REVIEW


msp
Review: Soothing Sounds for the Baby Vols 1-3, 1-18 months
Wed Jan 2 07:37:50 2002



originally pressed in the 60's by EPIC records Soothing Sounds for the Baby Volumes 1-3 is just that, a three record set of electronic music for children 1 to 18 months old. Raymond Scott's (http://raymondscott.com/) the man behind the tunes and holy crap is this like a gold mine of early electronic tunes. basta music (http://bastamusic.com/) re-issued this.

fun and young ambient electronic music. repetitive to lengths that drive my wife crazy. i'm not sure if our kid will be hearing this record while my wife is around. many of the tones are very high end and almost mechanical. the mutating part of the music often sits in very strange, almost incomprehensible ranges while the dominant noise is almost abrasive. we have the sounds of elves in a factory working like a machine. babies love playing near washing machines, so this music must have an effect.

much of this music was created in response to research done at by the GESSEL INSTITUTE OF CHILD DEVELOPMENT. ..the pamphlet included with the three volumes...here are some experts:

"We believe that small babies respond better to high tones than to low. And above all, in sound as well as in other areas, they like something with continues uninterruptedly. If they like a thing, they like it to go on and on."

it's amazing to hear music like this made in the mid 60's. from classics like kraftwerk to contemporaries like plone and other warp acts, this record comes across as almost an anachronism. seen from today's vantage, it belongs in a different setting with a different audience.

amazing machine nursery noise.
m.

MYTH


The god of Elvis
The Truth About Elvis and Charles...
Fri Dec 28 23:33:10 2001


I happen to be a bit of an aficionado when it comes to things Elvisish. So, below is the Charlie Story as it actually happened:

Elvis, the great man of the ages, led an extensive and varied life long before becoming famous in his latter years as a petty crooner. I, the Elvis god, bestow upon the curious the wisdom our great superman, as Nietzsche deemed him, has lived out for us to know. And so I relate to you this cautionary tale.

In 1532 rural England Elvis was working as a hay harvester for a relatively poor farmer. During the off-season he would travel through the market towns in Southern Brittany, always minding to avoid the usually corrupt shire reeves, begging for alms and looking for any opportunity the strange foreigners brought with them. (Adventure rode on the heels of the exotic.) It turned out that a nobleman had the farmer’s fields that Elvis was working upon burned because the farmer wouldn’t pay pittance (and a large pittance it was) to the nobleman who laid claim to the lands the farmer was on due to a Royal negation of property rights done to pay off the nobleman who was owed by the King. So Elvis, preternaturally out of work, set off early that season for the southern fields, needing desperately to fill a void in his stomach the absence of food had formed. On his way he met up with a troupe of traveling actors on making their own way to some village supposedly nearby, “just on the other side of this wooded vale”. Elvis spoke with them for a spell, about his hunger and the misfortunes that had befallen the peasant farmer who supplied him with fair coinage in return for hearty work in the fields.

The actors then related a tale of their own, about how one from their troupe had been sucked into the sudden maw of an injured, but dangerous nonetheless, worm. They had, they said, stopped to entertain the obviously suffering beast with a show about a knight being accosted and bored literally to death with the odd travails of a blacksmith injured and found by the knight suspended from the upper branches of a tree. The worm had apparently displayed pleasure at their inane mimicry and reposed full attention upon them. It had, however, become quite upset when the show was over and they began packing--to get back on the route they had planned. At the fiery threat of maiming and death the troupe of actors reluctantly resumed acting for many subsequent hours, until they had run out of material with which to keep the young dragon’s mind off his wounds and on the immediacy of pleasure the showings offered it. The worm would neither consent to their leaving or resting nor to their running over materials already offered and performed; it demanded an endless flow of new material! But the actors were tired and scared--the quality of their improvisational work declined throughout the night and into the next day. The worm was becoming increasingly irritated with the group and finally consumed one of the actors, during which the rest of the troupe escaped.

Our hero was quite taken with this tale and, being in a state of dangerously ravenous hunger, agreed to take up with the troupe of actors until they could acquire a new actor proper on the condition that they provide Elvis with food and place to lay his head until such time was arrived upon. He dined like a starving wolf, one from the troupe even saying so, as they made their way down the sloping open field and into the dark vale. The regular beat of cart bouncing over stone and stump lolled Elvis into a deep sleep. But, several hours later, he was awoken quite rudely by the clank of metal and the grunts and sighs of battle. Fearful of his current position and the consequent prospects for continued living, he hid himself under the bundle of horses’ straw that he had but a moment ago been reclining on. After several minutes’ incoherent talk amongst the thieves there was the very welcome sound of hooves leaving rather than arriving. After an hour or so of silent quivering, Elvis dared to peer out into the now dark (and ever so dark on top of that from the cover of dense forest) woods. Seeing that things were safe, or as safe as anything was in that place, he gathered with him what food and water he could carry and set off in the opposite direction the hooves of the thieves had traveled.

Along the path he subsequently traveled is the tale of the legendary first meeting of Elvis and a dispossessed Royal guard of King Henry VIII. But this is of little consequence since the roots of an age-old conflict were founded in the meeting of Elvis and the traveling troupe of ill-fated actors. Amongst the dead troupe of actors was a surviving small boy named Charles. Charles saw the bloody execution of his family and Elvis’ lack of help in the matter, plus his subsequent stealing of all the food and water, leaving the boy for dead in the heap of his family. But Charles survived the ordeal and lived to sire a long lineage of Charles’. Somewhere in the history of the family the tale of Elvis and the marauders was lost due to an undoubtable consensual lack of importance being placed on the event (after all, who were they to know who this Elvis character was).

Before one set on his latter-years Vegas circuit, a particularly stoned Elvis related the story of the troupe of actors to his ill-regarded band. Of course, none believed him and thought he was just rambling due to the age that would have made Elvis. However, the telling of that tale did stir in one particular band mate an ancestral awareness and urge for revenge. Charles stewed in his increasing conviction and decreasing disbelief throughout the set until he finally could take no more. But, equipped with the perspective with which Elvis related the story, Charles could only muster the strength to throw water on him rather than attempt to destroy him for what his ancestor perceived as cruelty.

And so now you know the full story behind Charles throwing water on Elvis.

Authors Note: I had for a long time been curious as to what was myth and what was actually true concerning the great legends the modern figure of Elvis cut with a wide scythe into the psyche of latter day popular culture. Extensive inquiry only got me so far in the delving and ultimate goal of sifting the dross of falsity from the rich soup of this great man’s life. Subsequent to the realization that I had gone as far as any other mortal had gone before in the re-treading of Elvis’ footsteps, I entered into a deep melancholy, holed up in a cheap motel in Bangladesh. Thereafter, I sidestepped seven years of my life by muting the cruelties of life in a constant drunken stupor and the venereal release of the working girls on the first floor of the decrepit motel lobby. To other Elvisites I had become something of an icon nonetheless; in these hazy years I parsed much wisdom to those seeking it. In fact, I had apparently threatened the Dalai Llama’s position in Tibet and was visited once as a warning and a second time as the second half of the first threat, barely escaping with my life. When I ended up, somehow, in Mongolia, I sobered up for the first time in what were ages in Elvis years and was forced to take brutal stock of my life in that barren landscape, the bitter cold Siberian winds cutting the alcoholic stink and cheap sex taste from my throttled soul. Upon the realization of my life I attained a sort of popular culture enlightenment; I knew all there was to obtain about the mordant boy-king Elvis. I wandered the lands alone for days upon days, the crystalline snow building a home on my shoulders and nose, until I came suddenly upon a grandly purple and deeply red mobile tent. Inside lay a dying old man with no companions. He beckoned me near him and I spent an immeasurable time listening to his words, my ear to his bosom, his frail old hands stroking my ratted hair back to smoothness. He spoke of Elvis! I had all this time not been the true guru of Elvis, only an esteemable acolyte, another Elvisite in a world of such! He told me he had been waiting for me seven years longer than his life had agreed him, waiting to pass the immutable mantle of true Elvis guru to me (there must exist always at least one in the world at a time). After he had died and I had buried him, digging the hole in the dense Mongolian earth with my bare hands, I traveled to take my position as Elvis guru proper in a hotel directly on the Mississippi river in northern Louisiana. My researches and publications of enormous erudition on my specialized subject led and funded my secret, burning purpose. In 1982 I finalized the work on my Elvis lifetime machine. I broke the barrier the present posed and pierced to the heart of the truth underlying the life of Elvis! I have become the first Elvis god, able to know everything about Elvis’ life!

