Post by Rabbit on Mar 22, 2014 17:08:44 GMT
This album is by 'Shineback' and is a solo album made by a member of Tinyfish, Simon Godfrey. It is about quite a gruesome subject and is gripping if you understand what is actually going on.
I really do like albums that deal with a subject and worked the same way myself, rather than produce an album of unrelated songs. It often means that for record companies, you are not so saleable since individual songs taken out of context can become meaningless, but unfortunately, record labels want sales so this new company BEM, have started to support the musicians more in what they want to do rather than manipulate them into what they see as a market.
I love Tinyfish' work and their last one 'Big Red Spark' was a great concept album. When the machine plays up and they sing 'I'm not breaking', it's a spine chilling moment. One of the members has been suffering from tinitus so Tinyfish is on 'hold' for the time being. I hope they continue in the future because they are really very good.
This album contains the 'Tinyfish' sound and seems to be more 'developed and dare I say, professional sounding. It contains imagery and distortion effects in its endeavours to describe a nasty situation.
It fuses pop, prog and electronica into a story of abuse, betrayal and madness. If you know the Tinyfish sound, this will be familiar and you can hear what a massive influence Simon has had on the group.
Well done Wilf ..... Dave Elliot started his own prog record label and has released this album with his mates and this album is great and keeps that Tinyfish sound alive. I hope the label does well for Dave. He really deserves it since he works so hard to promote Progressive Rock. He's also very keen on Folk and at one time oushed out a podcast on Folk that he stopped. Probably due to commitments to his Prog Rock work but I loved the one off that he did.
His company is called 'Bad Elephant Music - splashurl.com/odoerpt
This is worth a listen. It gets a bit wilder than Tinyfish at times.
splashurl.com/pl93pds
The idea behind the album is quite gruesome. You might prefer to not read on, but the album itself deals with this subject in a hair raising way.
My name is Dora. I am, and have been for many years, a permanent guest at the Wychwood Centre for the criminally insane, for killing my father. Which I both did, and did not do.
No-one knows this story. Before, it was a secret, and afterwards - well, my actions do not make me a reliable narrator. But after all this time I finally have it straight in my head, and I must write it down. Whether you believe or not, this is what I saw, and these are the things that happened to me.
All I remember, growing up, was trouble. Trouble at home, trouble at school, trouble at work, trouble in relationships. It didn't seem to matter what I did, I was always in trouble. I would cry myself to sleep sometimes, or even wake up crying, but do you know what the stupid thing was? I never knew why. It never occurred to me to look for a cause, and so I never even realised there was one.
Eventually, I talked myself into going to see a therapist. This made me very nervous, but she put me at my ease surprisingly quickly. She asked me about all my troubles, and I could see that she was trying to build up a picture from them. Privately, I wasn't really convinced, but I said nothing of my doubts. Eventually, she surprised me: she asked me about my dreams. I felt myself go red, but I told her the truth: that I never remembered my dreams. She just gave me a secret smile and reached into her desk drawer. She drew out a small, battered, camcorder, and passed it over to me. As I cradled it in my palm, she told me that I should go to sleep holding it, and then I should be able to remember my dreams.
It seemed like a stupid idea to me, but the look on her face somehow told me that she knew something I didn't, and I'd come up empty for so long, that any new idea, no matter how stupid, was worth trying.
I put the camcorder in my bag, and came back home.
That night, I lay in bed, unable to sleep, the metal case of the camcorder warm in my hand. I idly ran my thumb over the record button and opened my eyes to stare into the darkness of my room. Except it wasn't my room. I was lying under the stars, in a field. The grass beneath me was flattened as smooth as a bedsheet, a small springy pile of it underneath my head. I sat up, disoriented. The camcorder was no longer in my hand, but I could hear it whirring somewhere close by, just on the edge of hearing.
It was a warm summer's night, and there was no other sound at all. I stared at the treeline; it seemed familiar somehow, outlined by the faint glow of the half moon. It all seemed so real - my senses ignoring my mind. It was only when I got to my feet and turned around that I was shocked out of my trance. I realised now why the treeline seemed familiar - there in front of me was the house I grew up in, just as it always had been. White cottage, thatched roof, one bay window to the right of the door - and just seeing it brought on an unexplained feeling of dread. There was trouble there. The kind of trouble that had followed me all my life, somewhere behind the warm yellow light leaking from the door and behind the curtains. But there I was, walking towards it, staring at the little grid of windows embedded in the heavy wooden door as if it were a puzzle I was meant to solve.
