CREATE ...
Let your first note fill the room and grow ... like a drip..drip..dripping of water ... of blood. Feel it with your empty chest ... let it fill you ... that single note. It grows until it is accompanied by a crack in the heat of your passion ... the smell of fresh untainted blood as it is exposed to the air. The second note and each thereafter is equally satisfying . Let some distort where they wish ... stretching and then snapping with a rim shot. They grow ... the breaking of a hammer on stone ... the clashing of a sword upon steel. Then obliteration.
This creation in a way is relearning ... another circle ... all over again. It is said that Vampire's can not cry but I assure you that they often do. The awareness of time ... what has passed ... what remains, creates entire chords as one remembers that which one's Mother has taught. Feeling the thunder growing underground, the crying of the winds ... this can often depress or give solace or even both at once.
The band rages ... the wall of sound collapses. A host of unseen waves surrendering en masse to the call of non-beings. The steel and wood of history gives way screaming and creaking. The birthing of a song, crying it's life within the monstrous destruction to which it is reborn. The fingers and hands blurring have wrought this first coming.
The melody lingers then flees leaving behind the shattered echoes which bespeak ruin ... broken shardsof memory and Love and humanity. For a single heartbeat all sits in silence then slowly "it" rises, painfully over the course of three difficult and trying measures all requiring superb control by their Creators. The band is consumed, as it's voice. Nearly driven mad seperatly, all are more manageable now ...together.
The torment of minds, fingers and throat is fading. At times they play together in solitude all recognizing the blood and the delicate balance it brings. They are all only tamed in this context, by the blood.
Let your first note fill the room and grow ... like a drip..drip..dripping of water ... of blood. Feel it with your empty chest ... let it fill you ... that single note. It grows until it is accompanied by a crack in the heat of your passion ... the smell of fresh untainted blood as it is exposed to the air. The second note and each thereafter is equally satisfying . Let some distort where they wish ... stretching and then snapping with a rim shot. They grow ... the breaking of a hammer on stone ... the clashing of a sword upon steel. Then obliteration.
This creation in a way is relearning ... another circle ... all over again. It is said that Vampire's can not cry but I assure you that they often do. The awareness of time ... what has passed ... what remains, creates entire chords as one remembers that which one's Mother has taught. Feeling the thunder growing underground, the crying of the winds ... this can often depress or give solace or even both at once.
The band rages ... the wall of sound collapses. A host of unseen waves surrendering en masse to the call of non-beings. The steel and wood of history gives way screaming and creaking. The birthing of a song, crying it's life within the monstrous destruction to which it is reborn. The fingers and hands blurring have wrought this first coming.
The melody lingers then flees leaving behind the shattered echoes which bespeak ruin ... broken shardsof memory and Love and humanity. For a single heartbeat all sits in silence then slowly "it" rises, painfully over the course of three difficult and trying measures all requiring superb control by their Creators. The band is consumed, as it's voice. Nearly driven mad seperatly, all are more manageable now ...together.
The torment of minds, fingers and throat is fading. At times they play together in solitude all recognizing the blood and the delicate balance it brings. They are all only tamed in this context, by the blood.