INTERVIEW


msp
Interview: Irwin Chusid
Thu Dec 27 08:16:58 2001



Irwin Chusid is the author of Songs in the Key of Z--The Curious Universe of Outsider Music (http://www.keyofz.com/keyofz/index.htm) and more recently the producer for first commercial release of The Langley Schools Music Project (http://keyofz.com/keyofz/langley/). Irwin agreed to answer a few quick questions about the Langley Schools Project (thanks again Irwin!) and here's the result:


msp: Just for starters, grounding, and so on. ..what is your part in this release of the Langley Schools Music Project cd? How did you find this record?

IC: In June 2000, a WFMU listener in Canada, Brian Linds, submitted a CDR of 15 or 20 various artists for the Incorrect Music Hour, which I co-host with Michelle Boulé. Brian included "Space Oddity," credited to the "Lochiel and
South Carvolth Schools Glenwood Region Music Group." I flipped over the unique, haunting arrangement and gave it immediate airing. It was one of the strangest "school" recordings I'd ever heard -- and I've heard hundreds. The
slightly sinister -- and obviously very young -- choral ensemble and charming instrumentation had a compelling quality. I recognized this as more than just a cute, sloppy school band relic. Listener and staff reactions to
the airing were electric, which didn't surprise me.

I asked Brian to send any other recordings by this school band. He burned a CDR of nine songs, which he sent with a xeroxed reduction of the b&w LP cover. The album had no title, and just listed the three schools; there were
photos of students, and a few sketchy credits. Brian knew nothing about the recordings; he'd found the LP in a thrift shop. I listened, and was stunned by the passionate renditions of "Band On The Run," "Rhiannon," "You're So
Good To Me," and "Saturday Night." There was a consistent identity in these recordings, and an irresistible magic. By now, I was convinced this LP had to be made commercially available -- but I only had 30 minutes of music, and
didn't know the source.

Referring to individual names on the LP's back cover (squinting to read a grainy reduced xerox), as well as the school names, I embarked on some internet sleuthing. In short order, I had phone numbers of several administrators in what I learned was the Langley school district (home of
Lochiel, South Carvolth and Glenwood). I called and asked each school official about the record. Nobody had any idea what I was talking about; they knew nothing about any such recording, or about anyone named "Hans Fenger" (listed as the "music supervisor"). Finally, one administrator
recognized the name "Pat Bickerton" (the LP was dedicated to him), and told me that Pat had died in the 1970s, but that his son, Mike, was a teacher in the district and would know about the LP. Sure enough, Mike recalled it vividly, provided some background, and helped me contact Hans Fenger, who had left the district around 1979 and was teaching in Vancouver.

I called Hans, conveyed my enthusiasm, and told him of my wish to release this record commercially. He was very sweet and appreciated my interest. No one had brought up the record in decades; it was ancient history to him. I
grew intrigued when he offhandedly told me about a second album he'd recorded a year later with a different school (Wix-Brown) in the same district. He cautioned that the second album was "not as interesting" as the first, because he'd been attempting to be more careful (i.e., controlled) with the arrangements. He sent me a DAT, and much to my
surprise, the second album was -- BETTER! Well, "as good" would be more accurate, but it had a wider range of material and arrangements -- including several solo vocals (the first album contained only group voicings). Both
albums used a large children's chorus, chiming Orff xylophones (I wasn't familiar with these; Hans explained what they were), and minimal instrumentation.

By December 2000, I was obsessed with releasing these recordings on any label that would indulge my fanatical fixation. I discussed a licensing/royalty sharing arrangement with the Langley district and with Fenger, and hunted about for a willing label. I convinced my adventurous
colleagues at Basta Audio-Visuals, in the Netherlands, that these recordings were worth putting out. They were at first a bit skeptical, but they are astute music lovers, and eventually their resident A&R guru (and my longtime
friend) Gert-Jan Blom convinced them that I wasn't crazy, and they agreed to do it. By then, I had devised the name, The Langley Schools Music Project, to encompass the sessions of students from four schools. The album title,
"Innocence and Despair," was first uttered by Hans to describe nine-year-old Sheila Behman's captivating solo rendition of "Desperado."

When it became apparent (to me) that Basta's US distributor would not fully understand the nature of this release, I decided (with Basta's cooperation) to search for a US label to cover the North American market. The Langley project was rejected by ten labels (Artemis, Palm Pictures, Luaka Bop,
Nonesuch, Paradise, Rhino, Astralwerks, Emperor Norton, Tommy Boy, and Matador; in all fairness, Matador was extremely interested, but withdrew when they couldn't fit the release into their short-term schedule). The
consensus reaction from these companies indicated they didn't take these recordings seriously; several referred to them as "novelties," and observed that "no one would want to listen to this stuff a second time." I was frustrated, but not discouraged.

In desperation, and with time running out for a Fall 2001 release, I turned to my friend Glenn Morrow at Bar/None (in my hometown of Hoboken). I had worked very successfully with Bar/None on two Esquivel packages (in 1994 and
1995), but had not collaborated with the label since. Coincidentally, Bar/None was looking for an October release to round out their 2001 schedule. In less than 24 hours, Glenn and his partner Mark Lipsitz were sold on the idea. It was the music that did the selling.


msp: For me, there's a big element of nostalgia when I listen to it. It doesn't eclipse the music itself, but I still can't help but remember being that age and singing top 40 hits in music class. Do you think that identification is part of the general appeal?


IC: It is a *huge* part of the appeal. When I first began playing the Langley recordings for friends -- long before its release, hence before any press -- I'd noticed it had a peculiar emotional impact on women. I speculated to a
female acquaintance that perhaps it was a "maternal" connection, but she said: "No. It's that any woman can relate to being 10 years old and singing along with her favorite songs on the radio or in school."


msp: Does the cd compile all the songs you were able to get a hold of?

IC: The Basta (European) edition includes all existing 21 tracks. Two were left off the Bar/None (North American) edition, with my permission. Ostensibly to shave a bit off mechanical royalty payments (which are mandatory payments to
publishers on each title), and thus save Bar/None a little money. I found those two tracks expendable. "Little Deuce Coupe" -- we already had six other Beach Boys songs, and "LDC" wasn't a spectacular performance; the
other was "You're Sixteen," and at the risk of alienating the burgeoning Ringo market, I confess to finding that song terribly banal.



msp: Did Hans Fenger remark about what songs they chose to sing in any way?

IC: He said they didn't like "cute," and they were drawn to "sad."

