Rock Pigs (Pt.3, Exquisite Clutter)
This track could best be described as a collab/abortion; a drunken shitfest designed to incorporate the multitude of individual personalities which (until this timely orgiastic invitation) had hitherto been content to merely waft in and around the outskirts, unnervingly eyeing each other across the room with sweaty hands planted deep in open-pocketed trenchcoats.
And so here lies the moment when upon this album’s grave all dances shall be danced, all abolutions satisfied, all perversions held aloft to bask in glory warranted or nay; the divine instruction of Noel Gallagher’s Masterplan resonating here in the guise of EGO; the daring request admonished by such an outwardly-simplistic lyric as, “Dance if you want to dance,” a healthy reverberation of youth we could all do with the occasional sufferance thereof.
Ahh, justification of one's self-indulgence by way of a wordy, obscure introduction; not that self-indulgence requires any introduction - all it needs is an entrance ...
... and so, without further ado 'bout nuthin’
Exquisite Clutter was developed from the embers of Rock Pigs (Pt.2, Corruption), which was essentially a rough collection of ideas without order. This structured third movement of Rock Pigs was always the intention, the 2/3 couplet an attempt at capturing both cause and effect; a rudimentary means of demonstrating the songwriting process I call upon most: the one whereby mistakes are studiously embellished upon, furiously masturbated, before finally being stretched mercilessly until consuming of enough substance to withstand the title of ‘song’.
This reincarnation of Pt.2, Corruption finds the chosen sections freshly recorded with a touch more precision than previously evidenced and the entire piece has been somewhat formulated into a single performable song; flesh upon a skeleton. Maggots upon a corpse, perhaps. Mistakes, although lessened considerably, remain scattered through, of course (!); a middle-fingered celebration disguised as a deliberate embrace of natural idiosynchrocies - a subconscious self-effacing grin erupting from behind its childish veil of perceived exoneration.
Whereas the majority of musicians no doubt strive in demanding better accounts of themselves, the patena of my own performance seems to encompass a rather colourful spectrum of technical failings and inconsistencies; all of which I consider 'nonchalant shambolism'. And I’m reluctant to refer to it as unfortunate, not least because the reasons for this are physiological and somewhat unavoidable, although when explained have the tendency to resemble a mortal whinge I’d rather not associate with.
Bah, Lachesis may have miscalculated my thread as a web, but still the show proceeds!
Fears be allayed though, for despite my seeming insistence to the contrary, the listener has (without reservation) been granted consideration throughout, for as loose as my technique and translations may be, the album (and indeed any song within its confines) was never intended as a piece requiring of endurance.
It is what it is - whilst hopefully falling somewhat short of torture.
Oh, and the title references a Freddie Mercury quote, “I want to lead the Victorian life, surrounded by exquisite clutter."