the portable yugen

by yugenro

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(free) 00:08
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about

A collection of tracks from 1993-1995. Most tracks were put together on my Yamaha SY85 workstation synth, but there are a few melodic and impressionistic vocal tunes as well.

credits

released February 1, 1995

keith rowley-yugen: synth, sampler, sequencer, editing, effects, voices, hand drums, percussion
keith krause: African harp on "Pinku wea"

tags

license

all rights reserved

about

yugenro Bellevue, Washington

I teach people how to use computers and software. I listen to a LOT of music. I explore consciousness and my pallette. I observe, organize, and categorize. I take a LOT of photographs.

I dream of doing nothing other than making music and travelling. :-)
... more

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Track Name: Pinku wea
Boam tampait nowatu weitu
Shingo do tuait fan tudutu
Wan poco ea eno
Iantiait sheyo

Pinku wea, Pinku wea

Boam tampait nowatu weitu
Shingo do tuait fan tudutu
Wan poco ea eno
Iantiait sheyo

Pinku wea, Pinku wea

Boam tampait nowatu weitu
Shingo do tuait fan tudutu
Wan poco ea eno
Iantiait sheyo

Pinku wea, pinku wea
Track Name: the somnambulist
"we dig wormholes between our varying points of view…"

…when narcoleptic dream-tears melt vanilla incense,
only days slumber by without a waking provocation
of this blanket-tangled corpse meandering
off course for another long, cold winter of hibernation
amongst backlit hollows moving mumbly mumbly mumbly…
& on the verge of shiny velvet revelation
begun weeks ago on a blank bit of untidy beach
southwest of shannondaun's willowy mist;

while watery shadows of a silvery-tinted silhouette moon
wash dark & luscious women barely
aware any hint of shimmering sound collects
in livid & discoloured shallows where winds meet,
wishing they were asleep along with a foot tingling
twisted dextrously beneath its weak & bleary-eyed body
lying upright in perpetually hollow & resounding bedchambers
in which timid & weary belongings bay & howl
& wallow in spice-scented incomplete screams
until they fall barren, in a cloudy poof,
to the black, talc-covered floor.

Brazenly aware of the dissonance between what I think and what I do,
(I’m scared of myself!)
I fold and crumble and dissolve into the ether
To dissipate this sense of ego-fixedness that’s nailed me spread-eagle to the world.
(I’m too close to myself…)
I need dissipation
So that I can be blown by the wind,
Washed away by the rain,
Ground by plate tectonics into the very world I grew out of,
But which I only see in moments of exceptional lucidity--
Like when I’m lost and completely off-centered,
Completely disjointed perplexed contorted spiraling spinning falling flailing
disjointed perplexed distorted contorted spiraling spinning falling flailing disjointed--
That there’s no other way to see…

And we call this underground, otherworldy, fucked-up maze of self absorbed blackness…

“Ourselves.”