The choices were collaborative -- he suggested songs to the kids, they requested others, and the kids chose their favorites. Hans vetoed some suggestions as inappropriate, but I couldn't tell you which titles. Probably those with oblique or overt drug or sex references.

RANT


jack cole
rant: that's entertainment!
Thu Dec 27 03:15:53 2001


The gravel road is littered with bad intentions tossed out the windows of speeding jalopies. People jus' don' do like they should anymore and suck it up like a man, dying of stomach cancer years later. I don't understand why they would so nonchalantly litter the roadside ditches with their disappointments, mistakes and rage. They jus' wanna let it all out and take a deep breath while their Yanni CD spins underneath the stereo's laser. Relaxed, they page through some book on the spiritual life, sipping their Celestial Seasons tea in between turning pages. Fuck that, I say, shaking my fist in an unsuccessful attempt at seeming threatening. Life ain't got no marrow without screaming at the TV or feeling like the veins are going to burst in your head. Serenity is nothing but a fancy word for coma with all the trimmings: atrophied limbs, mental bedsores, etc. The bastards should be pulled over and forced at gunpoint to pick up their shit. I can see the patrolman right now making someone pick up every last bit they tried to dump. "You missed one over there behind the Dr. Pepper can. MOVE IT!"

Fuck, the poseurs these days ain't got jack to wail about. They're going through the motions. They don't fucking see that there's no point to being clever and ever so witty if there ain't no substance underneath. If you're not willing to pick off your scabs in public, then shut your trap cuz you don't have one bit to share with anyone no how. I don't care how cute you think you are strumming your fancy Fender plugged into a Marshall stack as you mumble about your allergies and how blasé you feel. You think I care? Hardly. I'd rather clip my fingernails listening to NPR. Go pick up your trash. Amongst the discards you'll find the treasures that you can recycle into something worth my time. At the very least you will spare me from hearing you harmonize about spilling coffee on your favorite cardigan or how your cell phone batteries went dead. When I turn on my auditory nerves I want to process sounds that don't make me sigh in disgust.

After you clean up your litter, you can follow me down to the delapidated downtown, half abandoned and half boarded up. We can take in the sights and fuck if I'm sorry if there are no cotton candy vendors on any of the corners. Ain't one thing I can do about not having any street musicians playing Bob Dylan covers or crying about the dolphins in the driftnets. Look over there, though, sucker. A man is screaming about the way he places his head on the ground, an ear stuck to the gummy sidewalk. Ants wind their way up his lobs, two trains meeting under the folds of the back of his neck. He cannot even move to check in a gas station mirror -- supposing that the attendent would give him a key in the first place. Oh the hilarity, he chuckles to himself as feet step over his ineffective roadblock body. The mirth is murderous, he concludes, his arms and legs stepped on by persons in transit. He signs with relief. At least he will not be able to carefully observe his limbs rapidly become black and blue, puffy and painful to the touch. His eyelids flutter for a second. His mouth curls slightly. A minor grin through thick and thin, one more time and once again. A sound reverberates inside his skull, bouncing back and forth off bone walls fused together haphazardly. The plunk of a banjo, the plainitive caterwaul, the wail of somebody done wrong repeatedly. Invitation for a reaping, scythes slicing through the chaff to cut the wheat. Now that's entertainment.

EXPERIMENT


Cameleopard
Larry Chevron, Bonafide Nose Nut Dealer.
Mon Dec 17 22:51:52 2001


Larry Chevron, Bonafide Nose Nut Dealer.

Saye River, spilling grimily onto the eroding streets. Brecciated bricolage of brazen modern pastiche and plastic idolatry strewn wildly and chaotically across and beyond the sagging sigh of the space between ancient and tall arcades. Overturned on the overgrown green and grey atrophied carpet was a linoleum typograph smashing a tumbling strip of paper jutting out from beneath it like a dignified paraph. Our bonafide hero, a bonafide nose nut dealer, stuck out a five-pronged feeler to paw and stare at the flourish of paper. Larry Chevron read with earnest intent the rapid dot-matrix electronic scrawl and interpreted it with projected lament. First he reeled then railed and finally wailed; it was a cenotaph for the long-since mysteriously absent humanity he was once a part of. Larry had wondered, gazed out of his haunted hotel suite’s sixth floor window with suspicion; he had waited with patience and dutiful alertness for a thud on his door, for any newspaper article with salient facts, an explanation. He had feared that if a paper were to come it would hold the world’s biggest epitaph. But now a computer code readout in a worn and empty once busy street steeped in gritty water had told him what he didn’t want to hear.

A fiscal hickory hut trussed down in uptown leaned and loomed like a spilling truckload of over-bloated Lincoln logs crystallized in an amber shard of splintered time. Larry Chevron sat solemnly inside somewhere and sought with stinging trepidation and sublime nostalgia to at long last hang up his beloved and beleaguered, not to mention now utterly useless, bonafide nose nut dealership. Larry hanged his tattered brown barometer coat, signifying like the rings in an ancient tree his oft commensurated, commercially driven youth-centered and drunken whimsy-reliant quaternate business.

Then in the acronychal after-light Larry wandered and withered, wasting in the buzzing fuzz of electro-smog, haunted by the abstract random clashes and bangs of the inanimate happenstance companions dwelling in the minimalist/ruinist landscape. Amidst mundungus and plant-shrouded naughty and gaudy broken and glittering human spew, or remnants of trinkets of reminding, he danced and performed like a stick-puppet for his audience of a habit of floccinaucinihilipilification and pitiful Sisyphean empty hope goading. His preferred call: a self-fashioned metal sparking brick scraper.

Larry Chevron, bonafide nose nut dealer, was the stage-light stand-in for the wandering Jew. He slipped his own nut with a pair of rusty, grime crusty pliers and spent with mad intent his last few days on a winter escape island with panoply of perverse and diverse imagined injured plaster-casted disaster survivors. Polluted waves of asbestos-like fiber optic hazes finally left the stabbed and striated lungs of Larry Chevron gaily, in a choking pool of darkened blood. The last mental projected character flicker was a human-like mutation asking whether it ought to be, or if it was a random weather formation like fractally spreading crystal propagation burned away at the chilly and chthonic dispersing dawn of a new day.

REVIEWS


Jack Cole
2 Reviews
Mon Dec 17 12:52:28 2001


Joe Potts
Gifts From The Dead
Tiny Organ

Mr. Potts is the Phil Spector of noise contruction, building walls and wind tunnels from jerry rigged machines, samples and instruments. An American pioneer since his work with the various Los Angeles Free Music Society groups, including Airway, which he lead, Potts has built splatters of sound that encompass your ears, dragging the listener kicking and screaming into his fortresses of noise. With Gifts From The Dead, Potts has designed an edifice of stuttering short wave chatter collalescing into a choppy chug from which underneath unintelligible voices whirl about in high pitched mewling. The drone drags you into its undertow, pulling out into the fast currents that carry you further and further out until your limbs grow tired and sink, drowning. Blacking out, you cannot fathom how he created this using samples from that band of all bands. Then again, the Grateful Dead never sounded so good before, their music spit out by Potts' audio woodchipper.

