Whilst out wondering in the forest one day – all willy-nilly, joyous & gay – in the slowly creeping night’s cool air, the sun dipping below the pine-spangled canopy, you may be fortunate enough to stumble across a small Irishman. Wiry and fidgety, burrowed deep into the bark of a squat and craning tree.
“Ye Gods!” you might exclaim, all aghast; “Who is this devilish little fellow, all hunkered up in here? Here, in this gnarled and broken oak?”
Why, it’s the Calibricorn, my friend! You just so happen to have happened uponst onest of the 170 world’s most illusive, exclusive and intuitive producers! A fabled legend and sprightly spriggan of the scene! The one-and-only & oh-so-holy Caleighbra (pron; Ca-lee-bruh). The Irishman. The Calibricorn. The Calibre.
He’s a mysterious productive entity with a material output so vast in its scape, so huge is his discography, so unchecked is the Calibre-valve – the innards of his musical bowls ever gushing freely into the rivulets and open-pores of the earth – they build monolithic sky-containers, hung high above the peaks of the High-Pass Mountains, to safely mantle the infinitesimal quantities of music he does birth. Containers creaking under the strain of so many releases crammed between their swollen walls.
Some even dare to say that the Calibricorn has incalculably more material unreleased, squandered away in some dark corner of the world, a filthy sound-pit busy with the work of the master craftsman, than he does crammed into those qualified, certified and calculated containers. The tinker & the tailor, the candlestick maker and the boombastic beat shaker all morphed into one singular cell of an emotional typhoon that accounts for one 1% of the Calibre genome. A single shade of grey concealing a googolplex of personal depth impossible. So many vibes and so little time – the Calibricorn whittling away the hours of a lifetime making rolling beats for days. Literally.
In this particular escapade, however, you will find only four of the rare nuglets deemed ‘Calibre Gems’ sat snug in the tangle of knotted roots and blooming shroomage. As the Calibricorn scampers from the uncertainty of your peripherals and scrambles off into the complete disconcerting shade of places unseen, you are left only to consider the bright baubles of thrumbling and rumbling audible creation, glimmering like the caustic eggs of a nuclear Komodo in his wake.
“What are these trinkets, so bright and so seducing? These delights that lay before us, so tender and so sweet sir?” you would ask. Though there would be no one here to hear you – not even the cheeky sprite that is the Calibre, so nimble and so fine, long rustled into the unders and uppergrowths, lost in the fold.
And as your fingers touch the reaching throngs of light, the ones that dance upon the surface-like aurora encircling this little four-piece musical cluster, the metaphysical world would implode in a flash so bright even the sun would shade its eyes from harm.
You would awaken in a room none too dissimilar from the scenes depicted in every alien autopsy fantasy, every bleary eyed rise from unconsciousness to the masked faces of your examiners, the metronomic bleep of machines unknown and the white light of a sterile haven piercing the shallow gloom of your unwilling slumber.
“Com-pu-ter In-ter-grate-ed Au-dio.” rattles the vocally synchronized warble of dual voices stretched and digitally integrated as one. A Doduo of heads leer into perspective, though shrouded in the mechanical intricacies and biological oddities that fuse the very fibres of their being. A strange single organism divided by the neck, driven by two minds, working as one.
Their fingers and tendrils gently tend to your loosely connected soul. As they tease your feelings back into being the lower frequencies begin to warm the empty space around you. As your ears begin to breathe once more – the sprouting tines of the Total Science creation, like vines, slowly encasing you – the sterile and spacious void between eardrum and walls begin to fill with a muffled undulation of weighted vibrations.
The eardrums and space. The drums and the structure’s base. And just as the highest of ends filters through the last remnants of glunky sponge that was once clogging your filthy ear canals, the hats and the snares and the crisp and clean licks of musical relief, the enveloping fingers of the Total Science project completely consumes you. The loving arms and appendages engulf your tiny being and fill your lungs, every orifice breached, pierced and invaded. Computer Integrated Audio consuming and cocooning you, whole.
You awaken as the deep ravines in which Another’s liquid rivers rush and roll in measured turbulence, a gentile dark in the shadows of the mountain.
You rise as the wobbling monster from the southern jungles’ hidden dank-glades, sloughing foliage and mud from your crunching technical being as you stomp through the roughage, a hungry Groblin* known as the Posh Boy.
You pour from the shifting sands of the arid White Label Desert, a hypnotic rumble of Hertz below the waste-line driven by a shattering rhythm induced by the parched and mirage-like Dreamz Dub of lost wanderers.
You lap clean and crystal-filtered clear upon a quiet shore, still and standing as the blue body of Neptune in the quiet seclusion of the deepest heart of the forest, the beautiful liquid lake that ripples with every passing notion that it “doesn’t actually exist”, for none who hears this tale will ever Believe It.
That is, at least, until you so happen upon a chance to experience the latest magical instalment from the Calibricorn yourself. This mysterious story known as CIAQS005 is something perhaps not so impossible. Not so far away…
Pre-order your copy of the Calibre – Dreamz Dub EP on digital/12″ here (18/09/2015)
* of no relation to the mythological ‘Goblin’