US - Maryland - Full Moon 84 - 08/12/03
Here Comes the Indian
'In the forest, come evening time, I sat with a few friends and strummed guitar. Our senses
heightened by the sheer pleasure of being outdoors, we were sensitive to any rustle in the leaves,
and wind in the trees, and this transformed our playing into a form of melodic breathing, the
backwoods atmosphere making the music rustic and earnest despite being so light and spontaneous.
Just a few loosely woven chords, some woozy interweaving vocal lines, and before we knew it we'd
been there for 45 minutes. A pause, we looked at each other with tired, happy eyes, and gathered
the instruments to go indoors for some hot chocolate.
'But then we heard a stirring in the bushes. Soon the silence was broken by yelping and the
feverish banging of drums. We stood on the porch and watched imps emerge from the dusk and dance
before us, light dancing from their eyes. We took our instruments to join them, tentative and
jumpy at first, the cool night sending shivers up our spines, the kind you feel when you're
really enjoying something, or are scared. For a while you could tell from the looks on our faces
that we weren't sure which. The tempo quickened and we found ourselves trying to muster sound from
the forest itself, striking trees and rubbing leaves, barking and flexing our vocals in ways we
never dreamed were music. But it felt right, and all our skittish, strange noises were somehow
mingling into something incantatory and eerily beautiful.'
So read my diary. Next to it, two CDs I had bought and listened to that day: both by various
members of the Brooklyn-based Animal Collective. And now? I can't listen to anything else, and
the clouds in my head swirl, darken and dance.
Copyright © 2003 Tim Clarke