Sunday, February 10, 2013
projectnyx003 naught-punk
It all starts with a heart beat. Then metamorphosis of the ugly one. Loads of lo-fi fun. Listen to naught-punk here. To get a copy make contact on facebook.com/projectnyx.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Sunday, April 1, 2012
projectnyx002 synger juli inn
Nyx and her happy three frindz in an occasional co-operation and strictly limited release. Invincible Woman, Master Funtastic, Tweedledum and fnyx in this merry production.
Already now no copies left.
Already now no copies left.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
projectnyx001 red stones
A microproject to kick off the whole thing and test the microphone. A few days ago I recorded a track in one of the mini studios at Popsenteret and came home to discover that I destroyed the (most of) whole thing in the mix. Dear Sirs, dear Ladies: here is a piece of accidental metamusic; a non-release of sorts.
Limited edition available now with the textual matter that inspired the title.
Limited edition available now with the textual matter that inspired the title.
r e d s t o n e s d r o w n i n g i w o u l d n e v e r b e l i e v e ...
Transmutation
"This is the hour," she said, "of transmutation":
It is the eucharist of the evening, changing
All things to beauty. Now the ancient river,
That all day under the arch was polished jade,
Becomes the ghost of a river, thinly gleaming
Under a silver cloud.... It is not water:
It is that azure stream in which the stars
Bathe at the daybreak, and become immortal...."
"And the moon," said I--not thus to be outdone--
"What of the moon? Over the dusty plane-trees
Which crouch in the dusk above their feeble lanterns,
Each coldly lighted by his tiny faith;
The moon, the waxen moon, now almost full,
Creeps whitely up.... Westward the waves of cloud,
Vermilion, crimson, violet, stream on the air,
Shatter to golden flakes in the icy green
Translucency of twilight.... And the moon
Drinks up their light, and as they fade or darken,
Brightens.... O monstrous miracle of the twilight,
That one should live because the others die!"
"Strange too," she answered, "that upon this azure
Pale-gleaming ghostly stream, impalpable--
So faint, so fine that scarcely it bears up
The petals that the lantern strews upon it,--
These great black barges float like apparitions,
Loom in the silver of it, beat upon it,
Moving upon it as dragons move on air."
"Thus always," then I answered,--looking never
Toward her face, so beautiful and strange
It grew, with feeding on the evening light,--
"The gross is given, by inscrutable God,
Power to beat wide wings upon the subtle.
Thus we ourselves, so fleshly, fallible, mortal,
Stand here, for all our foolishness, transfigured:
Hung over nothing in an arch of light
While one more evening like a wave of silence
Gathers the stars together and goes out."
It is the eucharist of the evening, changing
All things to beauty. Now the ancient river,
That all day under the arch was polished jade,
Becomes the ghost of a river, thinly gleaming
Under a silver cloud.... It is not water:
It is that azure stream in which the stars
Bathe at the daybreak, and become immortal...."
"And the moon," said I--not thus to be outdone--
"What of the moon? Over the dusty plane-trees
Which crouch in the dusk above their feeble lanterns,
Each coldly lighted by his tiny faith;
The moon, the waxen moon, now almost full,
Creeps whitely up.... Westward the waves of cloud,
Vermilion, crimson, violet, stream on the air,
Shatter to golden flakes in the icy green
Translucency of twilight.... And the moon
Drinks up their light, and as they fade or darken,
Brightens.... O monstrous miracle of the twilight,
That one should live because the others die!"
"Strange too," she answered, "that upon this azure
Pale-gleaming ghostly stream, impalpable--
So faint, so fine that scarcely it bears up
The petals that the lantern strews upon it,--
These great black barges float like apparitions,
Loom in the silver of it, beat upon it,
Moving upon it as dragons move on air."
"Thus always," then I answered,--looking never
Toward her face, so beautiful and strange
It grew, with feeding on the evening light,--
"The gross is given, by inscrutable God,
Power to beat wide wings upon the subtle.
Thus we ourselves, so fleshly, fallible, mortal,
Stand here, for all our foolishness, transfigured:
Hung over nothing in an arch of light
While one more evening like a wave of silence
Gathers the stars together and goes out."
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