Tingle In The Netherlands is an electro-pop collaboration between Helên Thomas and electronic musician Owen J.
We have been creating music together since 2009. Our sound has been described as being reminiscent of Kraftwerk, Ladytron, Chris and Cosey, Severed Heads, Soft Cell, Human League and Vince Clarke.
tingleinthenetherlands.bandcamp.com
These tracks are eerie and evocative; beautiful, dark, soundscapes that wash over you. They are lush, dissonant, melancholly. If you were to take LSD on your deathbed you might wish to stick this on.
'Air Fracture' tracks have recently been upload to soundcloud to make it easier to share, so please, if there are any that you like, do share them with friends on facebook, twitter etc.
'Red Shadow' from the album 'Air Fracture 4' 2008. Available as single download from Nerve Echo.
We've been asked to post the lyrics to 'A Forest of Cocks' presumably so that people can sing along whilst they're doing their chores or putting their make-up on before heading out for a night on the tiles.
As for the inspiration for the lyrics. For the most part, they are a collection of stream of consciousness status updates, from an old myspace profile, written by HT. There are also a few lines from some deliberately pretentious poems that HT wrote for a wanky poetry page, and a couple of killer lines added by Owen i.e. 'When they opened up his heart they found it was full of urine' and 'crow beaked horses gallop through a forest of cocks'. Owen edited all of the status updates and harvested the poetry lines so that they would fit his vocal style and neatly accompany the music, so it's a bit of a splice and dice. Make of it what you will.
A Forest of Cocks
Meadows glean chided braveries in their smiling rook caution, sipping ether in their tea,
Temperate hedges the sidelines of corporate philanthropy emitting a visceral cry of slaughtered heartache
that sweats your guilt onto the linen.
Passwords flinging my ripped brain matter onto the point of pointlessness
jab into reality with a Brompton Cocktail please,
The scanner doodles ape words onto the sky of November
withering with glee at the hirsute clouds of it all as we filter the earth,
The tock tock of unsynchronised clocks mocks the nightly weather reporters’ patterns of meaningless,
Fur lined faux temptation rustles the chill of jigsawed teeth at the entrance of the metallic cave,
Bubbles taunt the static heads of wax coated eels hot spitting hiss flared incantations from diluted sun,
Molten teeth drip magma smiles into moth eyed hollows,
Tethered rain forces its sadness into the guffawing mouths of coutesans and oafs,
Eyelids froth the bile of yesterday’s tears into the metal lungs of remorseful dogs,
And so the darkness blinds the overhang of fleecy meadows
that float through the tripesque skies of dappled withering.
Chlorine cackle follows starfruit metamorphosis,
The tarmac face mask of old cannot hide the laughter of winter
whistling through panes like coiled spent automatic toys,
Snow prompts ringside cold princess into feral games of sadistic stage psychokinesis,
The wings of hope splutter dry their nuclear dream mistaken for snow bringing shadows to Japanese pavements,
When they opened up his heart they found it was full of urine.
***
Feathered dogs breathe velour into their masters’ pulmonary ephemera
transplanting eyes into the sockets of a blind doll,
The nuthatch winks at the one eyed half moon, its mimic re-boot
stirring the hedgelings to the rain of their forefather’s ire;
no-one hears,
Canal mouth of a lake of wires,
Tentacles of daylight retracting into space,
Dusty crash of a voice sensor strobe,
Fat neon words like modelled balloons advertise has-beens, clowns, sex-shops,
and distorted strip tease in the deep lake of a hall of mirrors,
The dearth of woodwind finds ribboned heartache dribbling down the walls of blue crystal hotels in Siberia,
Bomb a sky of clouds for a single drop, swallow at source your smile and walk away,
Red lips for eyes cry holes full of laughter into the rotting eyes, ears, hair and mink coats
of the skin and bone rich bitch old ladies of The Ritz.
Devilish thoughts proclaim the spire of night as fingernails sail the sky in a flotilla of new moons
traversing the witching hour sea with their venomous cargo,
A starburst revolt of bilious dreams and ego roasted spittle eroding hard leather of annoyed, brave face
hears crop sprayed crazy pave sound wave from frozen fog cotton mouth,
Crow beaked horses gallop through a forest of cocks.
