What is some music you like?

[Aaron p]

 

[Aaron p]

 

[Aaron p]

👂🏼2 the lyrics:

 

 

Edited Wednesday at 10:31 PM by Aaron p

[Carl-Richard]

I think Clown Core’s Van might just be the most tragically misunderstood masterpiece of contemporary music—perhaps even misunderstood by the artists themselves, who, trapped within the confines of their literal van, inadvertently created a magnum opus of existential absurdity. The dominant narrative simplistically frames them as jokesters, ironic noise-makers, sonic clowns honking their horns in mockery of musical conventions. They’re seen as chaotic jesters, stitching together fragments of madness, toilet humor, and jazz fusion into a wild pastiche of sonic nihilism. But when I hear Van, I detect something infinitely more profound: an earnest mourning of authenticity's absurd impossibility in the late capitalist hellscape.

There’s an undeniable metaphysical poignancy to their treatment of sound—the frenetic honking, disjointed saxophones, guttural screams, and toilet flush percussion—all meticulously composed yet relentlessly distorted. This is not mere clowning around; it’s a Beckettian cry into the void, an attempt to reclaim immediacy through its deliberate annihilation. Every honk, every distorted shriek, every out-of-tune synth is not stylistic randomness but a profound philosophical statement: authenticity reduced to absurdity precisely because sincerity is impossible.

In this sense, Clown Core’s work on Van becomes the ultimate hauntological artifact—a Derridean exploration into a future we neither want nor deserve, and a past we’d prefer to deny ever existed. Each song is not an expression of genuine emotion but the eerie echo of sincerity drowned in an ocean of absurdity. They offer not real feeling, but the clownish ghost of emotion: a spectral laughter reverberating endlessly inside a cramped, windowless van hurtling toward nowhere.

It is no coincidence that Van emerged amidst global despair, absurdist memes, and the cultural exhaustion of late-stage capitalism. Its relentless rhythm, punctuated by toilet breaks and horn blasts, speaks less to comedic relief and more to an attempt at conjuring meaning where meaning has long since evaporated. It is music made at the end of history, honking at the void, fully aware the void won’t honk back.

Ironically, perhaps the artists themselves fail to grasp this profundity. Their insistence on remaining physically confined within the vehicle is an overly literal attempt at authenticity, ironically undermining the absurd metaphysical poignancy of their project. By becoming literal clowns in a literal van, they risk converting their spectral brilliance into kitsch. It’s as if Kafka’s Gregor Samsa actually wanted to become a giant insect—thus losing his metaphorical resonance entirely.

This is the Žižekian paradox in full bloom: the authenticity they grasp at dissolves precisely because it was only ever meaningful as a ghostly potential, never as an actuality. Clown Core, in trying to embody absurdity, inadvertently risk trivializing the beautiful tragedy of absurdity itself.

Ultimately, Van is not about comedy. Nor is it about irony. It is about the tragic, beautiful impossibility of sincerity in an absurd world.

It is not music of laughter.

It is the echoing silence between laughs.

It is not about absurdity.

It is about the crushing seriousness of absurdity’s impossibility.

 

@Nilsi I'm so sorry 🤣

Written by ChatGPT 4.5 (I didn't even read it yet because I can't stop laughing 😂)

Edited Thursday at 02:46 AM by Carl-Richard

[daydrinking]

 

[daydrinking]

 

[Aaron p]

12 hours ago, Carl-Richard said:

 

 

[Cireeric]

 

[eos_nyxia]

On 2025-04-19 at 8:26 AM, Schizophonia said:

 

This is so, so painfully last decade...

Good song though.

[Schizophonia]

8 hours ago, eos_nyxia said:

This is so, so painfully last decade...

Good song though.

Gnegne

[Beans]

 

[Nilsi]

On 24.4.2025 at 4:43 AM, Carl-Richard said:

I think Clown Core’s Van might just be the most tragically misunderstood masterpiece of contemporary music—perhaps even misunderstood by the artists themselves, who, trapped within the confines of their literal van, inadvertently created a magnum opus of existential absurdity. The dominant narrative simplistically frames them as jokesters, ironic noise-makers, sonic clowns honking their horns in mockery of musical conventions. They’re seen as chaotic jesters, stitching together fragments of madness, toilet humor, and jazz fusion into a wild pastiche of sonic nihilism. But when I hear Van, I detect something infinitely more profound: an earnest mourning of authenticity's absurd impossibility in the late capitalist hellscape.

