On a hike you hear birdsong—first kookaburra, then raven, then something you don’t recognise, then magpie warbles, gang-gang creaks—pouring forth from a single source. Your uncle found a lyrebird feather nearby, but has never knowingly seen or heard them before. The sound feels like a magic trick; you can understand being seduced by it.
If a lo-fi beat hip-hopped with no-one around to study it, would it still make a sound? Everything in creation is noisy, from the hum of a blackhole to the pulse of blood in your ears. The spring burbles into the stream babbling to the river roaring to the ocean, where cetacean songs rise from mystical depths, evaporate in the whisper of sea foam, and then come raining back to earth to fill a lake where you skip a rock to make a harmony with the surface... plip-plip-plip- plonk!
You’re standing right at the back and someone passes you a tub of earplugs. The same six guys just switching between sets all day. They’re a duo, and now they’re a four-piece band. You find the earplugs in your pocket the next weekend: there’s a new set of guys, a disco ball, a bassist who smiles.
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