Wednesday, May 21, 2008

the column.

it's may. tomorrow will be six months of sobriety. et cetera--

"The Rest is Noise" is a great book: highly readable, very accessible and definitely not snobbishly academic. this book functions as all great music tomes should. the way it effortlessly weaves seemingly unconnected narratives keeps it interesting. "The Rest is Noise" is of course predominantly about 20th century classical music but the connections to other music genres are drawn and highlighted and some of the themes-tonality vs. atonality e.g.-make this book a worth while read for all lovers of music and serious headz alike. i am not a big fan of the new yorker either...

things are indeed not weird enough. not right now. but maybe i should leave the house? either way...

lately i have been thinking about "noise-rock" in general and Deerhunter in particular. summer of 2005 they were THE local support band for NY-based groups & other hip, small-capacity touring bands. basically their set would be 30 minutes of "feedback," which would slowly build and crescendo into the "Octet" disco-orgasm. i had experienced it so many times that i'd just watch the beginning unfold, go upstairs to the gay bar for a Budweiser and come back and they would still be doing that "wall-of-noise" build-up that would eventually come to irk and alienate so many bloggers and hipsters when "Cryptograms" broke. Me? i just chuckle at the thought of those types expecting some pretty ambient soundscapes (or at least some decent rock jamz?) and getting str8 noise. Ha Ha Ha. He He He. these are probably some of the same people that enjoy sigur ros or mum or like whatever they seems to listen to. explosions in the sky???

and yeah maybe i paid like $8 tops to see Deerhunter feedback. i miss those "halcyon" dayz...

Of course there are people who are going to pay like $225 to see My Bloody Valentine. i swear to God i wish that My Bloody Valentine would just do like an hour of nothing but feedback and that be the whole set and like a whole bunch of bloggers and hipsters rant about not hearing songs from "Loveless" or some other bullshit. Honestly, that is a highly over-rated bill to begin w/ and even with the assurrace that My Bloody Valentine was going to play both "Loveless" and "Isn't Anything" (which is of course my favorite album from that band) in their respective entireties, i still wouldn't go to that over-hyped, over-priced nothingness and plus i have a more or less life-long NYC ban anyway so yeah why am I "ranting?" tevs...

i like the Cocteau Twins anyway. someone call me when that band reforms.

anyway. \i fret over the fact that i only have one Noise LP and one Noise 7" but when you got one Noise record you basically got them all. right? maybe there is a Einsturzende Neubaten LP somewhere in the crates but i am not sure. (and I am not sure if it is any good.) lately i have been looking for Noise in atypical places like Techno or Rock or where-ever. i like to call it "truffle hunting," but it is what it is. of course my definition of Noise is extremely broad and diverse and "all-encompassing" so it makes my quest much much easier. soon enough i will go back to buying cassette tapes and 3 inch CD-R's and such of artists whom probably would be lost w/o a distortion pedal somewhere in their pedaljamarsenal, but alas...

oh yeah and here, (my favorite place to waste time, or at least it was...) a brief discussion of what season noise music sounds best in. or something like that. I say noise sounds best in the winter, but then again i first heard Merbow during Thanksgiving and that is when noise really started clicking for me so perhaps therein lies the reason why i prefer it during the winter but really for me noise just sounds more "visceral" during the colder months. just my opinion though. i have an asshole too but right now its' really really itchy.

so yeah. if you are not wallowing in boredom or you are doing interesting stuff or you spot any new "trends" or if you're having interesting sex or you saw somebody get shot or if you have a really nasty drug problem or you dropped out of college or if a pretty girl smiled at you today or perhaps maybe you recorded an interesting demo or if the month of may has been treating you inordinately well or something or just anything you figure to be worthwhile piques your fancy, send me an email or write me or something...

(oh yeah i saw Gridlock'd on basic cable last saturday nite and that really is a good movie. Ossian was right. Its kind of Kafkaesque, like "The Trial" or something, at least bureaucracy-wise. Seems like it was shot in Canada, like Vancouver or something??? But yeah, its a good movie...)

Sunday, May 18, 2008

acid mothers temple - "nam myo ho ren ge kyo." (ace fu) [CD]

Absolute boredom. Maybe depression. Unemployment rut. Complete sobriety. Certain Isolation. Food stamps. The Carpenters. Et Cetera...

Marvel at the fact that you've somehow only managed to pay for one AMT release, and that was some good-looking vinyl. Marvel that you are still alive and healthy and still trucking. Marvel at the notion that somehow people like you even though you contribute absolutely nothing to society. Marvel that you've made it this far and you still have your "integrity" intact. The world is still yours.