Super Furry Animals
Rings Around The World
Epic/Sony

Soon to be hitting these shores through XL/Beggars Banquet, here's the scoop on if you should plop down your cash for the latest Super Furry Animal discus. Understandably, I could see how you might be concerned since Rings Around The World is the first SFA major label release. Certainly there hasn't been a great history of such transitions. Just look at horrible records like Sonic Youth's Goo or Jawbreaker's Dear You. When you play with big boys, they always have certain overbearing needs -- a compulsion to capitalize completely, cutting a swathe across the biggest audience possible. That translates into what some politely call "accessibility" -- but let's not mince words. Their access is really just making concessions to cash in. Sadly, Rings Around The World is a barge stuck on a sandbar in the middle of the river, The bits and pieces that made SFA interesting have been mostly widdled away to make room for straight forward melodies that can't hold their own weight. Sure, a few songs are OK like "Kill Doris Day," Ironically, with Paul McCartney and John Cale guesting on a song each, you would expect John Cale to participate on one of the more screwy compostions, but such is not the case. In this scenario, McCartney beats Cale. In the final analysis, save your cash. The boys in SFA has a nice run from Fuzzy Logic through Mwng and here's hoping they regain their course.

LIVE REVIEW
jack cole
LIVE REVIEW
Sat Dec 15 21:33:29 2001


11/14
Get Hustle
The Chromatics
M.O.N.I.T.O.R. Bats
Das Yellow Swan
Brace Pain
@
Joy, 3826 NE Killingworth, Portland OR

The question is where to start this review. Should I begin with the fact that Joy is a small hipster art gallery in part of town rapidly being yuppified, though traces of the old still bubble a bit below the surface? Upon one wall hung the featured exhibit, the work of one Brace Pain, a supposedly internationally famous cartoonist. I supposed it might be good if you like quickly tossed off pieces that look like the doodlings of a high school boy who enjoys overdone scatological shock value and monsters drawn with red felt tip pens. Personally, I felt it was pretty tepid with barely any comprehension of the pop culture that the images attempted to ridicule. I would recommend that Brace Pain should consider attempting to understand his subject a little beforehand before making others suffer through his scribbles. But, what do I know. The kids seemed to like it, giggling at a reflection of their own childishness.

Before we even move on to the first band, a few thoughts on the crowd from the perspective of the attendee who was at least 9 or so years older than everyone else there. You might want to now skip to the next paragraph, but please stay if you get a kick out of a grumpy old man's ranting about those damn kids. Overall, what I see is a new scene forming in Portland, and like all Portland scenes, it seems to be struggling to copy national trends as exhibited by the bands on labels like Gravity and Troubleman. With this scene, however, there seems to be a faux-innocent component expressed by the manner in which the participants dress: a contrived nerdy, awkward look acheived with too short or tight pants with big shoes and mismatched socks, too small sweaters over slightly larger t-shirts. A prime example of this faux innocent was more than readily apparent when a member of the audience approached Jane and I, asking if we wanted to draw a monster on his sheet of paper. Through out the entire show he moved from person to person getting them to add to his "cartoon jam."

The first band, Das Yellow Swan, was your worst hipster nightmare. Elliptical and occasional chords on a guitar while the other member of the duo simply played sound effects on his small array of cheap electronics. Each of their songs was half baked, none of them holding together. One had the impression that both of Das Yellow Swans' members just wanted to be in a band to maintain their cred. After the third song, Jane and I temporarily escaped Joy, heading for La Serenitas, where I consumed four carne asada tacos and she devoured a cheese and bean soft tostada.

Luckily, we returned just in time for the M.O.N.T.O.R. Bats, who we had quite enjoyed when we had seen them open for the Lowdown and Thrones. Basically, they played the same set as previously, saxaphone squawks intermingled with two chord guitar bashing and pounding drums. Near the end of their set, one member of the audience attempted to grab the microphone away from the girl who sang with them, upsetting her greatly. At that point the set shuddered, imploding on the runway after the attempted mic thief was ejected from the art gallery. I was very disappointed, to say the least. One expects a band that sings about bats flying out of vaginas to be able to handle a little audience heckling. If you want to play with the big kids, you have to have a few moves to prove your felity to the musical path you have chosen. Moreover, if the original 90 pound weakling, Jon Spencer, can smash someone off the stage using his guitar as a club, then I would think anybody could do it. As Camus so rightly suggested in The Myth Of Sisyphus, you gotta be able to walk your talk -- otherwise, get the fuck out of Dodge.

(Interlude -- Jane and I attempt to move back towards the wall. A new contingent makes itself evident, punky lesbians engaged in horseplay. The faux-innocent shy away from their path of rambunctiousness.)

Next the Chromatics took the stage, a disco-punk xerox with their shuffling drums and bassline. Concerned more with musical style over substance, their set flew on by until it ended abruptly due to technical difficulties resulting from broken strings and tuning difficulties. I sighed with relief, secretly enthusiastic that they could not continue. Finally, the band I had come for would be taking the stage (well, not really a stage -- just a spot at the back of the wall).

Get Hustle saved the day. Consisting of members of Antioch Arrow and Slug and, thus, particpants in one of the scenes being emulated by the previous bands, Get Hustle showed the rest how to make the sounds that matter. Built on the interplay between the organ's drone, the keyboard's simple melodies and the drum's syncopation, Get Hustle's singer, dressed like a forties USO performer with dyed blonde hair, sealed the deal with her her dramatic vocals, frosting the shaky atonal caberet cake. Impressive, to say the least. Unlike the previous bands, both Jane and I were left wanting more, always the preferred feeling when seeing a group play.

ESSAY


ERic
I punched someone!
Sat Dec 15 14:44:42 2001


But now I have to go to jail.

Well, maybe, maybe not.
Sometimes I wish I could be a writer, but then I am faced with the hard fact that I am terrible at making up stories. I can only seem to write about things that happen to me or to close friends. As a result, the few “stories” I have written were only as edifying as my life was at the time. Here’s a true story, hoping you’ll my life funny or exciting enough to be written down and shared.

This morning, I went to the Laundromat. How’s that for excitement? My plan was to put some clothes in the washer and to do my grocery shopping while it was running. A good plan, a bit tricky, as it involves timing my shopping well so I do not get my laundry stolen. but I usually pull it off. I’m a champ like that. After shopping, and while my clothes are drying, I usually do something else too. I like to live dangerously. For example, I go rent some videotapes for the weekend, drop by Best Friggin’ Buy to see if my no less friggin’ Compaq laptop has been repaired (it’s been in the shop for over two months now, and I question whether I’ll ever get it back). Such are my Saturday mornings.

But when I reached my beautiful laundrette, I noticed weird stains on the hood of my car. Bird goop? No, much too big and orange to have come out of a tiny winged and feathered animal. Maybe a fat crow that ate too many orange peels? Examining the substance closely, I recognized the texture of vomit. Like any former college student, I have to admit that I am well acquainted with the various looks and colors of puke. Liquid and green when someone’s had too much of that mix of pastis and mint. Chunky and orange after eating carrots…

I didn’t take me long to make the mental connection: Bugs Bunny had barfed on my car last night! God I despise that long-eared furry bastard! Wait, that’s not it. I remembered that the neighbor had come home drunk last night. Indeed, around midnight, while I was reading some left-wing propaganda magazines on the couch, listening to Ornette Coleman through my headphones, and while April was asleep in the bedroom, I heard quite a lot of noise in the stairs, and drunken voices. My 40 year-old neighbor and a friend of his were talking pretty loud at first. Then the shrill voice of his complaining wife drowned their inebriated ramblings. Boy was she pissed. Doors were opened, slammed. I felt like going towards my door and eyeing the situation through the peephole. But what for, what did I care. I’m not the nosy type, and the situation seemed clear enough to me. Funny, too. A grown man like him, getting smashed on a Friday night like the common college student. I heard “you can go now”, probably uttered by my neighbor to the friend who had been kind enough as to make sure he got home alright (save for his wife’s complaints and possible weekend-long nagging) instead of sleeping out in the gutter. The door slammed once more, unassured steps were heard in the stairs, and conversations next door resumed. I went back to my reading, soon made it to bed and fell asleep.