There’s an undeniable metaphysical poignancy to their treatment of sound—the frenetic honking, disjointed saxophones, guttural screams, and toilet flush percussion—all meticulously composed yet relentlessly distorted. This is not mere clowning around; it’s a Beckettian cry into the void, an attempt to reclaim immediacy through its deliberate annihilation. Every honk, every distorted shriek, every out-of-tune synth is not stylistic randomness but a profound philosophical statement: authenticity reduced to absurdity precisely because sincerity is impossible.

In this sense, Clown Core’s work on Van becomes the ultimate hauntological artifact—a Derridean exploration into a future we neither want nor deserve, and a past we’d prefer to deny ever existed. Each song is not an expression of genuine emotion but the eerie echo of sincerity drowned in an ocean of absurdity. They offer not real feeling, but the clownish ghost of emotion: a spectral laughter reverberating endlessly inside a cramped, windowless van hurtling toward nowhere.

It is no coincidence that Van emerged amidst global despair, absurdist memes, and the cultural exhaustion of late-stage capitalism. Its relentless rhythm, punctuated by toilet breaks and horn blasts, speaks less to comedic relief and more to an attempt at conjuring meaning where meaning has long since evaporated. It is music made at the end of history, honking at the void, fully aware the void won’t honk back.

Ironically, perhaps the artists themselves fail to grasp this profundity. Their insistence on remaining physically confined within the vehicle is an overly literal attempt at authenticity, ironically undermining the absurd metaphysical poignancy of their project. By becoming literal clowns in a literal van, they risk converting their spectral brilliance into kitsch. It’s as if Kafka’s Gregor Samsa actually wanted to become a giant insect—thus losing his metaphorical resonance entirely.

This is the Žižekian paradox in full bloom: the authenticity they grasp at dissolves precisely because it was only ever meaningful as a ghostly potential, never as an actuality. Clown Core, in trying to embody absurdity, inadvertently risk trivializing the beautiful tragedy of absurdity itself.

Ultimately, Van is not about comedy. Nor is it about irony. It is about the tragic, beautiful impossibility of sincerity in an absurd world.

It is not music of laughter.

It is the echoing silence between laughs.

It is not about absurdity.

It is about the crushing seriousness of absurdity’s impossibility.

 

@Nilsi I'm so sorry 🤣

Written by ChatGPT 4.5 (I didn't even read it yet because I can't stop laughing 😂)

WTF hahahhaha

[Nilsi]

"Since I was seventeen, I gave you everything.
Now, we wake from a dream - well, baby, what was that?"

Lorde returns. And not quietly.
It’s been eight years (and yes, we’re skipping that sun-drenched detour) and the dream only thickened.
This isn’t just a comeback - it’s a reckoning.

What begins as a whisper blooms into a full-bodied meditation on youth, fame, and loss. It’s no coincidence she cites seventeen - the precise age she became a generational voice. This lyric isn’t just autobiographical; it’s psychoanalytic. The line collapses personal history, career trajectory, and collective nostalgia into a single stunned breath. A dream. A glitch. A decade lost in the feedback loop of iconhood.

And musically? We’re right back where it started. But it’s not derivative - it’s recursive. Lorde re-enters the sonic space she helped define: electro-pop’s post-Lana melancholia. It’s like watching someone walk back into the house they built and finding it filled with strangers.

Yes, the Chainsmokers may have taken her early sound to its EDM-saturated extreme in the mid-2010s (see: that sweet, cringe, immortal Halsey feature), but Lorde was always working in a different register: less product, more prophecy. And here she sounds like the ghost of the genre returning to haunt it.

The production is immaculate: sparse, simmering. Jim-E Stack, fresh off Bon Iver’s own introspective odyssey, and Daniel Nigro, the architect of Gen Z’s most potent pop confessions, create a frame of synthetic hush - low synth pulses, muted piano, ghost percussion. It’s as if the track itself is holding its breath.

"I wear smoke like a wedding veil
Make a meal I won’t eat..."

She opens in dissociation. A dislocated self drifting through a furnished life. The meal, uneaten, is a gesture toward ritual with no appetite - nourishment denied, performance without consumption. The veil of smoke evokes both matrimony and mourning. She’s cloaked in the ashes of her own myth.

"It comes over me."

What does? Nostalgia? Grief? The return of the repressed? The production dips, the synths shimmer like the edge of memory, and we plunge into the chorus:

"MDMA in the back garden, blow our pupils up..."

