It's cold as you ponder if someone is listening. Colder still as the answer alludes you. As you swipe and scroll and remember, you give in. There is romance in a blinking light assembled in China. Never be lonely.
It doesn't go off. Even when the standby switch is clicked, it doesn't really go off. When you delete and cancel and remove, it doesn't disappear. There is romance scorched into a database underground in Dakota. Never be lonely.
This is Silicon. Sit back. Are you comfortable? This is Silicon. Far beyond anything you could ever have imagined, there's an overwhelming reliance on the plastic in your palm. The Sistine Chapel of circuit boards. Lurking amidst Auckland's tranquil waters, bold mountains and dormant volcanoes; insomniac Kody Nielson composes shiny and gorgeous pop-aspersions that loiter in the silence. Eyes never blinking, information never ceasing, it is seduction. Don't stop.
Silicon implores you. The inherent isolation of archipelago existence lingers in Nielson's music. Whilst he, as a Hawaiian-New Zealander, has always been separate from the mainland - when it comes to soil and mud - cables and satellites pass on information and feeling. Having resided in Portland previously, he finds himself crippled by timezones and the shrinking world. More and more connections being established, reasons to record oneself and be remembered.
At the heart of Nielson's noir-electronica is a questioning of how the physical can ever again match the arousing constellation of the blissful synthetic. This is it. Here you are. Bombastic and gripping, yet consistently sterile. Not quite there. Not quite there, yet. Kody Nielson's main-frame psychedelia collates the fragments of himself and sticks them back together diligently on his debut 'Personal Computer'. But there's a darkness in this dance. Close the window, draw the curtains.