Good evening, and welcome to Bobby’s Motel.
For those visiting for the first time, may we recommend a taste of the Texas Drums. Returning guests, complimentary euphoria will be provided on the way up. Just follow the captured sound of dreaming.The three-minute crooner here will relieve you of your heavy luggage, and help you slip into something more comfortable.
Sliding open the balcony door just a crack (so as to not disturb) you blink as your loafers touch base with the art-pop tiles beneath. The air both inside and out is muggy – with a potent thich buzz, and when we say thick we mean woozy and encompassing – the kind that clings to your mind and the very depths of your scalp to the point where it can’t be cleansed. You’re in it for the long run now. There’s no use pretending, come morning yesterday’s adventures remain truer than a dear diary entry. If Bobby’s Motel is life then it’s currently posing as instrumented incense and this number… well, it’s a slow burner.
Hot like jungle.
You’ve seen him now. The faceless lone ranger dancing circles by himself on the centre floor. He wraps his arms around his spine in a cradled embrace. Lovelorn? Not at all, such is life. Take a walk on the pottered wild side.
I just wanna be with you.
You’re in the carpark now or maybe it’s the living room it’s hard to tell, we’re dealing with distinctive timelessness. Painted palms stain the wall once green now turnt kaleidoscopic. That suits just fine. The motel is no place for fuss; it’s a reminder of constructed evanescence, of genre-less architecture or rhythmic intuition.
Somewhere in the distance there’s what appears to be a shooting star, or was it a flash of strings? It could be both. It was potentially neither.
Hot like jungle, keep us going ‘til dawn breaks a grin.
Header Photo by Luke Orlando
Pottery are on the digital cover of our new issue which you can find below!