Call it corny, but for anyone who’s lived through those ecstatic nights of chemical communion, it hits hard. This isn’t indulgence - it’s testimony. The imagery is vivid, tactile, true. We’ve all had that “best cigarette of my life” moment: that instant of false eternity, when the world condenses into skin, breath, and a pair of dilated eyes across from yours.

But here, those memories become unbearable. Not because they weren’t real - but because they were too real. Too perfect to last. The very ecstasy becomes the trauma. And when she sings “I want you just like that”, she’s not longing for a person, but for that impossible moment outside time.

And so the dream breaks.

"Now we wake from a dream - well, baby, what was that?"

It’s not just about a failed romance. This is Lorde facing the Real. The big Other, if we’re looking through a Lacanian lens. The fantasy that structured her youth - fame, love, the perfect chorus - was never quite hers. It’s all been a kind of dreamwork. The garden, the drug, the lover: they were all stand-ins for something more absent, more structural. The “you” here is both intimate and abstract. It’s a lost lover. It’s a lost self. It’s the symbolic order that no longer makes sense.

"Do you know you’re still with me / when I’m out with my friends?"

Her presence haunts her. She scans party faces, the simulated intimacy of social life, but finds only absence. The moment she tries to reintegrate, to "face reality," it slips again.

"I tried to let / whatever has to pass through me / pass through..."

But grief, desire, memory - they don’t just pass through. They stay. They lodge in the body. They mutate. They sing.

And then the chorus returns, heavier now. It’s not a climax; it’s a loop. A spiral. The production builds, yes - but the devastation deepens. The lyrics repeat, as if trying to work through trauma via repetition. She’s caught in the song’s structure, unable to exorcise what haunts her.

This is no longer just a pop song. It’s a dialectic. A confrontation with the past in the form of pop. A psychic exorcism wrapped in synths. The very structure of the track - the repetition, the swirling buildup, the synthetic haze - is the dream.

And at the heart of it, that devastating refrain:

"What was that?"

She sings it again and again like someone who has seen the divine and can’t remember what it looked like. It’s the perfect Lacanian question - the realization that the object of desire was always a fantasy. That what you longed for was never the thing, but the longing itself.

And yet she wants it just like that.
Even knowing it was a dream.
Even knowing it was never enough.
Even knowing it might destroy her.

That’s art.

And if this is the lead-up to her next album… buckle up.

Edited yesterday at 04:54 PM by Nilsi

[Nilsi]

Just now, Nilsi said:

"Since I was seventeen, I gave you everything.
Now, we wake from a dream - well, baby, what was that?"

Lorde returns. And not quietly.
It’s been eight years (and yes, we’re skipping that sun-drenched detour) and the dream only thickened.
This isn’t just a comeback - it’s a reckoning.

What begins as a whisper blooms into a full-bodied meditation on youth, fame, and loss. It’s no coincidence she cites seventeen - the precise age she became a generational voice. This lyric isn’t just autobiographical; it’s psychoanalytic. The line collapses personal history, career trajectory, and collective nostalgia into a single stunned breath. A dream. A glitch. A decade lost in the feedback loop of iconhood.

And musically? We’re right back where it started. But it’s not derivative - it’s recursive. Lorde re-enters the sonic space she helped define: electro-pop’s post-Lana melancholia. It’s like watching someone walk back into the house they built and finding it filled with strangers.

Yes, the Chainsmokers may have taken her early sound to its EDM-saturated extreme in the mid-2010s (see: that sweet, cringe, immortal Halsey feature), but Lorde was always working in a different register: less product, more prophecy. And here she sounds like the ghost of the genre returning to haunt it.

The production is immaculate: sparse, simmering. Jim-E Stack, fresh off Bon Iver’s own introspective odyssey, and Daniel Nigro, the architect of Gen Z’s most potent pop confessions, create a frame of synthetic hush - low synth pulses, muted piano, ghost percussion. It’s as if the track itself is holding its breath.

"I wear smoke like a wedding veil
Make a meal I won’t eat..."

She opens in dissociation. A dislocated self drifting through a furnished life. The meal, uneaten, is a gesture toward ritual with no appetite - nourishment denied, performance without consumption. The veil of smoke evokes both matrimony and mourning. She’s cloaked in the ashes of her own myth.

"It comes over me."

What does? Nostalgia? Grief? The return of the repressed? The production dips, the synths shimmer like the edge of memory, and we plunge into the chorus:

"MDMA in the back garden, blow our pupils up..."

