After wrecking the car, killing the fish, smashing the synths, and burning the drums, Lid Emba has checked into rehab and detoxed.
All of the effort required to produce five CDs between 2006 and 2013 gradually accreted into an overwhelming brainfuck, leaving me a triple-tied and web-footed tangle of shredded synaptic misfires. The flaws and high-points of the music became indistinguishable. I hit rock bottom, tore off my clothes, and streaked the clogged Atlanta streets at rush hour wearing a Peter Frampton mask. After tazing my ass, literally, the cops asked me what my problem was. I screamed, "Give me nurses and doctors NOW to lick my inadequacy blisters."
I'm better now. The candy is sweet, the pillows are soft, and the floors are mopped twice a day. The struggle to spindle factory patches into personalized sounds, the addiction to composing anti-trite structures that followed strict and abstruse designs, the desire to unite disparate and perhaps incompatible sonic disciplines, all of these aesthetic viruses have been quarantined. Other projects have been prescribed to heel the scrapes and contusions—Bold Ashes, Blind the Thin King, Funhausen—and will be detailed further upon DEA approval.
Lid Emba is not dead; it is resting in a climate-controlled, poodle-sized syringe cast from a silver velvet mold. When I'm ready to resume the battle for the rarefied violence Lid Emba claimed for itself, Iíll shoot it back up.
|"Macedonia," Terminal Muse: Blue, Stickfigure Records, 2011.|
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