Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Sound engineering by Patrick Stolley and Snowblink
This is a knitting, something done completely by hand. Snowblink is the same as those hats of one size that barely fit over a strange baby's ears, those booties for a strange baby's feet or the scarf for that strange baby's new, new neck. The San Franciscan band, the main work of Daniela Gesundheit - a form of snow angel or real, is something that requires so much care it hurts and a purpose without sully, with pure intent to be as adored as it should be.
In Gesundheit's backbreakingly gorgeous words and their airy movements, you feel your arms and your cheeks being rubbed warm as if an invisible hand is doing what you'd instinctively be doing for yourself upon coming in from shoveling the walks or tobogganing over some wildness for a few hours, until the lights flushed and you couldn't see the bottoms to which you were heading anymore. There is a terrifyingly beautiful sense of nothing else mattering as she sings about the antlers that have grown out of her guitar and about these mysterious lines of story that appear before us as startlingly as new colors or languages would. They feel as tender as that yarn from a knitting sliding over itself and hugging tight with its own self, still connected to the rest of itself twisted around the spool. It's that scraping, light as a feather and yet monumental in what it means for a completed blanket or other item of warm cover, that lets us know of the action, of the happening, of the change that its going through. It's only loud in a silent little room - where the walls are close on all four sides and there's nothing bothering the stillness - when the rubbing of one hand upon another (no matter how soft and moisturized they may be) sound like plate tectonics, big rocky slabs of earth smashing together. It's bigger - always - than we would like to think.
Snowblink makes music that you can sidle up to, nuzzle your nose into and cling to for its many, many nutrients and its dearheartedness, but you can't take it with you. It belongs forever in its own special natural habitat, far away from the bungling and crass pollutants and superficialities. It belongs where the ten-foot poles and the prattle bugs can't gnaw holes into it and turned it into tainted and tattered bits. You aren't allowed - the protectors won't let you - just take what you want and leave the rest behind like a balled out carton of ice cream, deformed and used. You take it all - Gesundheit's rippling currents of mountain water, her imaginative pieces of prose and poetry, her dynamic takes on the interplay of life and the nature that surrounds it and a fantastic wonderland of sounds and extractions all put in their proper places. It reminds you of a person who appreciates and falls for a sweet line of poetry like, "I, when you notice, am cast in gold" and wraps an apple in gold foil. It's quite spectacular and right.
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