Futuresoundstemporary tell us about Sex Worker

Tight, dizzy, nauseous. Close to sickness. The ineluctable casualties of drink and drugs. Sex Worker is a wild, swinging animal of the night, violent and propulsive and rearing on its hind legs. He produces the warped music of a K session, forcing convention to the side and opening great chasms of freed emotion. As the clothes slip off and the mind finds paradise all dreams become realised and all nightmares relented. Within these furrows music takes on a transcendental and enlightened meaning where the artist’s soul is brought to bear, exposed as it is on the powdered mirror.

Remarkably the album holds together, even though the stuttering rhythms, drug addled vocals and ghostly synths are all in collusion to sabotage the easy flow. Alas, Waving Goodbye doesn’t even need such stabilising, it’s wonky vision blurs any cracks or un-stitched seams. A mind on psychotropic drugs can easily find connections between such seemingly incongruous parts, just as Sex Worker adopt here to such vital effect.

I remember a party not so recently where Sex Worker appeared, much worse off than I, and in a state of undress that caught embarrassed looks from less disconnected goers. It was that night that I recognised his pure, vibrant, oscillating energy. Great layers of empty beer cans fell about the room, tables and chairs were upturned, sofa covers were thick with ash, equally the air was thick with smoke. White powder laced any flat surfaces, no doubt peeling off the thin layer of coating that protected it from this appalling atmosphere. I have the occasional intense flashback from that night, revealing a particularly brutal and vivacious atmosphere, spurned on by his mad wizardry as if we were both somehow caught up in something far greater than expression allows, a universal, an eternal winding wave that had caught us and had threw us into everything and nothing, combined. At one point I remember we were up, hands in the air, our mouths grinning with joy as track after track of Waving Goodbye forced its way out of the stereo: Tough Love, Rhythm of the Night, Cool Boy, Next to You, Sleeping Through It, Honeymoon Babylon. All irrepressible. All as vital as oxygen.

Suddenly around 1am darkness fell. I think somewhere along the line I’d got carried away, done too much. The shouting had got quieter, the music had become a mellow wind, still thick with reverberation, but tempered dramatically. I fell into a deep well, lost somewhere in my mind, with only flickering images to keep my restless, but dizzying mind occupied. My last image was of him, standing above me, eyes wide, mouth even wider, spitting out the potent lyrics to some song that I no longer understood. Sex Worker arrived as if on a wave, and left as I was crushed under it.

For more information take a look at Sex Worker’s MySpace page.

Andy Wells
Futuresoundstemporary

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