inertia, by Sylvia_Din

inertia

by Sylvia_Din

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josedenoche Words can't fathom enough the overwhelmed impression this outstanding tryptic of dark poetry left in this humble listener. Nuanced in introspective sombre trip hop that beckons its spectator to gleam through the shadowy aspect of existence, you're dragged in blurry vision of impermanence, cascading in collages of moments past due, making a subtle quandary of glitchy memories tied in neo-noir puzzles where the ephemeral comunes in vast bliss of nullification. In polaroid, beauty muse silently. Favorite track: a less treacherous form of leaching (ft. Human Head).

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Cassette + Digital Album
Recorded onto distressed tape from my beaten-up cassette deck. This means that the recording you get will be unique, it will have flaws and strange imperfections. Don’t buy this cassette if you want it to sound like Spotify.

Unique acrylic pour artwork. All the artwork was hand-poured by my partner and I.

A lyric sheet with all of the poems from the contributors

Hand-numbered out of 15

Specific tape mastering done by o.turbitt.audio at Deadhound Records

Includes unlimited streaming of inertia via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.

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1.	inertia (an introduction) 02:01		buy track
2.	a less treacherous form of leaching (ft. Human Head) 04:16	lyrics	buy track
Nostalgia is enemy of amnesia, but I know which I’d choose given the choice. We take pictures of ourselves as evidence that we existed on that day, on that day we mattered — here’s the proof. I want to erase it all. I want to fragment my memory until I can’t pick out a face or place, make a cracked mirror out of my past and present until time’s spiral Is a ball of knotted string. On the operating table my hands are upside down umbrellas catching rainwater in its cradle. My heart a plastic radio repeating the shipping forecast, a storm foreboding, both feet contain black holes swallowing floors, my kneecaps are happy to meet you. My outstretched arms say I’m always smiling - it’s a cruel joke with no punchline. My body is this photograph documenting my time, but the hairline fractures in my psyche make me delete all the evidence as a monument to nothingness. So why do I keep making art? Am I the appropriation of my own image? What are you supposed to do when you look like your own doppelganger, and you can’t tell the difference between presence and presentation? The poem as a photograph is proof, illustrative evidence. To collect poems is to collect the world. I am the cartographer of the silhouette in the doorway In the mirror just behind you This body is a document a less treacherous form of leaching. It shows how the past happened and how the present can be reached.
3.	dermodex (ft. Chloë Proctor) 03:47	lyrics	buy track
Dermodex It’s an aggression in parts First spatialising expresses Ex-ecodermetics behind narrative clots Gravel-plasm impresses crackware pore diving on sward Make clear Make real Abreast of these incisors We need no innard contortions instead side rubbings stay smooth on the catch The climate vessels dispel spitsalt spitworks machine light An unfettering swathe which traps tipsound Rifle breath climbing an eventuality of extinctions conjure this quickened dialect Abort abort genetic filaments “We should care because they’re cute” Meanwhile conflict skin hanging tracing fringe scraping sh-shape shifter St-tay mmmm-faceted si-sicken chasm An an-anan an and Delicate witness, stay your symbiot drift Pit your plaits against the other tongue typical on main She intends on invoking the product without process but the cables stay knotted St-st-op put in kn-knots inth-in the the string Left pull releases right pull locks Stop putting knots in the string I don’t think you feel you’re holobionic while you’re uploading your trash fuck to the discourse St-stop put stop put Coiling your limbs around the crash Scum filtering on dermis We’re all chthonic here bb clicksend It’s the act on the face that caught her attention rather than any accountability for what she might be secreting Solidly minisculing beyond detection: We’re disintegrating incensed Ev-every inch ev-ev-every inch furling away from us in glitch glyphs Maybe you’re right to posit typos as endings I’ve had to stop thinking of us as progress Nothing appears to be going up but something collects as it drags
4.	a tree cutting party (ft. Aaron Kent) 05:46	lyrics	buy track
Our tree was the right kind of oak upon which the starling never flapped its wings. How could it, it was locked away like a reluctant eulogy penned in a closet in the kitchen. A defensive bird, still in shock, its chest heaving in an effort to inhale or exhale, and the smell of its feathers when touched, moved on me like skin at a party, until the entire sky opened up and the top third of the tree fell onto our roof. I heard the bird’s voice in the back of the kitchen like a terrible mistake. It said beware of those people, they are not good people. The bird knows you. Then a thing, so small, flew into its beak, so small that for a few seconds the bird kept its beak closed, not knowing what it wanted, so the thing stayed in its head and grew bigger and bigger and the bird began to eat its own skull from within, one small bite at a time the way if you hold a match to your ear you can hear how soft your skull is. And then one day it had consumed most of it and it was ready for someone to finish the job and gave the skull to another bird, another starling, and it put the skull down and ate it. Every time I came home from work I saw the bird flying up to its window and looking at me from the branch like a man who had lost his memory. Its body a tattered sack – its face hollow from missing a skull to hold it. But this is where the bird sang, its voice like the sound of a train in winter over a river. It sang so much that anytime it was silent I thought it was a ghost. It sang as the train’s sound became the forest’s and I thought about all the things I had done and was going to do, and it sang and it sang, and no one was more grateful for the train and for the sounds and smell of the trees and for the things that I had taken from them, which no one could ever take away from me and so the bird sang and the trees sang. It was hard to believe but the bird, the leaves, the grass sang, the trees sang, the sun sang, the wilderness sang, the moon sang, and the stars sang. When all was said and done what was said and done was all that would last, and I was one of the singers, singing when the sky was the river and the sound of the train came from within my head and the birds sang when the earth was the forest and the trees sang, and the grass sang. When all was said and done what was said and done was all that would last, what was said and done was what I sang. The birds sang, the trees sang, the grass sang. And what was said and done was all that would last, yes, what was said and done was what I sang. That is how it was and that is how it is.

