Deep Dive: Delete it All Again
Everybody loves a deep dive! So, we're dune an in-depth look at one of our early releases: Delete it All Again. Make sure you check out the explication for the official music video at the end!
A common refrain in Tape Lab Lore—Delete it all again. Start over and rebuild. But this beat is spaced out and speaks to an undercurrent of DON’T DELETE IT.
MUSIC
One of the earliest Tape Lab recordings captured live at a house party in Efland, in February 2019. Clocking in at a restrained 3:18, it's practically a pop song. Not sonically, but it's short.
We recorded this one in the old way: Yamaha PSR-500 into the Kaosillator Pro and straight to cassette tape. Then, as a new touch, we added some Ableton beat repeat FX to give it a spacey atmosphere.
ALBUM ART
Album Art: Somedays when I wake up in the morning I imagine myself as Anakin Skywalker as a padawan, but my rat tail is actually a USB drive, and I plug it into the computer to download the day's stress as information directly into my brain.
OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO
The video footage is a nod to the timeless documentation of Jürgen Henn – 11foot8.com.
There is a bridge in Durham, NC that is 11-foot-8 inches tall. There is a bridge between us, but the bridge is a wall above. One thinks the canopy traffic, often if fondly at all. Slowly, too trucks converge, where the ceiling meets the road. Takes a little off the top. The intersection is a point in time—forward and backward—the bridge above, the wall below.
Flowing forms gleaned from the railing roof. Insteadfast, past and presenting an impenetrable membrane before the shearing cleaves the left-behind-debris.
This bridge is a troll demanding shrapnel payment for passage. Each truck a temptress, Iccarus of the road, us above to see as Daedelus does, awaiting like a watch. The viewer's eye, like the film, become transficted fathers of sons soon to set. The bridge burns bright, melts the machines.
Calamity of collisions slowly collapse into itself, our predicted fate known only from perfect perch, a futureviewer averse to act. Ironically, the iron beams above, belie a problem of the past. As we go, growing old in changed chains, the walls between us are but the ceilings, itself a floor for more to stand and stamp and sell.
Construction is construction. Our dreams are trucksattelites sprayed to the curb. Canned confines create and define? Can our dreams be but 11-foot-8?
