Do you think you’re prepared for a musical flume ride? Sit in that hollowed out log and buckle down, because I don’t think you’re prepared. You’re going down the flume, when you realize that no, you don’t have a seatbelt, and you’re not in a flume at all. It’s not night, it’s not day. You’re falling through an otherworldly plain, where abhorrent winged beasts roam freely, on their way to a cosmic combat creation myth. You’re falling through space in this log, and that sounds, that torrential euphony of water still ringing in your ears isn’t water at all, it wouldn’t be nearly that easy, no it’s the universe about you, filling your waking moment with every past and present experience of man. You look out into this infinite chasm, every foible of the nature world is absent. You don’t perceive this deception with the eyes of a mortal man, not in black and white, not in colour but in the infinite option. There is not light, eye tricks or magnetism, you see everything in the parallel, in every option and iteration of color that has ever existed. Your infinite descent comes to a conclusion, and you find yourself in a room. A simple cabin, filled with quaint possessions that must have once certainly belonged to a sage. In that perpetual room, you find yourself seated with a man, dressed decadently in a navy gabardine suit, crimson straight tight and golden tie clip. This man, is William Martin Doyle.


For the next ineffably timeless hour, you will be serenaded with the transient tales and simple soliloquies of man versed in his own experience. Words won’t be necessary sometimes, and you’ll understand what is being said. You will perceive all being presented in the most complete and translucent understanding of insurmountably arduous concepts. You will be seeping with the empathized emotions and relayed experiences, emotions and experiences if manifested would be up to the insurmountable rafters of Sheol. Can you convince yourself that there exists a method of hypnotic wisdom inducing meditation that is capable of awakening and blinding one to the wonders and terrors of the world? You need not convince yourself, for William Martin Doyle, now under the moniker East India Youth, has done it for you.


You need not worry, because this journey will not last eternity, as you had initially projected. No, it’s coming to an over, and a tear may fall from your eye as the world of that ineffable chasm and seeming sage fade from your senses, and the mortal world you are accustomed to becomes more and more concrete. Were you left with something new? Were you told something you had never heard before? Maybe, but it doesn’t matter to you, and the thought fades just as swiftly as the memory it alluded to. You are left with an impression, exempt from expression. You needn’t not critique that analytical aspects of this piece, because it succeeded in the one thing it intended to perform; to be experienced. You may find yourself coming back to that room, hypothesizing what sort of event may befall you should you try it again. You wonder if it was all real, if there really was a man named William Martin Doyle who in actuality filled your head with words and thoughts of the utmost importance. And yet no matter how many times you come back to this man and quaint orifice of a structure, you will still recall that first time, that fateful moment when you truly thought you were in a flume, floating down the river.

Culture of Volume is a successful work by East India Youth, a real expression of talent.