Misery has made its way to our doorstep. A collection of human suffering and isolation and inactivity, all while watching, helpless, the live-feed suffocation of a savior. Of course it does us well to remind ourselves, and each other, that these dark times shall pass, but doing so doesn’t make the immediate any less trying. It only begs the question, “and when?” The notion now and until further notice is one of immobility. New York transplant Kyle Flanagan knows it, knows it all too well, having just moved there from Richmond, and having released his new tape, Suck Inside, via Richmond imprint Anti-Everything. “90+ minutes of depressive drone,” he rightly calls it. A low-growling hum circles and circles again like vultures waiting for a final gasp. It settles to a purr—that or it is unchanging and our ears have adjusted, accustomed. Machinations buzz and click and whirl by, passing thoughts with which we are all too mired. Gentle delay hints at some form of rhythm, but there is no rhythm, no regularity, not in the time of pestilence. It’s reflective until it’s maddening, until it’s wholly validating, and, by that nature, calming. Brief heart murmurs, indecipherable interludes, interrupt the whirr just to keep our attention, to make sure we and our woes are still at attention.
The second side boasts even lower lows, reeling like the underlight of some interminable copying machine at the shit office job we halfheartedly wish could occupy our time. It beams through us. Somehow, we’ve traveled this far with Flanagan, staring down the barrel of an infinitude of anxieties—so keep sitting, keep staring. It wouldn’t be right not to. Ultra high scream and scree pierce through left ear, then right. We can almost envision sanity and good nature seeping out of us and puddling on the floor. We’ll mop it up later, it’s not going anywhere. And neither are we. Did we make it to the end? Yes we did, I’m no coward.
And while we’re at it, let’s listen to Highway to Hell, just released on New Forces.