BLANKPATCH

The things we put off, and the fear that dresses itself up as good sense: I will start when the time is right. Underneath, something keeps moving the whole way through and never once pauses to let anyone decide. What are you waiting for. The track does not answer that. It simply keeps going, and eventually you have to go with it.

A call sent out into an empty room to find out whether anyone is there. It goes out, comes back off one wall and then another, and nothing answers it. Then a voice somewhere says alright - not as defeat, but as right, we are here, so how do we get on from here. The footsteps get heavier and carry on anyway.

The long shot: setting off without knowing whether it comes off. Everything in it climbs, and keeps climbing, and never quite arrives - and there is always something further ahead that nobody counted on. Closer to the feeling of a game you are exploring than a film about space. It never once looks back.

The moment you almost have it, and then it is gone again. Something heavy keeps pressing forward while the answer surfaces - and by the next breath it has been taken away. You have it, you do not have it, you have it again. Sometimes the thing that cannot be placed is inside your own head.

Imagination as a way of looking rather than a way of leaving. The ground never shifts - the same street, the same room, the whole way through - while everything above it keeps turning up something new in it. Warm and light, and more teasing than instructive. Nothing changes here except the way it is being looked at.

A name for the thing that cannot be explained and gets investigated anyway - and it may well be something in yourself. It begins somewhere at the back of the room and comes closer, and closer, until it is directly in front of you and still refuses to resolve. Something tries to name it and cannot get the word out. It stays an investigation. It never becomes a discovery.

Letting the body go - weight, sweat, tempo. It opens light and cheeky, easy to dance to without thinking about it, with voices worn down until they are texture rather than words. Then it hardens, fills more of the room, and leaves less and less space to stand still in. A tribute to dancing: start easy, then let it go.

The flirt. It says no - slowly, warmly, not meaning a word of it - and everything about the way it says no means something else entirely. Halfway through it strips back to almost nothing and holds you there, then picks up again as though nothing had happened. It does not want anything from you. It is playing with you.

Nothing here to work out, and that is entirely the intention. It floats for a while, high and weightless, and then the weight arrives and simply stays - settling over everything like a heavy blanket nobody wants to get out from under. It does not develop. It does not argue. Light above, weight below, and nothing asked of anyone except that it is felt.

Will, and a refusal to leave things where they are. It stops halfway down to almost nothing, then returns heavier, with something underneath striking like a hammer on an anvil. From there it only adds - layer on layer, each one asking for more. Do more, live more, give it more. It was called Break It Up until the words turned out to be crank it up, which made far better sense of it.

Whether the wrong parts can add up to something right. It was built out of scraps that were each odd on their own, and the question was whether they were strange enough to work together. They were. Less going on here than anywhere else in the set, and a melody that stays with you afterwards. The only track here about how it came to exist at all.

Movement itself, and how little separates setting off from arriving. It rises and comes back down, builds and falls away and builds again, and by the end there is almost nothing left but the question - should we go - drifting out of the room. It finishes exactly where it started. The listener is somewhere else.

Having said yes, and not wanting to stop. Something keeps trying to start and failing, over and over, while everything around it insists: don't stop now. And then it stops failing. By the end the thing that would not turn over is simply running, and the drive of it is the whole point.

Shouting, and not being heard, and getting angrier for it. It races along, close to menacing, with something snarling underneath like current finding a gap it should not have found. Oh my god. Nobody reacts, so it only goes faster. Under three minutes, and it uses every one of them.

The noise settling. Everything slows and widens and warms, and the weight underneath is the kind that holds your hand rather than presses down on you. The title is only the first half of the sentence - the rest of it is falls silent. This is the way out - the slow, grateful feeling of coming all the way down at the end of a night.