Blood Pt. 2

So surprisingly I’ve had a really good mellow night tonight, so I plan on side tracking from the “cry me a river/emotionally challenged” blogs I’ve been writing. I don’t know how long this mood will last, but I’m going to run with it and introduce you to one of the most amazing mixes of the year- “Blood pt. 2,” by Buck 65.

I previously mentioned the album Dark Was the Night, when I wrote about the Pornographer’s cover of “Hey Snow White,” but to refresh your memory it is an amazing compilation of songs that was created to raise money and awareness for HIV and Aids. The song I’m talking about today is a remix/continuation of Sufjan Steven’s song “You are the Blood,” which is also a Castanets cover. Buck 65 is an absolute genius for creating this sound, which improves an already banging song.

The first time you may listen to the song it comes off as kind of eerie and cult like. You become so immersed in this ever present bass line and hear a mix of lyrics that don’t quite make sense. In fact, the reason why I like this song so much is because I don’t necessarily “get it.” He throws in everything (including the kitchen sink), and leaves you with an unexplainable bitter sweet taste in your mouth. Even listening to the juxtaposed blunt and smooth lyrics again today almost makes me feel like I’m invading this guy’s Joyce like stream of conscience, yet I can still acquire my own personal experiences.

When I listen to this song I think of good times in unhealthy relationships. The song is somewhat bitter, but it also feels like it’s not lingering on the bad. He mentions memories of hot summer days of sex and lemonade with someone he obviously cares about, but sees the bad in (the woman’s legs felt like silk, yet her bites were like fire ants). His last stanza that leads into Sufjan’s lyrics really seems to sum up the good and bad:

“Making out in photo booths
A lovely Saturday night alone
Full of films and baking pies
Not cotton swabs and bloody lies
I'll pay you back in plastic eyes

You are the blood
Flowing through my fingers
All through the soil
Through those trees”

The memories he holds of her seem to be tainted by some sort of resentment for “cotton swabs and bloody lies,” yet the girl still seems to run through his vains.