Put on a scuba suit and a pair of lead underpants, because you’re about to take a ride in my motherfucking time machine.
*Cobblestone streets. A man shits in a bucket. A woman gives her child a heroin/cocaine mix for their headache. Shakespeare is getting hella laid.*
Lords and ladies! May i presenteth to thee, the music of John Dowland. Born in 1563, this fine gent set forth this music compos’d for lute, viols, violins, and writ in five fucking parts. John Dowland ’tis a bombeth assed fuddy duddy lov’r of mothers. The Sokratis Sinopoulos Quartet doth play this liketh the gents art thou the true’st of moth’rfucking bosses. The album hast an incredible ability to soundeth both mod’rn and ancient as hell at the same timeth. Joined by L’Achéron and François Joubert-Caillet, and changing up the traditional lute for a Greek lyre, this dungheap bridges a gap between what is past and what art though present. If ’t ev’r gazeth the film Braveheart, and did dug yond soundtrack, thou art going to loveth this wench of an album with all thy heart.
The beauty of this album rests in the amount of space it allows for silence. This album doesn’t tryeth to reacheth thee with epic fucking grandness. Tis speaks to thee on wind. This album t’s joyous. This album t’s lighteth. Thee can picture bunnies, and various joyous Disney animals, fucking like wh’res as this plays. Yet at the heart of each piece sits a deep and sacred woe. This album is an expl’ration in finding beauty in darkest and deepest of teens, in wallowing despair, and in the blackest of hearts. A concept yond hast been ’round f’r a longeth motherfucking timeth. T’s incredible to hark concepts from so long ago that continueth to feeleth as real and the words on this fucking page.
*Asphalt streets. A man shits in a robotic/selfcleaning/talking toilet. A woman gives her child an Ipad and and loud cartoons for their headache. Jason Momoa is getting hella laid.*
The concepts behind these compositions are beautiful. They were published back in 1604 when Dowland was employed as lutenist. At the top of their pages was a Latin epigram that said, “Aut Furit, aut Lachrimat, quem non Fortuna beavit” (“He whom Fortune has not blessed either rages or weeps”). You know how I said this shit was put into seven parts? That’s because each part is written for its own kind of tear. I shit you not. That’s how it works. You’ve got Old tears, Old tears renewed, Sighing tears, Sad tears, Forced tears, A Lover’s tears, and finally True tears. John Dowland wasn’t some stupid hard motherfucker. He understood that there are many ways to cry. And in the hands of these players, this concept continues to make its impact all the way to the present day. An idea yond travels through time effectively? ’Tis motherfucker is da shit.