Striborg

This is Striborg. It is a one-man band from Australia. He calls himself Sin Nanna:



I imagine Striborg. I often find myself thinking about Striborg.

Sin Nanna lives in a treehouse in New Zealand, I think. Sin Nanna stays up late and gets up early. Sin Nanna rejects the weakness that is sleep.

Sin Nanna's treehouse is fitted out between white pines. Sin Nanna gets up early to watch the sun rise, and it breaks over the trees, and Sin Nanna thinks about the way the sun can dry a green leaf to a shrunken brown.

Sin Nanna stays up late and watches a storm roll in from the east, and sees lightning bouncing from cloud to cloud, and thinks that all life begins with a spark, and that a spark is something that destroys.

Sin Nanna likes the moon. Everything there is gray. And quiet. And dead. And spinning. And if you make a little hop, you hop very very high.

Sin Nanna to pull all the mids out when he plays his guitar. He likes to turn the reverb all the way up. He likes the warmth of the analog echo. He likes his tiny tiny home studio. He likes the chords piled up and crisscrossing—like the twisting of vines—all around the floor. He likes to sing from across the room. He likes to set up the microphone outside in the grass, and likes to walk away from it, to hide behind white pines, and sing from there.

He likes to clatter around on the drums.

Sin Nanna likes to dig his feet into the dirt, bury himself to his ankles, and he likes to wait and wait to see what happens.

Sin Nanna likes high winds, and he likes to climb to the highest point possible of one of his trees, and he likes to lash himself to the trunk, and let the wind batter him.

At least, I imagine all this about Striborg.

Maybe I'm wrong, and shouldn't blog about it.

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Music, not so harsh.

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Alice Cooper on Soupy Sales.