I come back, return from the bottom of the garden – past the hardly-used children's swing hanging in the moonlight like solemn birdperch, side-lit by halogen a couple streets away on the Daily Mail side of town. Walk back up, past the rabbit's run – back towards the DROOOOONE comin' from the repurposed garage (my noctural haunt); and it's a Marlo/drone I hear, and it sounds like the Art of Noise at first, then some sort of Aztec or Mayan ritual being re-enacted in suburban SoSomerset but in my mindseye it's OMG coming in across some imaginary Andean mountain-range, not these shitty 1920's semis: then the crashing starts, like Thundr!, or Gaia's backdoor slammin' shut mixed in w/ a hardboard cabinet-reshuffle in Hell tonight; like Itzpapalotl cuttin' loose with her obsidian razor-wings, LIFE slicing through the murk of the Supershit Now; Marlo beating the fuck out of a currently-unhappy world – kicking its teeth in w her voice – remaking/ remodelling it in a better feministaversn of itself using just her voice n pedals n contact-mics to pull down the SKY ITSELF and rebuild the whole darn fuckin thing through willpower alone:
“And now and now I melt” she speaks to us / me thru broken-mic short-delay echo-field space, “ImeltImeltIMELT” // while walking through mirror-refractions of herself (we are all echoes / reflections / thousandfold mirrorimages of a million “other-us's” and Marlo seems to catch that idea n throw it back in our faces in a zigzagging echopoetics improv dronemaze of voice and autoharp); every piece a 'bit' of 'her', sharp-yet-smooth, vulnerable-but-jagged (yet never fully broken; a mirror cobwebbed, but still hanging together – still glued to its frame), infinitely dangerous, infinitely variable – a MULTIPLICITY OF MARLOS – (OF ALL WOMEN) – of everything...
I met her at Extraction Music and she was just such a Well of Life / Fun / Wisdom, that, well...
Fantastic to watch, to talk to, to listen to.
This album yields up a smalltinyfraction of what constitutes Marlo, her world, her voice, her life, her energy...
Walk back upwards thru the garden afterwards: |Listen to this in the night, eh\\ “They fucked up the mastering, made it one single long track instead of many,” Marlo tells me in Cardiff; and that seems weirdly right now – an accident gone right; happenstance – long after the fact.
I remember being on the bus, going back to the hotel... suburbs / endless business parks... her music in my head, an endless multitrack'd / loop'd Marlo following me back thru a city... Marlo downpitchshifted, malefemale: a bus changing gear, then moving past shopsigns, brands, spectral iterations of business and self, passengers darkly reflected in glass, stepping out into the night in a hissing gasp of doors, then swallowed by dark 12:10am air, memories of ghostworkers returning to satellite subtowns, to thr barely-imagined lives and all caught in the swirl of Marlo's re-remembr'd multiplex'd voice: women workers, taken by the night, evaporating when they could be multiplied – could be strong.
Every stop like the next one; every business-park like the one before.
I'm only hungry because I see a Burger King sign shining in the night. Or Subway. Or.
“Pink skin and ti-i-i-i-i-i-red eyes”: I listen; she becomes a 'man', a 'voice', a presence... she vibrates out into the NIGHT; it stays with me for days. Through halogen-soaked suburbia, past Cardiff, past the rabbit sat in her run; it sits next to me on buses; I see it in the eyes of women pushing prams, shopping in LIDL, telling off their kids, in the eyes of their indifferent husbands, in gestures, in arm movements, in passing cars, in the dark air that moves past me at night, in streetsigns, in post-EURef rhetoric... a wailing voice in the air. A roar of Nothingness. Of Everything.
I come back/