ARTIST...: Hiele Kinsella
TITLE....: The Third Summer of Love
YEAR.....: 2022
LABEL....: Stroom
CAT.NO...: STR7-059
GENRE....: Electronic
TIME.....: 11:03
SIZE.....: 25.32 MB
QUALITY..: 320kbps/44.1kHz/Joint Stereo
ENCODER..: LAME
SOURCE...: WEB
RLS.DATE.: 2022/05/22
WEBSITE..: https://stroomtv.bandcamp.com/album/the-third-summer-of-love
TRACKLIST
01) (05:59) The Third Summer of Love
02) (05:04) Arabesque
I turned on the radio and it was tuned to five hundred twenty eight Hz. Love hurts,
said the DJ. He was a bit of a dick but I lingered with it. Experts have confirmed
that the love frequency can increase cell viability by twenty per cent, he said.
Experts have confirmed that it can decrease the toxic effects of ethanol by a
percentage that may be unfathomable. To this I raised a glass of ethanol.
Five two eight is the key to all mythologies, said the DJ. ItÆs the reason why bees
buzz, why roses resonate, why snowflakes are six-pointed stars. Five two eight is the
matrix of creation, a me on the scale of miracle.
And as the messages grew stranger, my mind began to spiral. Does a blade of grass
grow towards the sun? asked the DJ. Naturally, because itÆs intelligent. If it was
stupid it would grow into darkness and die. And soon, despite my fears, my thoughts
had begun to vibrate to the heavenly harmonic frequency.
It was the third summer of love and the radio was streaming a festival down by the
sound mirrors. The neo hippies were worshipping the womb and vibrating with the
infinite palette of rainbows. Couples were copulating by the concrete, as a hooded
man resequenced its DNA, tuning the mirrors to five two eight. It was the love
frequency, and they were spreading the love.
The next day the microphones began picking up the sound of my local supermarket.
There was something unexpected in the bagging area; that something was love. The day
after, the microphones began picking up the Thames, amplifying the runways of
Heathrow Airport. Seven four sevens trailed incense, and within a week the
microphones were picking up all known sounds.
With the whole world tuned to five two eight, the vibrations were becoming
relentless, recalibrating rhythms and rewinding clocks. I listened to earthquakes
ricochet off the Richter scale, and volcanoes spew lava into non-existent seas. As I
stood in the supermarket, bulk-buying ethanol, all the dead I had ever known came
back to me too, drawn by the five two eight frequency.
At the festival zeppelins had eclipsed the sun and the mirrors were eclipsed by
infernal seas. Only the tops were visible now, so I swam towards them and assumed
watch on the concrete. Sometimes, over the following weeks, IÆd spy a bangled wrist
as the neo hippies did aqua aerobics amid superbly exotic but long extinct fish. The
neo hippies were growing more and more excited as the heavenly vibrations grew
greater and greater; they were singing songs not of love but hate.
And it was at this point that the experts began to admit that theyÆd made a mistake.
That five two eight was not the frequency of love, was not the heavenly frequency,
but was the frequency of death, was the frequency of the sun moving towards the
abyss. That weÆd all been listening to things in reverse, as in a mirror, and that
the third summer of love was the summer of blood. And it was at that point, when the
end was in sight, that I decided to turn off the radio.
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