in person.)