Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Mike Gentry
There is a sound, prominent at the beginning of Larkin Grimm's song "Mina Minou," and present throughout that makes us think of a burly man's tree saw, slicing through the trunk of a great and noble tree, something that's stood for the greater part of a century, only to be felled to make another new house that no one wants to buy. It sounds like the ripping of bark, and in its terrifying voice of friction, we hear the death of a living thing. The tree is crying, like a lobster boiling the bubbling waters at dinnertime. It's accompanied by some meowing by Grimm and her gang of quirky gypsies, but it's that terrifying sound of the saw that helps make everything else in the song terrifying as well. The whole song is spooky, hitting us over there in our willies quadrant, where we hear these folks not for the kind and sweet musicians they are, but for spirits practicing witchcraft and the sort -- those brewing up spells and potions, trying to determine if they can make black magic something more than just a pastime, maybe a profession. They are raising the flames, coaxing them on, taunting the burning logs to produce more and to make them hotter, make them peck against our tender, tender skin, leaving marks. The song feels bi-polar, as do most of Grimm's creations. The Memphis, Tennessee-born songwriter is every bit the artist that you'll feel as if you never fully get. She gets us singing the lines, "Your body is gone/Almost gone/But your brain lives on/Your body is gone, but your brain lives on/We'll bury you in the morn.," over and over, and we're feeling like we're having our heads split open. We feel like we're going a bit made. We're hearing those trees wailing, those lobsters screaming bloody murder and then there are the cats that are roaming around everywhere in the room.