Text and Photos by Charles Nickles
I fell out of love with swollen epochal guitar somewhere between the bass trap “experiment” and the day Girlie died. I know that’s a pretty wide swath of time but I can’t say for certain it was anything definitive that pulled me off the Orange heartstring exploitation. One day it seemed silly and one day my dog died and somewhere in between I just couldn’t with the fucking perpetual crescendos.
But I always kinda liked Mono because Mono never fucked around.
Yes, they plied in the same trade as Godspeed! and Explosions in the Sky (neither whom I imagine I’ll ever find a reason to listen to again) but whereas those bands always sounded like overseriously silly love songs to me, Mono was stark and bleak and daaaaaark. Damaged and distant and perpetually on the state of same psychic collapse. When they swelled, I shouted and when they released, I shuddered and wished I could weep.
I will admit that, tonight, I do neither. As firm a place as this band’s staked in my unmentionable melodrama, I don’t feel the need to engage in the same horror and ardor. I know my pain now and I honor my pleasure so this this time around I’m content as a visitor, a gawker, a fan, a familiar happy to be in a place where the waves still quake like the titans in bed with the sun.