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Buckets O'Love 5:410:00/5:41
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Dancing Statue 4:470:00/4:47
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To The Moon 5:230:00/5:23
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0:00/5:43
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Sweet September 4:420:00/4:42
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Evening Stairs 4:280:00/4:28
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Amour 3:230:00/3:23
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0:00/4:20
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Tempus Fugitive 3:390:00/3:39
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Forget About Blue 3:360:00/3:36
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Open Up Skies 6:310:00/6:31
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323 5:330:00/5:33
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For The Life Of Me 5:230:00/5:23
Mike Langley
New album out now!
History: a Thing of the Past? vol. 17 1/2 (liner notes)...an art manifesto of me, and then, maybe my songs...stories that go with the songs; stories that sparked them...the writing of them was always the best part...they are incantations, spells; they invoke places, times, states of mind...they are friends, children, siblings---and I carry them with me...they are sculptures of my soul.
"To be honest, I do not await the listener's nod
Like a tree, I lose idea leaves for lovers to lie down on. I'm a story of experience with fantasy and gods; Yes, and maybe I'm another part of you to think upon."("Dynamic Highs", circa 1985)I was taught to be an artist, and then I was born to be an artist.
While still in the womb, I heard Dad play guitar to me, and I knew and still know the sound hole of the guitar as a portal between dimensions.Reading Dad's art history books as a kid, I was drawn to the works and characters from Dada and surrealism. Studying French literature in college,
I was compelled and haunted by the poems of Charles Baudelaire.
I knew I knew them, shared memories with them. Years later in Vienna I would recognize the miniature toy collection of Marcel Duchamp on display in a museum, and later still there would be a memory incident in a gazebo in Honfleur, Normandie, at what turned out to have been a summer home of Baudelaire. My songs could be daguerrotypes of dinosaur family picnics, 8mm home movies
of medieval minstrels, Impressionist portraits of familiar strangers and long-lost friends, discovered in a dream diary, a dyslexicon of anachronism crammed
full of sketches and scrawlings; the barely legible memoir of a soul doctor reminiscing somewhere in the far, dark reaches of my heart. A life in love with words and chords--melodies briefly discerned from the roar of the maelstrom--the song of the sailor, projected, etched into the heavens from the deck of a sinking ship, swirling forever into the foam.
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