Bersarin Quartett – Methoden und Maschinen
(editor's note: Music inspires us all, especially reviewers. Sometimes the music we listen to inspires our writers to come up with something different, like a poem or a short story. In these series we compile those writings. Or, as Thorsten wrote:
"This record forced me to write something else"
"This record forced me to write something else"
ambient
Life exists only in connection to witnesses. Post-Modernity can only exist after modernity. Black cannot survive without white. And yet – they are all the same, the are language. Thoughts. A stream of consequences rushing through the tips of tongues or fingers in order to sound and evoke something, be it empathy or a feeling of togetherness or antipathy, a sign of intelligence or utter stupidity.
However – how to describe something that is voiceless but speaks to us? That instills insight but never affirms? Well, pictures might do. And for the sake of this review, pictures painted by binaries will...
A state-of-the-art WWII motorbike sliding across the Berlin streets. A left-alone helmet lying on the street, no wonder that high-ranked Ivan is not alive.
The beams of the star gliding across a surface black. S/He wakes up, beams tingling her back.
The mere sound of a deep-tuned bass rolling over it all. The shadows for our hero’s last withdrawal.
The rocket slowly getting deeper and deeper into the abyss. Kubrick’s visions – nothing more is this.
The building right next to the Spree was a palace of rust, but it would never falter, never fall to dust.
Harrison Ford on his last neon-lit run. His search for solution undone.
Embraces are held for a bit too long. Permeated by each and every part of the next song.
A million words to choose from, but nothing to hold to this form.
Sounding from left to right all is glistening tight. Each idea is shown up when the time is ripe.
The ship is sinking slowly into pure deep. Nothing holds on, it is too steep.
Falling back onto cushions of drone. All unique, somebody’s clone.
The first voyage to the next planet in line, floating closer to Mars. The humans are about to turn this planet too into a farce.
13 songs, an unlucky number. Thirteen miracles, not one going under.
Thorsten
However – how to describe something that is voiceless but speaks to us? That instills insight but never affirms? Well, pictures might do. And for the sake of this review, pictures painted by binaries will...
A state-of-the-art WWII motorbike sliding across the Berlin streets. A left-alone helmet lying on the street, no wonder that high-ranked Ivan is not alive.
The beams of the star gliding across a surface black. S/He wakes up, beams tingling her back.
The mere sound of a deep-tuned bass rolling over it all. The shadows for our hero’s last withdrawal.
The rocket slowly getting deeper and deeper into the abyss. Kubrick’s visions – nothing more is this.
The building right next to the Spree was a palace of rust, but it would never falter, never fall to dust.
Harrison Ford on his last neon-lit run. His search for solution undone.
Embraces are held for a bit too long. Permeated by each and every part of the next song.
A million words to choose from, but nothing to hold to this form.
Sounding from left to right all is glistening tight. Each idea is shown up when the time is ripe.
The ship is sinking slowly into pure deep. Nothing holds on, it is too steep.
Falling back onto cushions of drone. All unique, somebody’s clone.
The first voyage to the next planet in line, floating closer to Mars. The humans are about to turn this planet too into a farce.
13 songs, an unlucky number. Thirteen miracles, not one going under.
Thorsten
