Confuschia’s Darling Miss is missing. Where has she gone? When will she come home? Does she still consider home her home? Has she a new home elsewhere? What can Confuschia do but wait and see.
These are the questions that occupy Confuschia on their new psychedelic-rock EP When You Coming Home. They’ve caused many a sleepless night, tossing and turning in fits and starts without end, mired in a dark and lonely confusion until daybreak; and when sleep does come, it’s a restless one — the image of Darling Miss appears, and her beautiful face becomes awash in blood as she bites her lower lip completely off. Confuschia usually wakes before she swallows it, a river of blood pouring down her chin as she does it. Usually. There are times when Confuschia tries to wake, but the nightmare doesn’t allow for it, instead it pulls them closer, and they’re forced to watch as Darling Miss pulls her jaw from its muscled hinges. Upon waking, the awful sound of the bones detaching continues into their conscious mind. When this happens, they pour themselves a drink. Even if it’s early. Especially if it’s early.
In fact, they’ve been drinking far too much lately. They sip sip sip until the last drip drip drop. They’ve been told as much by others, by family. But so far, in the absence of Darling Miss, it’s all they’ve got. Drugs, too. Rock ’n’ roll, too. But how better life would be if Darling Miss returned. How worried they are for her.
She calls sometimes, to let them know she’s alive. Short messages. Too short. And each time they ask her when she’s coming home. And each time they do, she doesn’t answer. She changes the subject. Where are you? Changes the subject, says she has to go. Go where? Goodbye, Confuschia. Darling Miss. A click. A silence.
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To read the rest of this review — and more by Steve Schmolaris — visit his website Bad Gardening Advice.
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Steve Schmolaris is the founder of the Schmolaris Prize, “the most prestigious prize in all of Manitoba,” which he first awarded in 1977. Each year, he awards the prize to the best album of the year. He does not have a profession but, having come from money (his father, “the Millionaire of East Schmelkirk,” left him his fortune when he died in 1977), Steve is a patron of the arts. Inspired by the exquisite detail of a holotype, the collective intelligence of slime mold, the natural world and the suffering inherent within it — and also music (fuck, he loves music!) — Steve has long been writing reviews of Winnipeg artists’ songs and albums at his website Bad Gardening Advice, leading to the publication of a book of the same name.
