A "Review" of Overtones by A Spot on the Hill

Sometimes things are more beautiful when they’re out of focus and unclear.

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The possibility of surprise—imagine it? Imagine if something could surprise you again?

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Here’s my “review” of Overtones by A Spot on the Hill. This is a project by Danny Cook, an old (very old) friend of mine. We used to be in a band called Root Cellar together in 1842, and we enjoyed a come-and-go musical relationship back in the day. I’m glad he’s still at it. I’m glad we’re still friends. I think Danny probably hates it when I do this - which makes me enjoy it all the more. Danny also doesn’t like being referred to as Danny.

His interest for the last many years has been ambient music, which is a genre I have zero interest in because I’ve been far too busy listening to Abba’s Greatest Hits on repeat for decades. I appreciate Danny giving me an excuse to care about this genre once a year or so. I like to sit in a quiet and dark place by myself and listen to whatever new thing Danny has deposited into the world.

Usually, I’d be drinking a Laphroaig for these sessions, but I’m in China at the moment and settled for a beer at the Nanjing Beer Museum which is probably the strangest place I’ve ever had a beer. And that’s saying something. It’s a big place and it is 100% empty except for myself and the three attendants who are staring at me. I’m guessing that the stares are probably related to the fact that I remind everyone here of either Santa Claus or Colonel Sanders. I shouldn’t take either as a compliment, but I do because punching a little kid in the face with all these cameras everywhere seems like a bad idea. The waiter guys are all obviously bored out of their minds because of the lack of customers. I’m always good for a little show and a laugh whenever I try to order something in China, so I amused them for a little bit as I slowly realized that for some reason no app is going to translate India Pale Ale correctly. One of my favorite things is watching someone’s face when they read a completely incorrect translation of what I’m trying to say and imagining what insane sentence they think I just said. It’s fun. And even though I’ve ended up with a beer that is disgusting, we’re all buds. But honestly, I wish they had something else to do right now. I put in my ear-sealing headphones to drown everything out and give them a look meant to threaten my putting them on the naughty list and to also indicate that KFC is closed. They stare less intently and I feel it’s a good compromise. It’s kind of dark, and it’s now quiet.

It’s become more and more difficult to connect with my subconscious as I age, and that’s because I don’t try as consistently as I did when I was younger. It’s good to clear the brush from that overgrown pathway once in a while and listening to some contemplative music is a good way to let your brain off the leash to wander around freely for a few minutes. Good music should never take you to the same place twice.

Look - don’t read this. Go listen and have your own experience.

https://bandcamp.com/private/WI57AI88

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note: I don’t understand why Danny doesn’t like Title Case. I suppose it’s an artistic choice that I have decided to disrespect and defy. In these times, there are lots of things I’m deciding to disrespect and defy.

Point of Contact

I’m alone. I don’t know where and it doesn’t matter. That’s the one thing I’m sure of. There’s just enough light to make something out but I don’t quite know what I’m looking at. I don’t see them exactly, but I visualize ribbons fluttering like whispering school girls from a piece of clothesline stretched taut. I know I’m not intended to understand what they’re saying. I hear something but it’s distant and muffled - as if the darkness is breathing. I get up because I noticed that I’m lying down and it seemed like the logical next step. I reach out and feel something. Perhaps it’s the wall of a cave. I could follow it to get out or I could follow it to go deeper, I don’t know which. The darkness stretches forever and reminds me of a waking cat. I decide to lay back down and close my eyes to wonder what the ribbons might have told me, given the chance.

Meditation for Joelle

A lullaby is meant to put you to sleep. But peace can be a form of distress. When something feels unnatural or foreign it can call anxiety from the deep because I don’t know what to do with peace. I should be grateful but this seems like a demand I can’t fulfill. A soothing melody makes me try and fail to relax and failing makes me anxious. And suddenly I’m thinking about me instead of the melody and that makes me feel guilty for not honoring a thing someone has spent time on. But maybe the melody was meant to do all of this. Perhaps a lullaby is meant to wake us up.

Take My Arm

I don’t know if I fought well. That’s a lie, I know for a fact that I didn’t. I don’t know how to. I was in it or at least pretended to be. And then I wasn’t. The shift was so sudden. All the effort, all the purpose I thought I had—it just stopped. It’s hard to figure out what it’s all for, especially when you don’t try. I just ended up in a place where the ball from a musket happened to be flying through the air. I can’t blame the person who fired it. I assume he’s just like me, bumbling, scared, unsure, and unclear on why he was in that spot at that particular time and I was in another. The world is a place full of bullets we never see coming. None of it matters much now and I doubt it ever did. I left a lot in the grass there. I left everything. Things you don’t need should be left. But no longer needing anything at all is an instant of shock followed by endless relief. I don’t know which side I was fighting for and I’m not sure I ever did.

