1. |
Who is Dubh Linn For?
05:51
|
|||
I stick me head over the wall, and the heat and the noise hits me face like a hot gush of piss. The fuck did I leave that bike? It's on the corner where we met Dave the rave.
|
||||
2. |
Almost Post Coital
03:30
|
|||
This was the end; and a faint glimmer of fear began to pierce the fog of his mind. He pressed his face against the pane of the window and gazed out into the darkening street. Forms passed this way and that through the dull light. And that was life. The letters of the name of Dublin lay heavily upon his mind, pushing one another surlily hither and thither with slow boorish insistence. His soul was fattening and congealing into a gross grease, plunging ever deeper in its dull fear into a sombre threatening dusk, while the body that was his stood, listless and dishonoured, gazing out of darkened eyes, helpless, perturbed and human for a bovine god to stare upon.
|
||||
3. |
Beware of Monkey Mind
06:24
|
|||
4. |
The Many Body Problem
06:10
|
|||
5. |
From This Position
08:26
|
|||
6. |
Frain Bried
08:04
|
|||
7. |
Fear of Cranes
07:50
|
|||
The buildings of Dublin city range,
From townhouse to tenement,
From Gothic to Georgian,
From castle to Coolock,
From slum, to bum, to sitting in the sun,
Portobello, tops off, braindead, lobster red.
From Facebook to tech firms,
From tech firms to tax breaks,
From tax breaks to Airbnb to your landlord knocking on the door telling you to pack your bags,
There’s no place for scabby students anymore; eating beans on toast, arguing over politics at four in the morning with Maggot Brain blasts from an iPhone perched delicately inside a tea cup.
From Brownfield to Greenfield,
From Greenfield to Whitefield,
From Whitefield to Micheál raking up lines on a Friday evening,
Behind the scenes Christmas party,
Jim’s passed out; too many white wine spritzers.
“Do you want another bump?”
“Ehhh no. Im on an anti-conscious diet, I only ingest substances that I am completely unaware of.
I haven’t had a conscious sip of water in weeks and my skin feels amazing.”
From beyond the Pale to the Anglo-Saxon way of life,
Hyberno-English never sounded so good as when accompanied by the deep chimes of a construction site.
A suited man lowers a barrel of brick to the bottom floor,
Not knowing that the mass of the bricks exceeds his own, the man is shot sky high,
Pulley wheel pivots, and for a moment, one truly believes pigs can fly.
However, this is short lived, as upon encountering the ground, the barrel’s bottom breaks,
Returning the man back to his subservient position,
Head in the gutter, heart in the sky,
Aeormaphobia - fear of cranes,
Often experienced by the likes of those whose personality transcends the 9-5 your ‘rents wish you had,
By Danny, aged 27 still living at home with his ma sucking on chicken goujons till his mouth goes cotton.
From Meibion Glyndwr to FLNC,
Holidaying has never been so exciting,
The chance of seeing a real life Jackson Pollick, in the flesh, dressed in blood guts and cigarette butts,
Really gets my taint a tingling.
A true appreciation of the arts is hard to come by these days,
Especially when so many of us are tempted by the hedonistic lifestyle of bigger cities, brighter lights, and better rents.
Emmet Kirwan can help you reminisce, but the reality is, the bold arrow of time only goes one way,
And no amount of stock drops, face lifts, or stolen artefacts is going to change that,
This self imbued immortality will section us out of our motherly sanctuary, And leave behind an incision that cleaves communities
One day soon, the ghost of Fitzgerald will beckon an arm out,
In the form of a can of Dutch Gold and squashed box of Amber.
But nothing will ever be the same.
|
||||
8. |
DART
08:16
|
|||
it’s like the DART on a latesummer evening
when you’ve been glazed over, staring out
past all the strained commuters
reading their phones and their newspapers
and their Virgil (in Latin, even) with tired eyes
and suddenly the sea bursts into view
without you even having to ask for it
while you’ve forgotten it was ever there
and you nearly can’t believe how beautiful it is
the gold on navy against overarching pink
and so of course you don’t tear your
eyes away from the window until
the last possible second, and you
have to sprint for the doors with
the breathlessness of it all, that’s
what it’s like -
when I hear the bell ring,
and I open the front door
and you’re there
suddenly, finally
waiting.
|
Jimbo Jones Dublin, Ireland
Between patching feedback loops into analog gear and recording the drunken ramblings outside a chipper at 3am, Jimbo Jones is a music producer that attempts to convey reality. He achieves this through the creation of an ever-changing array of tones and melodies, backed by off-kilter rhythms and interpolated field recordings drenched in humour and political undertones. ... more
Streaming and Download help
Jimbo Jones recommends:
If you like Jimbo Jones, you may also like:
Bandcamp Daily your guide to the world of Bandcamp