It's true, it's true. Words fall short. Syllables. Consonants. Curvature. Enunciate. Conjugate. Enunciate. Conjugate. Repeat.
We ascribe meaning to words through our perceptions of what they should mean. They mean nothing. "I love you"--nothing. The fact that metaphors exist shows the shortcomings of words. We need to assign a value to words by utilizing elements of the natural (or sometimes unnatural) world. The fact that Ralph Waldo Emerson actually manages to (and finds it necessary to) prove his points through metaphor (instead of merely using the device to better illustrate his points or make them sound pretty) solidifies my point. A brilliant and moral man, he concedes to the ineffectuality of words. Standing in the middle of the alphabet is the hollow letter "O." It expands and swallows the rest of the alphabet on both sides, sucking them into the dismal futility of words, sentences, sentiment, monologues, phrases, concrete emotions. Asphalt. Ashen letters. Ground to a sludgy pulp. We drive over these flattened sentiments. Words are flat. Flat and meaningless.
On their first CD, Nova Scotia's Wintersleep sing of the prototypical civilian. In terms of the music world, Wintersleep have become a type of prototypical civilian: they have succumbed to the fate of the loyal indie subject. Indie. Fuck that word. It truly means nothing (especially when bands that sell millions of albums are deemed "indie.") The interesting time signatures are still there. Paul Murphy's dreary, barren vocals are still there. The fairly minimalist lyrics are still there. However, I find a new "danceability" in many of the tracks on Welcome to The Night Sky. Also, I find much of the originality that can only come from their East-coast bubble of alienation to be missing on this album. In terms of prototypical indie albums, this one still kicks major rectum. Yet, in comparison to their first two albums it falls upon the barren ashpalt and withers meaningless.
