Sonic Week 10.26: Skippin’ Charm Trip
This Sonic Week Playlist is curated by John Staughton, man of the months & writer extraordinaire, creator of literary launcher Sheriff Nottingham & so much more. Elevate your listening with his words beside each tune — maybe you’ll recognize the feeling. We’re all sonic explorers. Enjoy this true beauty treat.
Pleading waves of sound tug your chest like an ocean on its knees, and tidal flows sweep moods to hungry longing for
Messages from outer space and disembodied bells that battle unchained in chaos, trading tension and release like breath, a primal pulse twinkled in our ears.
Dreamless lullabies and invisible foundations lay stages for blue dawn cigarettes, and fragile letters strummed sadly into the darkness of an empty room,
While trickling howls lament and surge, emptying electronic colors into the clouds, and damp hopeful dreams find harmony in the throbbing walls.
That crackling rush of gobsmacked goodness, a funk pause in the slipped style, rises over clouds to drip gold on aural landscapes thick with space,
conquering through inspiration, entropic and ethereal, launching a siren’s call without rocks to fear, nor seas to brave.
Upon landing in limbo, strange chords of muted order anchor our ears, but the mind reels in percussive overload at the ballad of notes without name,
These strange future-sounds boasting a foreign familiarity, the reverb of the womb and the psychedelic lure of underwater beats.
The tempo of the universe speeds up in backward sways, disrupting our tender flows and throbbing towards dangerous drops,
Yet only plunges us into pools of stuttering whispers and dryad dreams, drying our skin in the staccato sunshine psalms of bass belief.
The strolling strut of strange flows draws us out from the corners, twisting joints and spinning eyes beneath a puppeteer flipping wax,
we are jolted to life, injected with rhythm and doused with sweat, invited to feel the pounding ecstasy of complete release.
A final spin in underground fields tempts sonic wanderers at dawn, the mad tick-tock pulse of night is desperate for one more dance,
loathe to refuse the call, we turn our ears and spirit low, letting go one more time to bathe in weird waters.