If a meaningful mugging in the mirror moves your inner mouth to silence, well, you’re pretty fucked. Spontaneous shouts at the self are more than sweet nothings, they’re a sign you care enough to put up the shield and shiv and sic yourself on life. Maybe you’re screaming at yourself–maybe the mirror has concerns for your sanity. Perhaps you’re squeezing yourself into a body shape hug of words you wear like armour. Either way, expectations of yourself exist.
But silence is scythes stabbing and slicing away at a shadow. Of you, sad motherfucker. So, we search ‘on and on and on’ to hear what HUNTAR calls the sound ‘of heaven falling beating in my brain, running through my veins’. Which in a serious drought of heart sounds spot on. Still, the possibility always exists that all that running does is fill our lungs with doubt until they collapse under the weight of our own self-destruction. Well, at least we felt fear of ourselves enough to combust.
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‘Expectations’ spends half of its running time cajoling itself out of the silence. It’s acutely aware that without your thoughts sounding off, wandering in front of a train is the best honest bit of action you’re going to get. But it never wants to go there, as HUNTAR uses his stark arrangement to usher your shadow through empty halls of the mind until something gives you the ghost again. The relief–in life as on the track–is instantaneous and like warm porridge over starved bones.