An aesthete with acquired tastes. An urban Boheme with backwoods sensibility. Fin de siecle. Fried pork chops w/ gravy. Everyone likes you. A bonifide grownandsexxxy Renaissance man in fatigues and a Detroit Tigers baseball cap. You are, even tangentially so, a participant in the post-modern American counter-culture. Proud owner of two leather jackets and 3 DUI's. You like psychedelic music, and you like to dream...

“Nam Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo” is, on its surface, a Buddhist chant exploration via the brand of psychedelia that Acid Mothers Temple is known for. I suppose if you want to scratch beneath the surface a bit delving into Zen and art of acquiring mind-expanding drugs might be in order. Doesn’t matter though. If you have this record you know what time it is—

The curious thing about Acid Mothers Temple & the Melting Paraiso U.F.O is that, somehow, one minute you barely know who they are and the next minute you have several releases (and a tee-shirt) in your possession that you did not pay for. A Chimera perhaps. A Blessing from God? Maybe. Who knows? But you don’t question it either. You don’t care. You just go with the flow…

Everyday I question my both my incoherence and my place in this universe. I marvel and cherish the time I spent w/ all the amazingly beautiful giving people and I wonder if it will continue, or how long it will continue. The warm smiles and the “happy to see yous” and such. Meaningful orgasms and Marihuana opulence. All the awesome things in life. Doctor Who…

For Aya. I wish you love and fortitude during these difficult times. You will be in my thoughts and chants until things get better.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

v/a - "freedumb fest 2005 part one." (sounds from the pocket) [DVD-R]

Do you think you’re turning me on by having unsafe sex?" she screams back.

“Oh Christ, this really isn’t worth it, “ I mutter, pulling the condom down so there is half an inch to spare—a little less actually. “And see, Courtney, it’s there for what? Huh? Tell us.” I slap her again, this time lightly. “Why is it pulled down half an inch? So it can catch the force of the ejaculate!”

"Well, it’s not a turn-on for me." She's hysterical, racked with tears, choking. “I have a promotion coming to me. I’m going to Barbados in August and I don’t want a case of Kaposi’s sarcoma to fuck it up!” She chokes, coughing. “Oh god I want to wear a bikini,” she wails. “A Norma Kamali I just bought at Bergdorf’s.”

I grab her head and force her to look at the placement of the condom. “See? Happy? You dumb bitch? Are you happy, you dumb bitch?”

Without looking at my dick she sobs, “Oh god just get it over with,” and falls back down on the bed.

Roughly I push my cock back into her and bring myself to an orgasm so weak as to be almost nonexistent and my groan of a massive but somewhat expected disappointment is mistaken by Courtney for pleasure and momentarily spurs her on as she lies sobbing beneath me on the bed, sniffling, to reach down and touch herself but I start getting soft almost instantly—actually during the moment I came—but if I don’t withdraw from her while still erect she’ll freak out so I hold on to the base of the condom as I literally wilt out of her. After lying there on separate sides of the bed for what might be twenty minutes with Courtney whimpering about Luis and antique cutting boards and the sterling silver cheese grater and muffin tin she left at Harry’s, she then tries to give me head. “I want to fuck you again, “I tell her, “but I don’t want to wear a condom because I don’t feel anything,” and she says calmly, taking her mouth off my limp shrunken dick, glaring at me, “If you don’t use one you’re not going to feel anything anyway.”

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

alexandra st. germain - " untitled." (freedom from) [CS]

The President of South Korea, has a really funny laugh. It's akin to simultaneously tickling a fat kid and feeding him Twinkies. So imagine him at the six-party talks and someone cracks a diplomatic joke. Lee Myung-bak and his goofy fat kid laugh, President Bush and his "laughing at my own jokes" laugh, Vladimir Putin's scary-ass KGB laugh, Kim Jong-Il's too cool for school laugh, Hu Jintao and his "look whose going to have the last laugh now losers," and Yasuo Fukuda's "Sock it to me baby laugh." They are there at the table, and they are all laughing...

Ah yes. And then there is Duk Ju L. Kim. I remember walking past her while she was staring into the sun. Didn't pay her much mind though. Then, at Maria's, John O'Malley talking my ear off about religion and morality, and me just nodding and drinking and agreeing and drinking some more while the Sox were playing literally "down the street." And then John O'Malley mumbled some sicko perveted dive bar talk under his breath and gave me his number and then it was Duk Ju's turn: "Do you know Ed?" "No i don't know Ed but I'm here for Version..." After that it was a lovefest, she telling me her life story, of being an outsider growning up in Texas, then SAIC, then RISD, then artist in Chicago and all the heartache and struggle and suicide attempts in between. And then John Salhus, her boyfriend showed up, and we were introduced. John is a fine fellow, of Minnesota stock and familial jizz issues. He bought me beer. John is a nice guy--

a couple days Later at Sonotheque, with a sheepishly mischievously she gave me an empty Estee Lauder lipstick tube fashioned in a faux-nail polish bottle. Elizabeth Pink. Platonic les liaisons dangereuses on the south-side of Chicago. Tevs...

