Ash on the Windowsill: Entering the Abyss with "Dead End"

Just before the piano plays the first note of "Dead End," the air in the room drops. You can feel it in your wrists first. We've all experienced that feeling; the silence is thin, buzzing in your ears, while your mind runs through a thousand thoughts, but your body is done. The air smells like wet cement, stale electricity, and the television is still on because if you turn it off, it's time to admit something has finished.

Antoin Gibson had no intention of capturing this moment of collapse. This was not an act of aggression, but rather an event that occurred while he was documenting the event on tape.

This is the song produced after everything known and familiar fell to the ground. Nothing explosive, just a slow erosion of creativity; the dullest of fatigue makes any attempts of expression, through language, feel difficult to use. Unfortunately, the lack of resolution explained by the melody in "Dead End" and the piano being short of comfort is a refusal to acknowledge it can be fully expressed.

There is no teacher. No one to smooth the rough edges for you and guide you along your journey of self-discovery. You are simply left with the keys in front of you, allowing you to let the phrasing fracture, bend the syllables in the wrong way, and stretch and snap the time. The meter will not march at all. The lines will become out of step, and suddenly you will find yourself in the abyss along with them. The static will be buzzing behind the notes, your breath will be held between each phrase, and you will have nothing on the windowsill where the chorus should have gone.

When the first needle drops, it does not hit you with a bang. It seeps into your mind. It is cold, it is sparse, and it is very intimate in a way that feels almost offensive. Instead of paying attention to the sound, you notice the space. You notice how exposed a person feels when there is nowhere to hide their voice.

And then the quiet resurrection comes, and it is not triumph. It is not clarity. It is simply presence. The choice to remain unmasked. The choice to sit in the unresolved and allow the restraint to speak for you. This is not architecture of the pop culture type, but rather a room left purposely dimmed.

"Dead End" seems to be more of a time stamp. Evidence that something survived the night. And while we are hearing this, we are waiting to see what is coming next — not to ask questions, but to hear what Antoin decides is worth breaking the static for again.