To me, as I stood by my car in the laundry parking lot, disgusted, it was all clear. My drunken neighbor had decorated my car on his way home last night. That assumption shaped the rest of what happened today.

I did my laundry and shopping, checked that my computer wasn’t fixed yet, rented a few movies, and bought a few (hell, $4.99 is cheap, and even cheaper when there’s a 3 for 2 deal at… shame on me… Blockbuster), all the while thinking that my neighbor had some explaining and cleaning to do. I thought I’d ask him for ten bucks for a car wash. That was the least he could do, if he was intent on being a nice and polite neighbor. When I got home, I told the story so far to April before she left for some undeclared work at the wine shop. She agreed that it was quite rude and that I ought to talk to the neighbor, and get him to see to the renewal of the shininess of my car. Ah, if only she’d stayed home a few more minutes…

After I had put the laundry and groceries away, the lettuce in the closet, and my underwear in the fridge, I knocked on the neighbor’s door. I’m usually the one who deals with disturbances coming from the neighbors. When the kids are way to noisy while we’re trying to get some sleep on a Sunday morning, I go ask him to “silence them”, in my broken English. I hadn’t been to talk to them about the garbage bag they’d left in the back of the house instead of putting it in a plastic bin, and how the wind and birds had strewn most of the contents over the ground. I had, after all, no proof it was them, except for the fact that we have numbered bins in the back of the house (1 though 4, one for each apartment) to put our garbage away, and bin #4, theirs, was not being used, as it was somewhere in the basement instead. I can be quite a stickler, for a self-proclaimed anarchist. On the other hand, April strives to smooth things out with the neighbors by being polite when she crosses them in the hall (I can’t be bothered. Besides, I’m French!) and bringing them home-made bread.

So I knocked and asked for the ex-drunk. He was up early (noon) and in pretty good shape given what he’d done the night before. Puking had probably helped him avoid a hangover. I asked him if he would consider cleaning my car or giving me some money, since he’d come home drunk and puked on my car. Yes, I can be very sure of myself sometimes, and very direct. I had absolutely no proof that he was the perpetrator, but our neighborhood is pretty well-to-do and I couldn’t see anybody else defacing my vehicle. Besides, my car was parked on the way to our house, and there was no reason any other drunk neighbor would have walked by my car on his way to his bed and wife. Things were pretty clear to me.

Of course, he denied. Nobody likes to be called an old drunk on a Saturday morning. His wife, probably still begrudging him, might have told the truth, alas she was gone. He hadn’t puked on my car and he was home last night, totally sober. God I despise liars, even more so than long-eared carrot munchers. It wasn’t the first time he lied to me, either. When I had asked him to keep his kids quiet one morning, he had assured me that it wasn’t them, that the house was just very noisy (which it is, because of the thin walls and hardwood floors), and that surely it was the ill-mannered kids downstairs, not his little angels. Well, April and I could tell very clearly that the noise had come from next door and not downstairs. And the noise had suddenly stopped after I’d talked to him, as if by pure coincidence. Maybe I had scolded the upstairs neighbor so bad that the noisy downstairs people had felt guilty, gagged their kids, and tied them up in a corner so I could resume sleeping in.

As a result of my first encounter with the neighbor and his blatant lie, I didn’t have much respect for his word. To make things worse, he’d had the bad taste to put a “proud to be an American” sticker on his door, him, the Turk! Didn’t he know the US was killing innocent civilians in Afghanistan? Or was he proud of that too? After all, the US had armed Turkey so they could cleanse the land of Kurds… Overt displays of patriotism make me puke, though not on cars, blind followings of rulers potentially leading to the worst strains of nationalism and fascism. Of course, he might simply have put this sticker on his door to make sure they wouldn’t be targeted as Arab-looking foreigners and no one would associate him with perpetrators of the World Trade Center attacks. A despicable move on his part anyway, as far as I was concerned.

So there he was, lying to me about being drunk the night before (maybe he had forgotten about it, though he should have remembered knocking down a couple of beers with his pal before the alcohol blurred his memory) and asking me why I was always on his back, instead of being nice like my girlfriend was. There it was. I was not nice. Right then and there he admitted that he didn’t like me because I had rubbed his nose in his kids’ bad manners. That’s when I made the fatal connection: he had puked on my car, and not any other, I had checked, because he didn’t like my guts. My brain snapped, I called him a fucking liar and punched him in the face in front of his young son.

I’m a pretty non-violent guy. Usually anyway. I had never punched anyone before. I just stopped thinking straight and did it. If I had been thinking, I would have been struck by the fact that I would probably injure my untrained fist more than I’d hurt his face, and I’d have abstained. But my brain was short-circuited by the hatred for lies. I may be an hot-tempered idiot who jumps to conclusions, but I’m not a liar. And there’s nothing I hate more than having my word contradicted by a mendacious bastard. He felt like fighting back at first, but realized I’d probably be at an advantage, being young and somewhat fit, even if his son had started gnawing on my shins while he held me. He was, after all, an overweight and possibly hungover 40 year-old dad. But he was also smarter than me. He reached for his phone to dial 911.

So I said “good for you, I’ll call the police too”, and they’ll see who’s right (the last part I only thought, but did not speak out loud, for fear of ridicule). He had lied, and the police would clear that up. My honor would be regained. I felt like a chivalrous French man who had been wronged. The type who slaps his wrong-doer with his glove to signal that he’s challenging him to a duel to settle the matter. Instead of old, unprecise, and possibly misfiring guns, the weapon of choice was the fist, or so I had decided. I had struck first and cleaned my name. Surely the constables in their horse-drawn carriage would agree and simply carry his heavy body to a hospital or a convent where his mortal wounds would get the better of him. Alas this is the modern world, and in a few weeks I’ll be able to add to my name two new titles: both that of Doctor of Mechanical Engineering and that of batterer. Nice mix on a resume.

The person on the phone surprised me by telling me I was in trouble and the police was on its way. I started shaking, which caused my brain to escape knight-mode and start functioning again. I was fucked. I had hit a man. Sure, these things happen all the time, only this was not a bar, we were not drunken football players, the son was a witness, the situation was clear-cut, and phones were at hand. Ah, if we had both been cavemen, I would have been alright, at least until some tiger-like prehistoric creature would have come and ripped my guts apart. But the police was on their way and my guts were leaving me as I was turning pale and much less self-assured than before.

The cops talked to us separately, took down our stories (which matched perfectly as far as the battery incident was concerned), and informed me that the neighbor was pressing charges and would see me in court at the beginning of January. Not a bad ending, but not the best either. I would have liked a fine much better. Draw a check for $500 and be done with it. Hell, I may not have to tell anybody about the whole thing and I could just make up some lies to April about why I didn’t want anything to do with the neighbor. But, wait, I forget, I don’t lie. And I wasn’t getting a fine right away, it would be decided in court. A worse ending to my ascent of fury could have been my being taken to jail, as the cops told me. I had better things to do with my Saturday afternoon and I’d rather defend my Ph.D. thesis rather than be stuck behind bars, as far as next week went.

