I want to run, fast, toward a precipice. To jump off in the direction of the sun, setting slowly, red, orange, behind distant mountains. I want to feel the warm desert wind rush across my cheeks as the air turns liquid and I float, amniotic, in the thick smears of paint that make the dusk sky. The liquid pulses in time with my heart. I feel it in my ears, and it speeds up as the hairs on my neck stand upright, bristling, waiting for something. Something.
Then: guitars. In a rush—a long crescendo. Drums. And the light turns purple and green in a flash, and the stars, already visible, glow neon. There is the moment of doing something wonderful, where the moment goes on for so long. It’s drawn out to prolong a feeling that usually passes far too quickly. You’re aware of moving too slowly, but you don’t care. Dungen’s new album is that moment—a slow-motion, hyper-kinetic frenzy full of flashing lights and interesting smells. I wish I were riding on the back of a pegasus.—Andreas Trolf