Hella - Biblical Violence скачать видео бесплатно

Death The Kid

that booty.

Velcro DeClue

4/4 time sucks. this song is so standard and boring. (sarcasm)

TheEpiph

0:29 makes me so happy

Jordynn Leigh

GOLD.

Justin Widle

HELLA rad.

JakeTheNerd Gaming

The fucking Heel-Toe on the drums is fucking class

MoriKAshi

Listened to this a while ago and forgot about it. Had Nightvale going and this came on. It's always a good time to get back into Hella. 

Viviet

holy shit this is so good im gonna die

Mark VanderMyde

Thank you, Night Vale...this one caught my attention. Along the lines of very early Genesis to my ear.

Madani Zakri

freaking awesome

zzilmyvzhovb

It seems that we learn something about art when we experience what the word solitude is meant to designate. This word has been much abused. Still, what does the expression to be alone signify? When is one alone? Asking this question should not simply lead us into melancholy reflections. Solitude as the world understands it is a hurt which requires no further comment here. We do not intend to evoke the artist's solitude either -- that which is said to be necessary to him for the practice of his art. When Rilke writes to the countess of Solms-Laubach ( August 3, 1907), "For weeks, except for two short interruptions, I haven't pronounced a single word; my solitude has finally encircled me and I am inside my efforts just as the core is in the fruit," the solitude of which he speaks is not the essential solitude. It is concentration. The Solitude of the Work In the solitude of the work -- the work of art, the literary work -- we discover a more essential solitude. It excludes the complacent isolation of individualism; it has nothing to do with the quest for singularity. The fact that one sustains a stalwart attitude throughout the disciplined course of the day does not dissipate it. He who writes the work is set aside; he who has written it is dismissed. He who is dismissed, moreover, doesn't know it. This ignorance preserves him. It distracts him by authorizing him to persevere. The writer never knows whether the work is done. What he has finished in one book, he starts over or destroys in another. Valéry, celebrating this infinite quality which the work enjoys, still sees only its least problematic aspect. That the work is infinite means, for him, that the artist, though unable to finish it, can nevertheless make it the delimited site of an endless task whose incompleteness -21- develops the mastery of the mind, expresses this mastery, expresses it by developing it in the form of power. At a certain moment, circumstances -- that is, history, in the person of the publisher or in the guise of financial exigencies, social duties -- pronounce the missing end, and the artist, freed by a dénouement of pure constraint, pursues the unfinished matter elsewhere. The infinite nature of the work, seen thus, is just the mind's infiniteness. The mind wants to fulfill itself in a single work, instead of realizing itself in an infinity of works and in history's ongoing movement. But Valéry was by no means a hero. He found it good to talk about everything, to write on everything: thus the scattered totality of the world distracted him from the unique and rigorous totality of the work, from which he amiably let himself be diverted. The etc. hid behind the diversity of thoughts and subjects. However, the work -- the work of art, the literary work -- is neither finished nor unfinished: it is. What it says is exclusively this: that it is -- and nothing more. Beyond that it is nothing. Whoever wants to make it express more finds nothing, finds that it expresses nothing. He whose life depends upon the work, either because he is a writer or because he is a reader, belongs to the solitude of that which expresses nothing except the word being: the word which language shelters by hiding it, or causes to appear when language itself disappears into the silent void of the work. The solitude of the work has as its primary framework the absence of any defining criteria. This absence makes it impossible ever to declare the work finished or unfinished. The work is without any proof, just as it is without any use. It can't be verified. Truth can appropriate it, renown draws attention to it, but the existence it thus acquires doesn't concern it. This demonstrability renders it neither certain nor real -- does not make it manifest. The work is solitary: this does not mean that it remains uncommunicable, that it has no reader. But whoever reads it enters into the affirmation

Kyle Bakerson

Experimental...

Father Rikhi

bloody awesome. 

nznlsk

hella dopee

Charlie Lemus

Yeah, I know it's already a thing, and it sucks. It's all either punk beat and power chords with a saxophone wailing in the background or punk beat with jazz chords. Everything is complete shit if not done well, know what I mean? I fucking love grilled cheese sandwiches, but too much butter, the wrong cheese, or if it's burnt a little can ruin it.

KamikazeFighterPilot

punkjazz is already a thing, however i never liked it. The idea is great but the people that were jazz punk didn't appeal to m at all

Charlie Lemus

Dude, I've been writing some music for a while, showed my friend some songs; he said, "It's like...Jazz and punk had sex". What he said made so much sense to me. My head exploded and I exclaimed, "JAZZ PUNK!".

Mistah Wombat

I listen to this while I do math homework

GaspingForBear

It's better than a lot of things. Even things I really like.

Alexander Beretz

jazz punk :)

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