Point of Departure

I had a dream that I was a server at the Milk Bar in Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange. Not the protagonist, not the villain (one in the same)—just the background noise. I think it’s so cool of me not to dream of myself as a main character. That reflects what I think of myself in real life. I’m an observer. I want to sit on the sidelines and watch the game and pontificate on how I could play it better. If they sold a personal cloaking device, I would purchase it. All this is said by someone who videotapes and posts their every thought. I don’t just want to stay in the shadows, I want to tell you about staying in the shadows, which is much like searching for a shadow with a flashlight.* I sometimes wish someone would kick me in the yarbles, if I had any yarbles.

*There is no way that searching for a shadow with a flashlight line is mine. I must have heard or read that somewhere, but I don’t know where. Someone smart said that. I just can’t remember who and Google was no help…

Wilmot at Night

Unfortunately, I read the title before listening to this one. So I know that this melody was written as a tribute to me and the time I spent living on Wilmot Street in the 90’s.

Bedtime in Portland

The playground swarms with children. Toddlers trying out new skills. One by one or in small groups they climb the structure cheered on by parents doing what they think they’re supposed to do. I’m saddened by how safe everything has become. The rails and steps are padded with soft rubber. The ground itself is covered in soft. The children themselves are covered in a protective coating. The kids could fall, I suppose, but there would be no consequences. Falling without consequences is like not falling at all. Falling is not a mistake, it is a rite of passage. Putting yourself at risk and making it through is the only thing worth doing.

Don’t Miss the Sunrise

There is wool and bitter hot coffee here. A rough turtle neck and a hat you might wear to sea, grabbing your pipe as you leave. There are white cliffs and green fields and canvas sails fluttering as if to try to reverse the wind. The wind doesn’t listen and the sea doesn’t care. I trust none of it because it’s all in my mind.

Action and Decay

There is an abandoned wooden train trestle that crosses Goat Canyon in Southern California. It’s been dormant for decades and I know it’s just waiting for something to happen. I took a canvas bag and a gallon of water in a fairly clean milk jug and started to walk the tracks toward it. A water bladder in a backpack would make more sense, but I take every opportunity I get to honor Harry Dean Stanton’s character in Paris Texas. I have three sticks of dynamite wrapped in wax paper that I bought from a guy I met in Jumbo’s Clown Room. It was a complicated transaction that took place in a dilapidated RV that is parked permanently on Washington Boulevard. I’m not sure the dynamite will actually explode, and if it does, I’m not sure it will be enough to do what I want it to do. That’s the story of my life. I’m also not sure how many seconds the fuse will give me to run. But I aim to find out. When a series of random events puts you on a path, you walk that path to the end. Sometimes a thing that exists calls you to destroy it for no reason at all. I’m not sure what happens if you don’t oblige and that is a thing I will never know.

Pipe and Drone

Cook fire smoke in the morning is the best kind of smoke. The wood burning mixes with the smell of the food being cooked and spreads to alert you to what’s coming. In this case, the fire is far away and not my own. I don’t know if they are friend or foe, but I know I’ll walk toward them either way. The dew is cold on my bare feet and the ground gives a bit with each step I take. The smoke forms a giant cartoon finger in the sky forming a universal gesture that means, “Come here.” Everyone knows you should never trust a cartoon finger made of smoke, but I’m so hungry. I’m hungry enough to risk everything.

Circling Back

I think I’m blinking. If I am, it’s too dark to tell the difference between open and closed. There was an accident, I think. Something feels off. Something is wrong somewhere in my body. But I don’t know where and I don’t know what. I feel like I shouldn’t be in any hurry to figure it out. I used to take off my glasses to look at the world in a blurry state. I really can’t see for shit without them, but I’d set them on a rock and walk through the woods to see if I could. There is a feeling of danger and awkwardness that I love. Being unbalanced and not knowing what’s ahead is thrilling. The possibility of surprise—imagine it? Imagine if something could surprise you again? Sometimes things are more beautiful when they’re out of focus and unclear. Sometimes understanding ruins everything. When I finally find the rock where my glasses sit, I wonder if it’s best to leave them where they are.