And wow yeah how cute is the little Korean baby singer "Hey Jude." So cute.

Ah yes. Yes of course. I am forgetting Alexandra St. Germain, a grand upper-midwestern dame with an artistocratic surname and a majestic command of cello jamrocking. Simply put, "Untitled" is masterful and haunting: a beautiful amalgam of noise and grating bow and avant-garde rhapsody: Cacophonous dissonance on cassette tape. Very brief. 3 songs. Leaving you captivated. And wanting more...

And so. While there are books w/ such laudatory titles as The Gift of the Jews and How the Irish Saved Civilization, sadly, no one seems to have penned the monolithic tribute tome for Koreans. This is of course rather unfortunate. Nonetheless, Korean gifts are all-encompassing and ever-present, in real time. I say get you some Korean BBQ, throw this tape in the box, and hit the chill mode button on yr brain.

and you know if you are ever in Chicago...

Sunday, May 11, 2008

v/a - "live @ le chateau noir." (sounds from the pocket) [DVD-R]

But at her apartment she lies naked on her back, her legs—tan and aerobicized and muscular and worked out—are spread and I’m on my knees giving her head while jerking off and in the time since I’ve started licking and sucking on her pussy she’s already come twice and her cunt is tight and hot and wet and I keep it spread open, fingering it with one hand, keeping myself hard with the other. I lift her ass up, wanting to push my tongue into her, but she doesn’t want me to and so I raise my head and reach over to the Portian antique night-stand for the condom that sits in the ashtray from Palio next to the halogen Tensor lamp and the D’Oro pottery urn and I tear the package open with two shiny slick fingers and my teeth, then slip, easily, onto my cock.

“I want you to fuck me,” Courtney moans, pulling her legs back, spreading her vagina even wider, fingering herself, making me suck her fingers, the nails on her hand long and red, and the juice from her cunt, glistening in the light coming from the streetlamps through the Stuart Hall venetian blinds, tastes pink and sweet and she rubs it over my mouth and lips and tongue before it cools.

“Yeah,” I say, moving on top of her, sliding my dick gracefully into her cunt, kissing her on the mouth hard, pushing into her with long fast strokes, my cock, my hips crazed, moving on their own desirous momentum, already my orgasm builds from the base of my balls, my asshole, coming up through my cock so stiff that it aches—but then in mid-kiss I lift my head up, leaving her tongue hanging out of her mouth starting to lick her own red swollen lips, and while still humping but lightly now I realize there…is…a…problem of sorts but I cannot think of what it is right now…but then it hits me while I’m staring at the half-empty bottle of Evian water on the nightstand and I gasp “Oh shit” and pull out.

Saturday, May 10, 2008

jijimuge - "777" (self-released) [3" CD]

This is how it should always be. Short & sweet. And free. And perfect. The person giving it to you should have on a wolf t-shirt, won unironically. Ideally, this person would be from Florida becuz people from Florida are nice. And giving...

You should go home. Take a shower. Change your dirty filthy nasty jock strap for a pair of clean white underwear. Preferably Hanes briefs. The first time you should listen to this should be on a lazy Sunday afternoon. You should be chillin'. Tempering "777" w/ a nice joint, a glass of Beaujolais and a snifter of decent brandy, would be ideal. V.S.O.P. or better. If you have a thriftstoresmokingjacket, put that on too. It will help you get in the mood:

The first seven-minute dreamscape will begin as a wind drone deception, and will probably look and feel sort of kind of like how staring out of the window of a 747 Boeing airplane looks and feels. As soon as your mercury mind begins to wander, subtle washes of organ and feedback take over and the drone becomes larger, noisier and more ambient. The organ sounds will begin to seem under the influence of echo or delay. And invariably, "Man this is the shit i wonder how Charlie made it...," will come to mind.

The second seven-minute dreamscape builds on the promise of the first dreamscape. There is a discernible opening loop, which descends into another loop. Halfway thru there is a scary ass kickdrumnoise and the sounds begin to reach murky swamp land territory. Near the seven minute mark there is a slo-burn crescendo and an abrupt ending. And you'll be like, "Dang, I wish that would have kept going..."