The door wasn't locked, as it hardly ever was on summer nights, and as I absent-mindedly wiped my feet on the mat, I heard voices from upstairs. Down the hall, past the empty living room with the TV turned down low, past the downstairs toilet, to the foot of the stairs. The voices were more distinct now, and the tone stirred up the discomfort inside me again.
I recognised my father's voice - was he pleading? Threatening? I quietly walked up the stairs, trying to make out individual words in his general tone. I turned right at the top - he was in my room. Who was he talking to?
I stopped as I saw him, outlined in the light from my bedside lamp. The person he was talking to was trying to free herself from the grip of his enormous right hand which held her wrist in a vice. Tears streamed down her face, but she didn't cry out. I had no idea what to think; it was myself, aged perhaps eight or nine. I froze in the doorway, terrified that he might hear me and turn, but he did not. Instead, he bent and planted a rough kiss on the child's tightly shut lips - and then I couldn't watch any more. I remembered none of this - surely this was all a horrid dream-lie - but the whirlwind of trouble inside me told a different story - what if this were the truth, and the rest of my life was a lie?
I closed my eyes in tears, and suddenly the noises stopped. Startled, I opened my eyes again and the house was dark. My father was gone. Spinning around, I followed the corridor back towards his room. There he was, lying on his back and snoring gently. I started trying to talk, trying to assuage the awful things I felt, and although I must have been there for ages, he didn't move, he didn't wake. I began to wonder if I was really there at all, but I couldn't bear to touch him to find out.
I was still in tears when I finally fled down the stairs and out into the night. I racked my brains to see if I could find the edges of this - hole in my memory, but there was nothing. No blank spot, no awful, awful memories. Only the tightness of the trouble in my chest to tell me how familiar these horrors might have been.
I dried my eyes and forced myself to breathe deeply and calmly. Again, the night seemed impossibly warm and still, and I was alone.
"You are here for a purpose, and you must abide by our rules now."
There were three of them, and they were all looking straight at me from out of the darkness. With only the moonlight to clue me in, all I could see was that they were well dressed, and motionless. One of them might have been a woman.
"We are the Envoys. We are always here. You must come with us."
I really do like albums that deal with a subject and worked the same way myself, rather than produce an album of unrelated songs. It often means that for record companies, you are not so saleable since individual songs taken out of context can become meaningless, but unfortunately, record labels want sales so this new company BEM, have started to support the musicians more in what they want to do rather than manipulate them into what they see as a market.
I love Tinyfish' work and their last one 'Big Red Spark' was a great concept album. When the machine plays up and they sing 'I'm not breaking', it's a spine chilling moment. One of the members has been suffering from tinitus so Tinyfish is on 'hold' for the time being. I hope they continue in the future because they are really very good.
This album contains the 'Tinyfish' sound and seems to be more 'developed and dare I say, professional sounding. It contains imagery and distortion effects in its endeavours to describe a nasty situation.
It fuses pop, prog and electronica into a story of abuse, betrayal and madness. If you know the Tinyfish sound, this will be familiar and you can hear what a massive influence Simon has had on the group.
Well done Wilf ..... Dave Elliot started his own prog record label and has released this album with his mates and this album is great and keeps that Tinyfish sound alive. I hope the label does well for Dave. He really deserves it since he works so hard to promote Progressive Rock. He's also very keen on Folk and at one time oushed out a podcast on Folk that he stopped. Probably due to commitments to his Prog Rock work but I loved the one off that he did.
His company is called 'Bad Elephant Music - splashurl.com/odoerpt
This is worth a listen. It gets a bit wilder than Tinyfish at times.
splashurl.com/pl93pds
The idea behind the album is quite gruesome. You might prefer to not read on, but the album itself deals with this subject in a hair raising way.
My name is Dora. I am, and have been for many years, a permanent guest at the Wychwood Centre for the criminally insane, for killing my father. Which I both did, and did not do.
No-one knows this story. Before, it was a secret, and afterwards - well, my actions do not make me a reliable narrator. But after all this time I finally have it straight in my head, and I must write it down. Whether you believe or not, this is what I saw, and these are the things that happened to me.