Call it corny, but for anyone who’s lived through those ecstatic nights of chemical communion, it hits hard. This isn’t indulgence - it’s testimony. The imagery is vivid, tactile, true. We’ve all had that “best cigarette of my life” moment: that instant of false eternity, when the world condenses into skin, breath, and a pair of dilated eyes across from yours.

But here, those memories become unbearable. Not because they weren’t real - but because they were too real. Too perfect to last. The very ecstasy becomes the trauma. And when she sings “I want you just like that”, she’s not longing for a person, but for that impossible moment outside time.

And so the dream breaks.

"Now we wake from a dream - well, baby, what was that?"

It’s not just about a failed romance. This is Lorde facing the Real. The big Other, if we’re looking through a Lacanian lens. The fantasy that structured her youth - fame, love, the perfect chorus - was never quite hers. It’s all been a kind of dreamwork. The garden, the drug, the lover: they were all stand-ins for something more absent, more structural. The “you” here is both intimate and abstract. It’s a lost lover. It’s a lost self. It’s the symbolic order that no longer makes sense.

"Do you know you’re still with me / when I’m out with my friends?"

Her presence haunts her. She scans party faces, the simulated intimacy of social life, but finds only absence. The moment she tries to reintegrate, to "face reality," it slips again.

"I tried to let / whatever has to pass through me / pass through..."

But grief, desire, memory - they don’t just pass through. They stay. They lodge in the body. They mutate. They sing.

And then the chorus returns, heavier now. It’s not a climax; it’s a loop. A spiral. The production builds, yes - but the devastation deepens. The lyrics repeat, as if trying to work through trauma via repetition. She’s caught in the song’s structure, unable to exorcise what haunts her.

This is no longer just a pop song. It’s a dialectic. A confrontation with the past in the form of pop. A psychic exorcism wrapped in synths. The very structure of the track - the repetition, the swirling buildup, the synthetic haze - is the dream.

And at the heart of it, that devastating refrain:

"What was that?"

She sings it again and again like someone who has seen the divine and can’t remember what it looked like. It’s the perfect Lacanian question - the realization that the object of desire was always a fantasy. That what you longed for was never the thing, but the longing itself.

And yet she wants it just like that.
Even knowing it was a dream.
Even knowing it was never enough.
Even knowing it might destroy her.

That’s art.

And if this is the lead-up to her next album… buckle up.

@Carl-Richard, I swear to God, if you plagiarize this for your shenanigans, I will send you an invoice!  

[Nilsi]

Been relistening to Lorde all day. This might be one of her greatest.

Also, what a brilliant allegory a "Supercut" is - definitely stealing that for future writings.

Edited 23 hours ago by Nilsi

[Nilsi]

39 minutes ago, Nilsi said:

Been relistening to Lorde all day. This might be one of her greatest.

Also, what a brilliant allegory a "Supercut" is - definitely stealing that for future writings.

Okay, let’s be real - this is still #1.

Nothing else hits my teenage nostalgia quite like this song.

It plays like a Supercut behind my eyes - house parties glowing in slow motion, wild vacations unraveling into endless nights, kisses that rewrote time, fights that shattered it - all collapsing into this one perfect track.

This song will always be a doorway back to the most unreal summer of my life.

I was fourteen, away from home for the first time - three weeks on the Atlantic coast of France, with this song stitched into the air like a secret frequency only we could hear. It wasn’t just the first kiss, the first drink, the first cigarette - it was the way the world cracked open around me. Everything was cool, dangerous, electric. Every glance, every touch, every night felt like a secret initiation into a life I had only dreamed of.

For the first time, it felt like anything was possible - wild, golden, infinite.

That summer changed me - a rupture in the fabric of time, a shimmer of eternity I still carry somewhere under my skin.

Edited 22 hours ago by Nilsi

[Sugarcoat]

Soweto - Victony

I will forever love this song. It sounds very high vibrational and spiritual too

[Yimpa]

8 minutes ago, Sugarcoat said:

Soweto - Victony

I will forever love this song. It sounds very high vibrational and spiritual too

I see two versions, what is the difference?

[Sugarcoat]

8 minutes ago, Yimpa said:

I see two versions, what is the difference?

I just listened to both of them and the top is with two extra artists so it’s longer with extra verses . I like both. Maybe the top a little bit more

[Nilsi]

WTF, the shit they were cooking up at the end is sooo fucking good.

If this is teasing a real collab album between the two, and Peggy’s actually spitting over these fire beats - OMG - instant AOTY contender for me.

Edited 1 hour ago by Nilsi