There isn’t anyone in the diy underground who is falling apart quite like Adam Pruss (yes, we know his name now). Flowers for Reagan blesses us with a new track and a press statement worthy of publishing. A complete reinvention or a bi-polar swing caused by a self medication shift? Either way, it’s a rant:
About four months in, after three straight weeks in bed, my drug dealer from college texts me to say he is out of jail and back in business. My chemical balance and rocky past with substances put aside by the sheer fuck-offery of my depression, I decide to kind of go for broke and spend a weekend on PCP. It’s during this weekend I write “Turns Gold Then Is Gone”, a pretty embarrassing track from the pretty embarrassingly titled (and covered) EP Sucks. Sucks, initially released in my post-drug depression-fueled mode as a shining fuck you to everybody complete with a pretty gross/messed up cover, proved to be sort of turning point for me artistically and laid the foundation for my new LP. Unfortunately, that was released about a month before the depression actually ended, and I now had a taste for PCP.
In that subsequent month, I was pretty free of my creative block, but the depression waged on, and I had no intentions to stop writing songs while smoking as much weed and dust as possible. Within this haze – which, luckily, I’ve mostly forgotten, because it sucked – I had no misconceptions of pop music, nor art really – just an obsession with sound. (The second month of the depression was my last month of audio engineering school. I didn’t make it to class.) From these sound experiments come two classes of song: huge pieces of sound art and perverted (read as: fucked) pop tunes. Due to my detest for any kind of possible audience, the latter are ditched and some of the former become the 4real EP and the subsequent ‘Dream Two’ single. 4real marks the first release by me that the blog that has covered me consistently for a year studiously ignores. (‘Dream Two’, on the other hand, gets a pretty scathing write up from them.) It also marks probably my lowest point, not really musically, but moreso in the sense that while making it I had a PCP meltdown and lost my hearing for two days. While that hearing-loss episode would be the end of PCP for me, it would still be two weeks before I break free from the depression with one act of courage, valor and strength.
That being, of course, cleaning my room.
(Mind you, I spent five months locked in there, only leaving for the common space to get water and use the bathroom or for the store to get a few packs of cigarettes, a jar of peanut butter and a jug of orange juice, my weekly diet. Nothing would surprise you about the state of it, if you imagine a latter-day Howard Hughes as a mid-20s jobless bachelor. Replete with stored urine. Which I was saving for later, thank you.)
It occurred about as randomly as it was anti-climactic. I just woke up one morning, took a look around me, became suddenly sickened and started picking things up. That snowballed into eleven hours until my room was cleaner than when I moved in. The sudden break in inertia got me examining myself and my lifestyle, and soon the darkness wasn’t so dark. I began to rejoin society, little by little.
The strangest part of this new awakening is that absolutely nothing I’ve made in the last year makes sense to me in the context of what I originally envisioned each work to be. The transitions from album to album are erratic; conceptually, my discography is a mess. It’s not hard for me to figure out why now: I was in a mixed musical bipolar state, torn between art and pop, so I tried to make both, and probably failed more than I succeeded. But if it’s pop or sound art or art pop or pop art, if it’s lacking clear emotion and sincerity then it’s a failure. While I was in no deficit of strong emotions, they came in like transmissions on a shortwave radio, and the radio in this case was broken. Not anymore, though. After experimenting with sound for four years, I’m now experimenting with earnestness, and it has spawned a new LP, Falling Apart.
Flowers for Reagan