about

All proceeds being split between Mind and Medical Aid For Palestine

-

Inertia is defined as the tendency to do nothing or to remain unchanged. However, even if one tries to stay inert, they rarely succeed; most of the time, all they do is atrophy. The world will often change them, whether they intend it to or not. The slow sun-bleaching of old photos, the deterioration of the tape in their cassette, the loss of memories.

This EP is a unique and emotional journey through the complex nature of change and loss. It employs a mixture of glitched-out beats, eroded acoustic instruments, found sounds, and powerful spoken word passages to bring its world to life.

When crafting the sound of Inertia, Sylvia_Din digitally decomposed analogue elements, stretching and amplifying the gaps between noises, bringing often unheard artefacts to centre stage. It was important that the different elements of the songs were constantly wrestling with themselves, being periodically overrun with feedback or having granular slices of audio tear away from the main sound.

To bring this project to life, Sylvia_Din enlisted the help of three incredibly talented spoken word artists, without whom none of this would have been possible.

- Joshua Jones: In his writing, Jones operates across poetry, short story, and essay writing, while his art practice focuses on paint, collage, deconstruction, video, and sound. Jones uses art and writing to explore and communicate his neurodivergence, queerness, and working-class identity.

- Chloë Procter: Chloë is a London-Irish mulchy poet and massage therapist. Her work grapples with generating grammar ecologies and exploring alternative sense-making patterns. She was a poet in residence as part of Can Serrat’s Narrativa Colectiva residency in Barcelona, January 2023.

- Aaron Kent: Aaron runs the poetry press Broken Sleep Books and has recently finished his debut novel. He particularly wants to advocate for more working-class voices in literature. He had several poetry pamphlets published, and his debut collection, *Angels the Size of Houses*, is available from Shearsman Books.

- Ollie Turbitt: Ollie runs Deadhound records (Italy/Scotland) and has been instrumental in the support and production of this EP, using his knowledge of mastering to bring both the digital version and the tape master to life.

Two years ago, I lost my Granddad to dementia. It was hard watching a person she knew fray at the edges and slowly lose his sense of self. This EP is dedicated to him and anyone who has lost a loved one.

credits

released November 13, 2023

Music: Tom Baker

Lyrics:
Chloe Proctor
Joshua Jones
Aaron Kent

Mastering: Ollie Turbitt/Deadhound records

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about

Sylvia_Din London, UK

Sylvia_Din is the electronic moniker of Tom Baker. The project brings together elements of post industrial techno, noise, punk, deconstructed club and experimental hip hop to create distorted, claustrophobic electronic music for a generation that feels out of step. ... more

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