If I Can't Handle Me At My Best, Then You Don't Deserve You At Your Worst
Severely blunted lo-fi psychedelia from Helena Celle, making her debut introduction via Glasgow’s fringe caretakers, Night School.
If I Can’t Be At My Best wallows at the murkiest end of the avant-house pool, using barely discernible acid and splintered drum machine grooves to buoy her fuzzy, tactile gestures with a barely conscious momentum.
It’s the sound machines make when you’re not listening or looking, when they begin chattering amongst themselves in a language of plasmic bloops and avian chirrups indecipherable to all but those with the patience or capacity to at least try to understand their baffling dialogue.
They could almost be intercepted Conet Project broadcasts or the ghosts of new age jams found on skip dumped cassettes; strangely animated little motifs and spooling, cybernetic melodies that morph with a psilocybic logic somewhere between natural organism and metaphysical entities.
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Severely blunted lo-fi psychedelia from Helena Celle, making her debut introduction via Glasgow’s fringe caretakers, Night School.
If I Can’t Be At My Best wallows at the murkiest end of the avant-house pool, using barely discernible acid and splintered drum machine grooves to buoy her fuzzy, tactile gestures with a barely conscious momentum.
It’s the sound machines make when you’re not listening or looking, when they begin chattering amongst themselves in a language of plasmic bloops and avian chirrups indecipherable to all but those with the patience or capacity to at least try to understand their baffling dialogue.
They could almost be intercepted Conet Project broadcasts or the ghosts of new age jams found on skip dumped cassettes; strangely animated little motifs and spooling, cybernetic melodies that morph with a psilocybic logic somewhere between natural organism and metaphysical entities.
Severely blunted lo-fi psychedelia from Helena Celle, making her debut introduction via Glasgow’s fringe caretakers, Night School.
If I Can’t Be At My Best wallows at the murkiest end of the avant-house pool, using barely discernible acid and splintered drum machine grooves to buoy her fuzzy, tactile gestures with a barely conscious momentum.
It’s the sound machines make when you’re not listening or looking, when they begin chattering amongst themselves in a language of plasmic bloops and avian chirrups indecipherable to all but those with the patience or capacity to at least try to understand their baffling dialogue.
They could almost be intercepted Conet Project broadcasts or the ghosts of new age jams found on skip dumped cassettes; strangely animated little motifs and spooling, cybernetic melodies that morph with a psilocybic logic somewhere between natural organism and metaphysical entities.
Severely blunted lo-fi psychedelia from Helena Celle, making her debut introduction via Glasgow’s fringe caretakers, Night School.
If I Can’t Be At My Best wallows at the murkiest end of the avant-house pool, using barely discernible acid and splintered drum machine grooves to buoy her fuzzy, tactile gestures with a barely conscious momentum.
It’s the sound machines make when you’re not listening or looking, when they begin chattering amongst themselves in a language of plasmic bloops and avian chirrups indecipherable to all but those with the patience or capacity to at least try to understand their baffling dialogue.
They could almost be intercepted Conet Project broadcasts or the ghosts of new age jams found on skip dumped cassettes; strangely animated little motifs and spooling, cybernetic melodies that morph with a psilocybic logic somewhere between natural organism and metaphysical entities.
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Severely blunted lo-fi psychedelia from Helena Celle, making her debut introduction via Glasgow’s fringe caretakers, Night School.
If I Can’t Be At My Best wallows at the murkiest end of the avant-house pool, using barely discernible acid and splintered drum machine grooves to buoy her fuzzy, tactile gestures with a barely conscious momentum.
It’s the sound machines make when you’re not listening or looking, when they begin chattering amongst themselves in a language of plasmic bloops and avian chirrups indecipherable to all but those with the patience or capacity to at least try to understand their baffling dialogue.
They could almost be intercepted Conet Project broadcasts or the ghosts of new age jams found on skip dumped cassettes; strangely animated little motifs and spooling, cybernetic melodies that morph with a psilocybic logic somewhere between natural organism and metaphysical entities.