Now I’m feeling very dumb. You can call me an idiot alright. “Doctor idiot” would be nice, but I haven’t graduated from idiot school yet. I’ve promised the cops I would be on my best behavior I the next few days. They joked with me that people probably weren’t allowed to settle their disputes with their fists in France either. Somehow I resent that there’s nothing I can do about my neighbor being a dishonest bastard. Where’s God’s cosmic justice when you need it? I’ll tell my story in court (and I’ll probably tell it to more people before that) but he won’t modify his and his wife will side with him if she’s present and questioned. But that won’t change the fact that if he indeed crossed the line of bad manners, I’m the one who crossed the straight line of the law.

EXPERIMENT
Experiment Ferret and Carapace Shard Angling
Sat Dec 15 00:24:57 2001


Experiment Ferret and Carapace Shard Angling

Preface: May it be noted that this was not intended as an experiment proper but momentous conclusions affecting Crossword Puzzle Theory did arise. So, I have catalogued it as "experiment" and filed it with the number 40087-e wherein -e means "exception".

I was doing the crossword puzzle I had made the night before and this particularly daunting clue read “nothingness” and the answer was one letter long. The clue for the intersecting word read “nonsensical vowel utterance” and thusly offered me no real narrowing clues as to what the correct letter needed in the space was (and admittedly, giraffes don’t make the best crossword puzzles for themselves, what with half the clues being similar such nonsense vowel or consonant words). All other clues had somehow disappeared to my mind; there was only left this vexing question as to what nothingness meant on this crossword I had composed the previous evening! I thought that maybe it was my intense concentration on the coffee stained page laid before me that had caused not only this narrowing of intellectual scope but also the narrowing of physical visual parameters (not to mention the reciprocating self-rumination on the cause of the intense rumination which in turn inspired another onion layer of rumination and so on). But as I finally tore my eyes from the page in front of me I saw, or didn’t see rather, that my newfound narrowness was a continuing process, for the present time anyway. I saw nothing at all but that which was directly before me. Now that I reflect upon my time in a narrow state of being I think that it was really nothing more than a physical manifestation of a goal and a purpose, a question whose answer eluded me. At the time, though, I was in hysterics; I was breathing short, shallow breaths and making short moaning noises like a particularly good orgasm while scrambling wildly at the forms brushing against me that I could not see. I fell into the sacrificial hole in the midst of my kitchen and tumbled against the slick walls until I came out in an Alpine field, landing with a shiver and a thud. I lay in the tall grass for a bit, staring up at what small bit of sky I could see out of sheer terror at the sounds I heard around me. There was a curt and high-pitched tittering occasionally piercing the sound of hydraulics, clanging metal (more specifically, the sound of metal rubbing against itself), and the regular earthy thuds that suggested footsteps. After a few moments of this I became intoxicated by what I perceived to be a rhythm to the thuds, scrapes, and tittering set off by random venting of steam. My narrow vision of solid blue and the fixation on the music filling my ear and the fragrance of flowers tinting the industrial with an out of place tranquility soothed me and hypnotized me. I stood up, assuring myself beforehand with the promise of seeing a gay circus with the incomprehensible cooing of babies-in-delight. Instead I was met with a slowly unfolding vision of giant robots stamping around almost randomly in the field (and the field was on the edge of a dark wood on one side and a steep slope to higher planes of this place in the Alps on the other). And on the back of one of the robots was a ferret tittering to the robot it was riding upon. My narrow vision likely heightened what would have anyway been a distressing situation and I shrieked sharply like a schoolgirl being abducted by a hairy man on a playground. Immediately, which was a little slower than the normal sense of the word for the troop of stamping robots, I was beset upon and quickly besotted. I was semi-conscious and was carried over the shoulder of a surprisingly humane robot for what seemed like only a handful of feet before being flopped onto the ground. The ferret was tittering something wildly and loudly amidst a whispery squishy sound and the occasional dull snap of something thick and hard (mossy branches or flesh-covered bones no doubt); then, I was out of consciousness completely. I awoke without knowing how long I had been out; a narrow patch of multifarious grey moved overhead and I knew it was either a robot or a cloudy sky. The sharp cold on my face being surprised by the flitting wet cold here and there told me it was a sky spitting snow onto me. When I tried to sit up I found it harder than expected and was suddenly released with a loud sucking sound behind me. I pointed my narrow vision around until I got a bearing on my surroundings; I was on a muddy bank by a creek and next to a field (the same field?). My lower legs were wading in the water of the creek on the opposite shore and there was a baluster ascending without stairs somewhere behind them. I washed the mud off in the creek and put my legs back on (in reverse position I later realized). As I was pontificating on my next move I heard the vagueness of ferret tittering and robot rubbing in the distance ahead of me. I briefly mulled over the idea of revenge upon the ferret but decided to ride the baluster and its invisible escalator instead; the ferret and the robots had actually given me the answer to the crossword clue I had composed the night before attempting to answer! The elevator took me to Husserl who had an outlet in my abode and thusly secured a timely return home. The definition of my being came from interaction with the outside, the ferret, the robots, the grass of the field, my narrow visual field, etc. and thusly sucked all being or possible being from my internal self. I was nothing more than my surroundings, and even then not so much as that at all! Happy with my conclusions, I marked the crossword puzzle with the letter “I”.

Addendum: (My scope of vision widened immediately afterwards, negating the actual validity of completing that clue on the crossword puzzle. See, my "guess" was affirmed by the regaining of my sight and I had thusly a clue as to the correctness of answer (even though I had come to the conclusion independantly). I had to thusly write that puzzle off as a failure despite the larger discovery for CPT at large.)

LIVE REVIEW


jq higgins
quix*o*tic y el guapo al gato negro...
Thu Dec 13 07:06:22 2001


so quix*o*tic came out of their six month hibernation to perform on their hallowed home turf. can i use enough superlatives? too many? i don't know, but to sum up: christina billotte is about as good of a singer and guitarist as there is working today, i think. i find her spidery leads (while similar at times from song-to-song) simply hypnotizing. dark...spooky, even, but definitely dirty. the new-ish bass player brings a new edge to the trio, somewhat plodding, but w/ certainly wicked intentions...perhaps, a little like geezer butler. fuzzed out vibrations enveloped the crowd and, unfortunately, the lead vocals on the more furious numbers. because of the sound issues on the back stage, mira billotte subtly stole the show, moving front stage from behind the drums for quieter numbers in which the vocals were more audible, and let me tell you, friends: she ain't no slouch.

last time i had seen el guapo there were a bare bones duo centered on frenetic jazz drumming w/ occasional guitar or horn flourish. the new look featured a third player and musical versatility that was a bit bewildering. at separate points in their set, the three member of el guapo could be found playing: drums, sampler, laptop, clarinet, bass, guitar, keyboards, accordion. some of the exploratory material seemed a bit ponderous to these ears, however, i would recommend keeping an eye out for the forthcoming.

REVIEW


msp
review: The Langley Schools Music Project cd
Mon Dec 10 07:54:52 2001



"S!-A!-T!-U!-R!-D!-A!-Y night!"

1976-77. ..a teacher teaches his 60 rural school kids how to sing and play their favorite rock tunes and record them. it has to make you smile. everybody's been one of these kids. i remember in early grade school our music teacher teaching us the stray cats, cindi lauper, billy joel, survivor, and queen. i remember singing "proud mary" and our teacher pretending to be tina and showing us how to get down. great stuff.

to hear children singing some of these adult-themed songs with such feeling . . .it's hilarious and wonderful at the same time. when they break into "mandy" or "space oddity" it's almost bizarre, but it's so honest.

a few of the tracks are seriously eerie. the instrumentation is practically as good as the original in it's simplistic, joyful rocketry.

simple bliss. give me a popsicle and let's go play some whiffle.

m.

