female vocalist wanted

Chicago IL

Description

Dear ?, By the time you read this letter, it will have been rewritten in numerous attempts to mimic the obscene penmanship of the original text. The wax stamp never sealed in the exact shape it formed upon first impression. And this letter was addressed to a residence that’s not quite yours yet. Before your eyes reach this letter, stink from the ink shall have long since wisped of its essence after cycling through the postal system. Once prophetic prose became mechanically calculated paragraphs, stuffed into computers in unceremonious fashion. This letter, copied, pasted. Don’t even ask if these are all the same words, for when first writing this letter, your name was in the heading. Should it close with a different signature, know I am Wolfgang Gillette of the post-music duo, Screamship. Despite all the unsolicited editing, intention of this letter remains the same. It is Screamship’s wish to add your voice to our blackhole ballads and socio-philosophical dance chants. But this isn’t just an invitation to be in a band. Shit, if it were, you would’ve received this letter centuries ago, when then was now. You’d have read it that one Friday night a Giant screamed so loud, the scream became matter, soaring into outer space. That matter became a ship once being perceived so. And the sound it’s made ever since? Post-music, a sound heard before being recorded, long before a Giant screamed, longer than before a Giant had reason to scream. In our attempts to record it, the sound escaped. It continued to exist by reaching a frequency high enough to generate a space replicating the space in which it was created, in that exact moment we tried to record it. Untethered to a tape loop, too nimble for digital playback, again, the sound escaped into space expanding as far as could be heard. And all within this never know they are beings repeating themselves. But from one escape to the next, this space becomes a wee bit different than the last. Blame it on past attachments, discrepancies in memories. These almost exact copies continue on till this space completely changes. With nowhere left to escape, the sound returns to the first moment it was heard in each individual space. Trapped inside this space, machined start to finish, I slip out of orbit, then discover my existence where the sound is created. No longer repeating myself, my perception of self multiplies in size by the number of times it occurred in space. These spaces appear in the shape of boxes, boxes within a box. I tried to break the box, but my voice wasn’t strong enough. My voice alone, it was not. Now I keep coming back, because I heard the sound. Until it’s recorded, we will keep meeting in this space, that box. Though by then, I’ll be repeating under a different name. And perhaps you’ll receive this letter when it reads as just another ad for a vocalist. Until we meet again, Wolfgang Gillette