Quick note about a thing that’s important to me:
I got this poster ten years and two days ago, the day before From A Basement On The Hill was released, which was apparently a decade ago yesterday. It hung on my closet when I was 17 and hangs there now at 27.
This record is and was a gut-puncher—relentless, uncomfortable and entirely, wholly beautiful in how pieced-together and vulnerable it feels (and makes me feel). It marks a horrendous time for me, one I crawled out of, not cleanly, but better for it.
It takes some of the best parts of previous records and morphs them; it re-defines them into something new. It’s a person, patch-worked, then the skin torn away and left, raw and muscular. Aware of you, and considering you, but ultimately existing and acting in spite of you. It is complex and imperfect, and in that and with that comes this insane, incomparable humanity. It carries an unbearable weight, made even heavier in context, but you let it play and just sort of be with it and that is enough—that is fucking plenty.