Keep Your Secrets

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23 April 2012

Mix Act Duration
Keep Your Secrets (Original Mix) Andrew Bayer 8:59
Keep Your Secrets (Myon & Shane 54 Summer Of Love Mix) Andrew Bayer 6:57
Keep Your Secrets (Beckwith Remix) Andrew Bayer 5:44

Keep Your Secrets (Original Mix)

The interbellum was sparse & scarce, for good reason- If It Were You, We'd Never Leave is longer than It's Artificial. Meanwhile, Vol 9 has a full third that cannot be listened to without spilling the beans to your captors. KYS is the remedy.
Few deadbeats can arouse such wonder, so his intro is espiecially memorable. Slitching into style, the soft cracks of whips swip into place every time, spiralling & whirling & popping into the most silky fanes[1] almost unimaginable. Bancroft's verses are entertaining, unlike most songs, where verses are deadzones of tune. But Bayer's instrument, its anfractuous wildness, & Molly's vocal tensity unite to question music. The answer is anticongruities flecting & fractalling into a new Bayer pianomposition, one of his hallmarks. Savour the train siren at 4:42, it's psychotoid. Tone-shifts are always greater than plate-shifts, when they're as cutting as this.
Los Alamos cannot total up to the climax. The piano here is elementary, in form & function. Two notes ringing on occasion can pierce your gut scimitarly.

Keep Your Secrets (Myon & Shane 54 Summer Of Love Mix)

Mechanical without being robotic, their stadium-burning summers of love used to melt the ground beneath them. This is one, from the first kickdrum slithe to the last percussivist wduu. Along with iB, this electrotrash is one I won't cut out for running. The three/four base sets the bodymood. The lithium bomb bass semihemidemiquaver-quivers will put you in a wheelchair, then break the wheelchair. The vocal cut between quasar bursts will roast your core to dust. Everything is right about this electrotrash.
Everything they do with the vocals reveals flaws in the vertebral column we didn't know about- repeating the cuts gives a laser's edge, flippant & terse, ripping beneath the skin. The thermodynamic duo gilded the OM with platinum, our ticket to heaven even before the reformed pianism became fortism. Larger than the Great Wall, Hercules-Corona Borealis, this Summer will never end.
Neither will the Love. The climax, more heart-stopping than thallium ever could be, is a revving, triserrated lacesaw, from the utter hopelessness of the tune, to the desperation & despondence of the bassgun. Why does old music have to fade away? We can end that.

Keep Your Secrets (Beckwith Remix)

Some should, however. Not this, though. His last remix is his Beckwithiest mark. Compare this to his first remix, & how that could have been made by anyone (with pandimensional skill). By 2012, he had found his groove, his idioticon[2] bursting. Listen to this. You know exactly who it is. Again, Bancroft's vocals have been pliced & spliced into a nerve-singeing hook, liquescing with the chordophonic rapids into a darkling, sparkling icing. Nevertheless, icing will just make you sick. Beckwith should have moved onto the tune, instead of calling his hour a day.

What a hook.
  1. which are
  2. 1. A dictionary of a peculiar dialect, or of the words and phrases peculiar to one part of a country; a glossary