bill daggs © 2022

Built with

  1. the arkhive sound-sightstem: config. 002//OP21 -

    Installation @ OHSH Projects, New Oxford St. 11/11/2021

  2. 'til [un]godly hours / Startford Rex 1999' (2021)

    Oil paint, oil pastel & Graphite on Cotton

    130 X 190cm

  3. When I think of how it moves me,

    it is done so with the most human of interventions.

    And within an instant it has occupied the canals

    and travelled through the intricacies that make up a network of pulsating veins.

    To say it is in my blood may be considered vain,

    but when I find the BPM I hear my heartbeats reacting the same.

    The feeling is born in the gut firstly, that is the feeling.

    A reaction that cannot be pre-empted or understood, even.

    Favour bares no relevance upon the encounter

    It just is.

    An emotional response that is conceived in the heart,

    with a gestation period that is sound-tracked by Caron Wheeler and Jazzie B.

    And you could argue that you saw it boil in the shoulders, and from the outside you could be right.

    But when the belly turns your legs to work, that’s because it has activated the serotonin that is just about to engage with every vertebrae to make an arch out of your spinal column,

    and to the naked eye,

    it may look like the shoulders did that

    so that, I will give to you.

    But when it moves me, I know otherwise.

    I can understand why Busta said “break your neck to this”

    and why we call it breaking,

    or body popping,

    because these are the breaks,

    and sometimes the physicality of the emotion is expressed so violently we must allow ourselves to break, or pop.

    Same way I watched Sara Baras,

    and without moving, I was moved differently,

    to the point of breaking, certainly,

    into tears, at the very least.

    And I watched that on silent believe it or not.

    I heard enough from her body,

    I heard the screams, and the misery, I heard the joy and the absolute euphoria that overtook her every portion.

    I listened to the time signature in the folds of the red, falling fabric that stained the stage underneath her,

    and for a moment I was desperate to be her.

    And though my experience was external silence, my insides erupted and activated involuntary spasms all over my lower back.

    Breaking, again.

    But instead of destructive, we find the outcome is healing,

    and without sounding too spiritual, it is likened to an experience that is gazed upon from outside of the vessel,

    as one cannot fathom how one could conjure shapes as proud, as seamless, as beautifully poetic as those they witnessed in the comfort of their, otherwise reserved, character.

    So strength is found in Lady Alma and Candi Staton alike.

    And that strength keeps us there ‘til ungodly hours, suspended, hanging on riffs and toplines that know no concept of time,

    except delays, and verbs, and stretching.

    And I am putty.

    In the hands of the turntablist I am reduced to the most primitive of beings.

    Waiting for the second drop to elevate me.

    Thrust into orbit by a couplet of drum kicks attached to a frequency that once again activates the belly and returns on the one.

    And you can say you saw it in the shoulders first,

    but I know the truth.

    I wrote it on a SP-404 and left it on a four to the floor then lost it on a hard drive one time.

    But I feel it all too often,

    from sources that I have found elsewhere, written by others.

    And it moves me,

    The same way it always has.