LIVE REVIEW


Buttafuco
Aerogramme, Dakota Floyd, Boxstep 12/7/01 @ Grog Shop
Sat Dec 8 07:30:40 2001


Up 1st was Boxstep, a collective of musicians from Pittsburgh. Calling on obvious influences such as Australia's Dirty Three and Will Oldham, Boxstep played a mesmerizing set of swelling melodies mixed with a folkish feel. Whereas many bands which can be descibed in this manner follow a specific formula (slow, haunting folkish sounds at the beginning leading to a crescendo of adrenaline and sounds), Boxstep cannot be described in such simplistic terms. Their version of this type of music is some of the best I have witnessed and judging by the crowds reaction this opinion was the consensus. C.D. on Overcoat, but does not approach the energy of the live show. Damn Goot!
Having the unenviable task of following Boxstep was Dakota Floyd, a young power trio with a lead singer whose lovely voice conjured up images of Sarah Whats-her-name from the long defunct band known as Velocity Girl. They are a promising Cesspool (a.k.a. Cleveland) act but have not matured enough to approach any new ground.
Up last on the show was Scotland's Aerogramme, another power trio (although they did call on some sampling). Most of the songs started mellow and eventually turned into in your face rockers, some even crossing the line into hardcore rock. Other songs, most notably the final number, were absolute hardcore screamers which confused yet delighted the crowd. The band was unpredictable, spontaneous, and talented.

QUESTION
What determines if a critic is interesting or worthwhile to you. Provide your criteria.

O-o: Interesting, honest, speaks from the heart.

queequeg: What seems to me the most important to me in a critic, is not whether or not I completely agree with their opinion, but more that I have the sense that they look for similar things in movies, books, or music.

mac: good writing, good taste, a sense of humor. That said, most criticism blows!

hstencil: Basically, if I read their work and they seem to know what they're talking about. It's kind of a constantly revising relationship, if the critic is still writing. For the most part I like critics who stick to the task at hand and display some sort of knowledge of their subject, but every once in a while it's fun to read someone who's writing about themselves in relation to the object of the review (a la Lester Bangs). Not many people these days do it as well as Lester Bangs did, though.

Sicily: I don't like critics very much, but I semi-respect the ones that seem to have at least some knowledge/experience of the art they are criticizing...you know, if they seem to have some clue about what they're talking about. Also they have to be able to relate the reader in some way, otherwise they just seem snobby and jaded. I don't find myself relying on them much at all...

abomp: coming up with interesting viewpoints instead of "it's that difficult third album, but hey for a third album it's not that bad". usually the reviews i read are pretty shallow...not as good as the stuff on the fmbb or here anyways, so i mostly stick to those.

msp: is the art worth comment? are they somewhat factually okay. i'll excuse certain things. is their writing actually explaining to me what the record sounds like without having to know prior art or other bands or a genre? are they too busy with themselves to talk about the band (if the person is actually interesting, this can work . ...but sometimes it's a a borefest)?

higgins: i generally presume that critics are not interesting or worthwhile...no one that's paid to publish their opinions, anyways.

Tim: A critic should be objective unless the critic is me.

Oliver: Clear writing. Sanity. That's about it. I don't even care about tastes. I don't have much in common with any of the critical types that I most enjoy. And I don't care about "sense of history" or "knowledge of the canon".

With a few major exceptions, I tend to like reading either people who are very young and don't know anything (but I don't like Pitchfork) OR the few people who are much older --like in their 40s (though I don't like Greil Marcus or Robert Christgau) -- and are past embracing the music geek cliches that so many people in between those two poles have given in to.

REVIEW


msp
review: Rah Bras "Wear the Beat Spectacular" EP
Thu Dec 6 12:23:55 2001



Th(r)is(a) tr(h)io from Richmond, VA consistent(BRAS!)
ly(r) c(a)hur(h)ns out a sort of rapid fire ele(BRAS!)
ct(r)ro(a)fie(h)d strange -core. Punk roots. (BRAS!)
Re(r)ac(a)tio(h)n to mass culture. Songs about(BRAS!)
t(r)ec(a)hon(h)ology using technology. Opera.(BRAS!)
(r)Bo(a)mba(h)stic overtones. Dramatic. Dru(BRAS!)
m (r)ma(a)chi(h)nes pound out pulsing beats. N(BRAS!)
o (r)so(a)ng (h)is too short. The distance fro(BRAS!)
m (r)th(a)e p(h)ulse ray is never too far. Sto(BRAS!)
pp(r)in(a)g t(h)he cd prematurely and you risk (BRAS!)
vi(r)si(a)tat(h)ion from otherworldly beings. (BRAS!)
Sa(r)mp(a)les(h) camoflauge and collage eachoth(BRAS!)
er(r). (a) Yo(h)u get the feeling Freddie Mercu(BRAS!)
ry(r) v(a)isi(h)ts them in their dreams. You a(BRAS!)
ls(r)o (a)get(h) the feeling an noise making de(BRAS!)
vi(r)ce(a)in (h)the home that is melody worthy (BRAS!)
i(r)s (a)wel(h)comed by the Rah Bras. The mak(BRAS!)
e (r)no(a)tab(h)le music. Rock needs you. Bak(BRAS!)
e (r)it(a) a (h)425 degrees and spin it in your(BRAS!)
cd(r) p(a)lay(h)er until as brown as desired. (BRAS!)

m.

Symposium: What is noise?


What makes good noise? What's the difference between listening to the highway and Merzbow? What separates Bruce Russell's work from hanging out at a construction site with open ears?

Cameleopard
Nothing but state of mind.
Tue Dec 4 19:52:14 2001


What distinguishes the splashes of paint on a row of hanging coats by Jim Dine from splashes made on canvas by Coco, or the coffee or nacho cheese you spilled while walking down the broken-stone sidewalk? Intent and state of mind. Sometimes it is also a particularly amazing coincidence of events, but it's mostly the intent of the one bringing these things to your attention/creating them and the state of mind exemplified in the work, the creator, the audience. Oh, let us not forget context, which is inclusive of intent. The biggest hump for most people in the swallowing of such things is the errant idea of valuation based solely on effort. Some of the best X comes out of spontaneity, chaos, confluence, or the mere pointing finger telling us to look or to listen, to think or to act.

family train
quack quack
Wed Dec 5 14:43:46 2001


art is intentional. at least it needs to be if at all substantial. standing at a construction site and closing your eyes, listening to the pile-driver and backup signals on the trucks and clatter of rubble is/can be beautiful deliverance but it is not intended as such: just a by-product of an activity enjoyed out of context. noise is a deliberate effort to convey a sense of: space, time, out-of-bodyness, scaryness, whatever (up to the artist). the comparisons to, say, abstract expressionism are obvious. something is represented differently--another way of seeing/hearing something. the argument: looks like a child drew it/sounds like a monkey clanging pans is shallow and stupid. a child can not paint like Kline and a monkey cannot play drums like Stapleton. it is difficult, it is a discipline, it is a sort of language. it is supposed to transport us or open up vistas of perception...

LIVE REVIEW


hstencil
Even more: Hrvatski & Greg Davis...
Wed Dec 5 12:16:29 2001


last night at the Empty Bottle, first time I'd been there in a while.

FIRST DISCLAIMER: I will not write about the opening act, Warmdesk (aka Bill Selman), because I do not like him. And truth be told, I was catching up with Greg in the front room.

