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End of transmission (but not by Trish Keenan)

bangs more ethereal

The news of the death of Trish Keenan, voice, and half of Broadcast with her husband James Cargill, which took place last January because of pneumonia (in turn caused by the H1N1 virus, contracted during a family trip to Australia), and read in thought before falling asleep on a harmless English music magazine, has left me stunned, stiff, shocked, as if in fact I read the news of my death. I loved the music of the broadcast spectrum, but cozy, indeed, in a way I never felt for any group like them, feel they do not listen to simple songs but of being immersed in an atmosphere far (in time and space) and surrealism, in which the mystery of the unconscious (their own, mine) with its lights flickering light of a continuous spiral collage of melodies, fragments of voices, found sounds, and somewhere exquisite corpses. The night that followed the discovery of the death of Trish Keenan was then and go through a long tunnel and hypnotic, accompanied by his voice that the words after each other like wild dogs on the beach, where the syllables reflect the distant echo of a carillon that crackles, a child who learns a chant, a flute played English countryside in Arcadia, a sunny afternoon, with high grass and a creek that runs nearby. I knew that tunnel, because we had already spent the night in which I had fallen asleep listening for the first time, with the earphones in your ears and your head on the pillow, their latest album, Broadcast And The Focus Group Investigate Cults Of The Witch Radio Age, and, lulled by those epiphanies sound, I felt like at the same time exciting and overwhelming of Timelessness, to be everywhere and nowhere, in my childhood and my future, since before I was born in beyond my death. I realized for the first time, and cloudy with clarity, which is not true that The past fades with the passage of time, but that the past is always now, because this is always also a memory, is made of memory and imagination, dreams and memories, time travel and nostalgia for lives ever lived.

I was immediately reminded of the extraordinarily evocative Broadcast interview that they had issued to the British magazine The Wire at the exit of the disc. I went to retrieve it in my library and even an image of the cover, with the pale light that makes inconsistent the Gothic profile of Trish Keenan, the iridescence of the reflections on the lens, the creamy white of his vision, I revealed the presence of a ghost. It reminded me of some ghostly figures that appeared in collages of Max Ernst, in particular in the series Une semaine de Bont , I was lucky enough to watch again and again a couple of years ago in an exhibition organized by the Fundación Mapfre Madrid. Ernst crop this bizarre shapes (ghosts, dragons, snakes, birds, lions) from old roman noir image of the eighteenth century and glued with surgical precision and macabre sense of humor, in many feilleuton pink, turning in a romantic kiss alcoves damask dead visionary between floods, fires and sinister apparitions of men-headed mythological animal. Even the songs of Broadcast (especially the latter, but in a less experimental than even the first) are just surrealist collage, medium between two (or more) dimensions, a bridge connecting dream their unconscious with that of ' listener, a radar intercept and amateur amalgam and distorts the sounds, the sounds, the cries, the chants and prayers of darkness. Songs that are born and die with the same spontaneity and speed of the petals of flowers, which accompanied the fall to the contact with the moist earth, at which have already been transformed into something else, in a life cycle and mortality has not ever and, most importantly, not ever sense.

digital broadcasts were a group that sounded similar, as I am a rich existence in prison is poor, and we both saved by the relentless curiosity that marks the restless spirits, and intellectuals of the province. In their songs, the outside world no longer exists, because everything is within us all, if we listen, but also, at times, solicit, springs from our deep ancestral with the violence of the things above, everything I am were people who lived in our territory are we. It 'a life turned a corner than the average in order to observe reality from a oblique manner. The same placenta in which I imagine floating Joanna Newsom, the only voice that could never take the baton of Trish Keenan, listens to his beating from beyond. Then, on this side of the broadcast was already an afterlife, and their last album was popular, in fact, haunted by memories of people, places and things found in Hungerford, Berkshire countryside to the village where they had transferred from the expensive rent of Birmingham, a seemingly idyllic location at the center of a mythical and esoteric (the Neolithic stone circles of Avebury, the ancient necropolis of West Kennet Long Barrow and Silbury Hill Gypsum Hill a disturbing step Hungerford), when not directly creepy (this is the place where the unemployed in 1987 Michael Ryan massacred, in a fit of madness, 16 people, and after he committed suicide, but not before saying that "it was better if I stayed in bed this morning"). Trish put her voice at the disposal of medieval witches, deaths hanged they wanted to say a final word, of children who tell secrets, church choirs remote, and James accompanied with the indecipherable sounds in constant balance between playfulness and slippery and hypnosis.

the impression that listening to songs that magma without rhyme or reason is disturbing to hear a film, so many cards stacked - but not their score, as fragments of film music, in which the melodies are mixed with words and sounds of the actors offstage. It 's like listening to a non-film. It is no coincidence that Trish Keenan, in the long interview with The Wire , confirmed this feeling of not being suspended, suggesting that the move from Birmingham to Hungerford had galvanized his infatuation with "the idea of \u200b\u200bthe world in me as opposed me in the world. " Difficult to find a concept more appealing, and she explained it by saying that in the previous albums had felt like Alice in Wonderland, trying to make sense of this strange world, while last year he had suffered a small revolution within himself, starting to feel inside her and there were many people who had to leave to come out. In fact, in the past, merely to bow to the forces that populated his thoughts in his compositions using random methods such as automatic writing and cut-ups , improvisations and accidental discoveries, streams of consciousness and heaps of scrap arcane words. The creeps at the same time captivates heard that

"That I Had an idea if I improvised words vocally I would end up with Some odd juxtapositions, a kind of lucky bag of words That Could feel totally random. But Was what I found I could not shape the words out of my mouth fast enough. Instead I was left muttering at the edge of language, sounding more like Kurt Schwitters Than The odd shop of Nouns and verbs I Was Hoping for ".

E 'illuminating, and comforting for me, the reference to the great Swiss painter Schwitters , one of those visual artists who, along with Per Kirkeby, Robert Rauschenberg, Enrico Baj, Antoni Tàpies, some minor characters of the Bauhaus painter, for obvious reasons of aesthetics-assonance love most. The intriguing mystery of the unknown, magic infant language unable to express concepts that limitamo to perceive the infinite complexity of the world that we explore with our finite means, can only be addressed with the automatic technique collage, the combination, involuntary and surreal, the free combination of logic and impulsivity, and the subconscious mind, making a virtue of imperfection. Broadcast disks are nothing more than this, manipulation of reality and time, scraps of dreams that run and overlap no sense, fractures and sudden jumps in time, following the installation of the strangest films sobbing. Innocence and obsession go hand in hand on a journey to the end of the night, in the discovery of a psyche that goes beyond the boundaries of kitchen sink drama in which Trish Keenan was grown in full reflux free cinema in the seventies of English working class north of the country, scenario par excellence of skeletons post-industrial residues of modernity, which the architects call edgelands significantly.

If the songs are the diaries of the Broadcast of unknown persons found under a tree, timid and confused impressions of forgotten emotions, nostalgic collection of other people's lives, their listening creates a false memory syndrome, as if our subjectivity was sucked, voluntarily, in the labyrinth of their imaginary journeys through time and space, pure spirit impalpable, and then he could not find the way out, swapping the (ir) reality for the past. Why then the past is now, it's in our present and our memory collects the memory of the whole world, of what was and now it's gone. As Trish Keenan, who has arrived at the spot where, in fact, have wandered for many years, and will continue to haunt us with her voice and rock until you reach .

The page turns on me and you
Across That plain white
The land is unchanged

Broadcast Tears in the typing pool