The third and final seven minute dreamscape begins w/ some weird-ass New Age jamrockage. Lucky, these sounds are so sparse and sagepungent that they come no where near Yanni & Enya levels of rainbow crystal wankery. Again, halfway thru, the tide turns and whatever was building doubles, the third "seven" seems less like a Tibetan singing bowl played on the bridge of a guitar and more like aggressive feedback that you'd hope a Danelectro Sitar guitar pedal & an alternate tuning would engender. And again, there's an abruptly ending crescendo at the seven-minute mark.

This 3-inch CD is hella on the grownandsexxxy side; you could easily orgasm to this record if you really really wanted to. Nothing but sophisticated posi-vibes on this moody drone noise expression.

Thursday, May 08, 2008

peoples coke - "disco sonata" (green records and tapes) [CS]

Disconnecting. It’s a curious word. I first came across it reading a profile on Arianna Huffington in W. I’m sure her particular brand of “disconnecting” meant not bringing the laptop and the three Blackberry’s to Jackson Hole or Martha’s Vineyard, but even the sentiment, a conscious effort of tuning off and going off-line, no matter how long the time period, seems somewhat revolutionary and anachronistic. Is it even possible to disconnect from the INTERNET? Mormons “disconnect” late-paying Navajos. Yes. Of course. A cellphone & a shotgun bandoleer are not uncommon fashion accessories for a Zapatista. Yes. Of course. The days of being cellphone & computer-less are certainly still tenable, but the ratio of motorolas to moleskins? I couldn’t even give you an answer...

And then there are INTERNET “priorities.” Yeah that’s right: INTERNET PRIORITIES. I both laugh and cringe at the absurdity & the irony. But it is what it is. We have hierarchies and priorities, of how we connect and where we are connected. They make coordinating the logistics and strategerie of an activeurbansociallife much more manageable. And then we return to our lonely homes, drunxxx & empty-handed, only to blog or report on messageboardmasadas how “awesome” our nites were. Or perhaps we revert to myspace stalking the cuteboy we saw walking down the street smoking a cigarette and looking so cool we just wanted to melt. Disjointed realities become distorted broadbandloveaffairs as soon Firefox is firestarted. Tevs.

Can you leave? Yes. As long as your ugly mug still shows up IRL somewhere. No one will worry. Can you leave and be “anti-social.” No. I give it three months tops before someone a thousand miles from somewhere wonders what happened to your INTERNET handle and plaintively hopes that “you are okay,” or at least assumes that you are in jail for soliciting a teenager on AIM:

But I say fuck them. Your eardrums are well on their way to being ruined. You should sue Apple or Real Player and start listening to the natural sounds around you. Listen more to the rhythm of the sounds your lover makes, and maybe your sex life will become less “uninspired.” Take deep breaths and envelop yourself in the world of spacey minimal analog sounds captured on “Disco Sonata.” Honestly, the possibilities are endless. YOU are “wired” now. Fine. Resistance is Futile. But it’s nice outside today. Go outside. And smell the roses…

Sunday, May 04, 2008

Knox Mitchell - "What Once Was, Now Has Never Been" (Unreleased) [MP3]

25:40 minute club banger from wstlnd wunder kid Knox Mitchell. When I was 15, I played Tecmo Bowl on NES and spent a lot of time "discovering myself" in the bathroom. Knox operates Green Records and Tapes, has performed & released noise jamz both collaborative & solo on other labels, circuit bends, runs a Andrew W.K. website, got dissed by ANDY ORTMANN at Lansing Fest and is probably well on his way to being Pamela Anderson's 4th husband by the time he turns 18. GOOD JOB KNOX KEEP IT UP!!!

"What once was, now has never been" begins as a
cumulus cloudland collage of rutilantly reverberating feedback cascading into warbly retarded Casio Rapman noises and circuit-bent dementia. At around the eight minute is where shit start crescendoing and the psycho-drumming and distant unmic'd fireworks screaming vox beings. And while "What once was, now has never been" is reminiscent in scope and structure of midwestern psyche-noise epics such as "Allegory of the Rave" by last years disbanded Twin Cities rabble rousers Teen Eagle or everybody's favorite electric-ethanol everymen Racc-oo-ooon and their stone cold tribal jammy jam "Call out your friends," you have to remember this kid is FUCKING 15 YRS OLD AND HE MADE THIS BY HIMSELF:

after listening to this particular recording you may become famished for fish & huevos tacos and CAMPRI apertifs but a quicktrip to the local Burger King for a Triple Whooper Combo would probably do the trick also.
"What once was, now has never been" is, if anything else, a worthwhile ipod diversion from Bush fatigue and the general Paxil malaise which seems to continue to beleaguer the average American plebe. And it sure as hell beats the sensory deprivation of watching America's Top Model marathons all afternoon.


Saturday, May 03, 2008