All I remember, growing up, was trouble. Trouble at home, trouble at school, trouble at work, trouble in relationships. It didn't seem to matter what I did, I was always in trouble. I would cry myself to sleep sometimes, or even wake up crying, but do you know what the stupid thing was? I never knew why. It never occurred to me to look for a cause, and so I never even realised there was one.
Eventually, I talked myself into going to see a therapist. This made me very nervous, but she put me at my ease surprisingly quickly. She asked me about all my troubles, and I could see that she was trying to build up a picture from them. Privately, I wasn't really convinced, but I said nothing of my doubts. Eventually, she surprised me: she asked me about my dreams. I felt myself go red, but I told her the truth: that I never remembered my dreams. She just gave me a secret smile and reached into her desk drawer. She drew out a small, battered, camcorder, and passed it over to me. As I cradled it in my palm, she told me that I should go to sleep holding it, and then I should be able to remember my dreams.
It seemed like a stupid idea to me, but the look on her face somehow told me that she knew something I didn't, and I'd come up empty for so long, that any new idea, no matter how stupid, was worth trying.
I put the camcorder in my bag, and came back home.
That night, I lay in bed, unable to sleep, the metal case of the camcorder warm in my hand. I idly ran my thumb over the record button and opened my eyes to stare into the darkness of my room. Except it wasn't my room. I was lying under the stars, in a field. The grass beneath me was flattened as smooth as a bedsheet, a small springy pile of it underneath my head. I sat up, disoriented. The camcorder was no longer in my hand, but I could hear it whirring somewhere close by, just on the edge of hearing.
It was a warm summer's night, and there was no other sound at all. I stared at the treeline; it seemed familiar somehow, outlined by the faint glow of the half moon. It all seemed so real - my senses ignoring my mind. It was only when I got to my feet and turned around that I was shocked out of my trance. I realised now why the treeline seemed familiar - there in front of me was the house I grew up in, just as it always had been. White cottage, thatched roof, one bay window to the right of the door - and just seeing it brought on an unexplained feeling of dread. There was trouble there. The kind of trouble that had followed me all my life, somewhere behind the warm yellow light leaking from the door and behind the curtains. But there I was, walking towards it, staring at the little grid of windows embedded in the heavy wooden door as if it were a puzzle I was meant to solve.
The door wasn't locked, as it hardly ever was on summer nights, and as I absent-mindedly wiped my feet on the mat, I heard voices from upstairs. Down the hall, past the empty living room with the TV turned down low, past the downstairs toilet, to the foot of the stairs. The voices were more distinct now, and the tone stirred up the discomfort inside me again.
I recognised my father's voice - was he pleading? Threatening? I quietly walked up the stairs, trying to make out individual words in his general tone. I turned right at the top - he was in my room. Who was he talking to?
I stopped as I saw him, outlined in the light from my bedside lamp. The person he was talking to was trying to free herself from the grip of his enormous right hand which held her wrist in a vice. Tears streamed down her face, but she didn't cry out. I had no idea what to think; it was myself, aged perhaps eight or nine. I froze in the doorway, terrified that he might hear me and turn, but he did not. Instead, he bent and planted a rough kiss on the child's tightly shut lips - and then I couldn't watch any more. I remembered none of this - surely this was all a horrid dream-lie - but the whirlwind of trouble inside me told a different story - what if this were the truth, and the rest of my life was a lie?
I closed my eyes in tears, and suddenly the noises stopped. Startled, I opened my eyes again and the house was dark. My father was gone. Spinning around, I followed the corridor back towards his room. There he was, lying on his back and snoring gently. I started trying to talk, trying to assuage the awful things I felt, and although I must have been there for ages, he didn't move, he didn't wake. I began to wonder if I was really there at all, but I couldn't bear to touch him to find out.
I was still in tears when I finally fled down the stairs and out into the night. I racked my brains to see if I could find the edges of this - hole in my memory, but there was nothing. No blank spot, no awful, awful memories. Only the tightness of the trouble in my chest to tell me how familiar these horrors might have been.
I dried my eyes and forced myself to breathe deeply and calmly. Again, the night seemed impossibly warm and still, and I was alone.
"You are here for a purpose, and you must abide by our rules now."
There were three of them, and they were all looking straight at me from out of the darkness. With only the moonlight to clue me in, all I could see was that they were well dressed, and motionless. One of them might have been a woman.
"We are the Envoys. We are always here. You must come with us."