SECOND DISCLAIMER: Greg is a friend of mine from when he lived in Chicago, and we djed together on occasion. So this ain't exactly objective.

Anyway, the show really began (for me, anyway) with Greg's solo set. Although he plays laptop (among other things), the set was surprisingly more reliant on acoustic guitar and sounds produced with that instrument (and manipulated via Max/MSP patches). Most every song that Greg played had very identifiable acoustic guitar tones in it, even though he didn't necessarily play the guitar live for every tune. Most of the songs were interspersed with some pretty crunchy textures and tones, and the occasional hip-hop (yet mellow) derived beat. All in all, a pretty good set (although I think Greg was having a few technical glitches), with exceedingly good sound for what is an exceedingly crummy PA.

As for Hrvatski, well his set was a whole 'nother story. Mostly, he stuck with drum-n'-bass (or is that drill-n'-bass) variations on most of the songs from his Oiseaux CD. Kinda surprised that he stuck mostly to old stuff. Anyway, it was highly entertaining and manic and actually managed to provide the same sort of visceral thrill that most live rock music has, even though it was just a guy standing over a laptop (although provoking the crowd of mostly unruly Milwaukeeans in the front with hand gestures and whatnot). He even played his much-heralded Kid 606 "remix" (featuring only about 2 seconds of actual material from a 606 "song") complete with dub-toasting faux-ragga computer voice. Long-haired Milwaukeeans in Slayer shirts were pleased.

To end the night, Hrvatski and Greg played a duo, mostly improvised set which sonically was a highlight but otherwise kinda sucked. The Milwaukeeans stayed in front and berated both for playing "laptop shit" or something. Hrvatski and Greg, though, managed to whip together a noisy shit-storm that, I thought anyway, was far removed from the typical reserved nature of most laptop acts (that aren't Merzbow, anyway) with spectacles, bald spots and sweaters. The Heavy Metal Cheeseheads kinda soured the mood, but by that time it was time to go home anyway. And so I did.

REVIEW


msp
review: Trans Champs "Double Exposure" cdep
Wed Dec 5 11:09:14 2001



take the robot rock of Trans Am and combine it with the metal love of The Fucking Champs and you have Trans Champs, band made up of members from both camps.

the mix is pretty unique. you get the feeling you're playing atari 2600 and listening to maiden. it's got balladry. it's got beeps. it's got keyboard jams fitting for some caper taking place in tight jeans and an eagle covered firebird. it's got the drive of patriotic american rock and roll. coarsing riffs. cow bells. break downs.

this is music for a movie that never got made 20 years ago. a dark espionage flick featuring a band of punks and rockers who get mixed up in something bad and are bent on saving the free world from a dark over power.

if you think you'd be remotely interested in that movie, you'd probably dig this EP.

i personally hope to see a sequel,
m.

LIVE REVIEW


abomp
more: White Stripes @ de Melkweg, Amsterdam
Wed Dec 5 07:03:19 2001


The White Stripes @ de Melkweg, Amsterdam - 04 Dec 2001

I'm glad i went.
The trip there wasn't half as bad as i imagined. Once i was on the train, the guy next to me was emptying his twelfth or so bottle of beer, and i started on my own six-pack. Didn't manage more than three cans on the train, but the remaining three were very useful during the search for the club. Somehow they always manage to misplace De Melkweg. To me at least.
When i finally reached the club, this Japanese guy came walking up to me. I somehow expected him to ask something like "Sir, is this Amsterdam, sir?", but instead he asked "Sir, what street is this, sir?" "It's the Leidseplein" "Ah, this square?" "Yes" "It's a nice sqaure, sir" "Sure is" "In Amsterdam?" "Yes, you're in Amsterdam" (seriously!!) "So where are you going, sir?" "To a show over there" "Ah, cinema?" "No, a rock show, a band playing" "Ah, i like rock" "Good" "You have a nice day sir, thank you very much, sir, thank you thank you" "You're welcome, enjoy Amsterdam". He bowed and left. I was amazed he didn't take a picture of me. That was funny...

Anyway, so i got into the club and managed to get rid of the second ticket rather easily since it was stiff sold out. I already missed the first opening band, the 5-6-7-8's, and the Von Bondies were playing. Hmmm, yeah, not bad, not good, a shouting singer, very rock, but it didn't grab me. Possibly 'cause i was waiting for the Stripes. The singer somehow sounded like the singer from 16 Horsepower, and the one thing i don't like about 16 Horsepower is the singer's voice...hmmm.

Okay, the White Stripes. What can i say? They were dressed in all-red.
Funny, how, with their three color shtick they look exactly like on the records. Not that you wouldn't know they were the White Stripes otherwise, but it somehow makes it very recognizable, and you immediately know what your up for. The way Meg sits up front with her drumset is pretty nice too. Lots of interaction between her and Jack. Especially with all the *bam*!-*bam*!-*bam*!-everyone together!-breaks. Could be interpreted as "Look at me, Meg, and we're gonna be tight now, aren't we?", but umm..no.
Meg's stomping primitive rythms, and a facial expression asif she was doing the most complicated 5/8-measures, and Jack's spastic movements, asif he's being electrocuted by his own playing, and almost jumping into the drumset on the fill-ins; It all fits.

When listening to these songs on record, they could easily come across as retro, or imitation, or conceptual, but on stage they don't. Jack is a fantastic guitar player, and a fantastic singer too, and it comes across as extremely honest and heartfelt. The second song they played was "Jolene", and i agree that on record, this song has probably been covered by dozens of bands, and probably in a better way. Covering this may come across as making fun of the song. But damn, live it did not. Jack crying into the mic, shivering. So they're with two people, but they had four mics. One for Meg, and three for Jack. One near the drumkit, one at the center of the stage and one at the organ. The one near the drumset had a huge 50's-reverb on it, and at some points Jack was merely whispering Prince-ishly into that one, filling the room with desperate disturbing noise.

"You're Pretty Good Looking", "Hello Operator", and "Hotel Yorba" set the crowd on fire of course, but songs like "Death Letter", "Truth doesn't Make a Noise" and especially "The Union Forever" came across very very strong. Yeah, 19th Nervous Breakdown. I've read some magazines comparing them to Jon Spencer, but....come on! These two definitely have what Spencer lacks. Emotion instead of a pose. At times you'd thought that Jack would break down falling to the floor, not because it looked cool and "into your music", but because he was about to break down. Yeah.

Funny how they seem to pull off songs like "We're going to be Friends" amd "I Think I Smell a Rat" so easily, and without everyone cringing. Seriously amazing. The fact that they're both one with their instruments (i don't think Meg *wants* to play anything else) and their songs probably adds to that. Also funny how their songs seem much more varied live than on record. Yes, you actually need all three of their records.

And man, are they hyped. According to the girl selling their records and shirts their shows in the UK were completely insane. The Savage Young Zeppelins. All of their cd's were sold out before they even arrived in Holland. So i got "White Blood Cells" on vinyl.
In the train back home i noticed it's on translucent red vinyl. Yeah. Translucent red-hot. That's what it is.

Thanks for making me go!
(And yes, Jack kept on referring to Meg as his sister. Soulsister maybe?)

Oh, so about halfway through the show i was standing in the middle of the crowd, i look to my right, and who do see raising his beer towards me? Sem of Ceasar. Ha! Small world...In the end i accidentally took his place in the line for the wardrobe too...so he started about how well the following Caesar shows went and how Remko completely passed out every time....hehe.

LIVE REVIEW
msp
review: les savvy fav and the apes at the end 12/4/1
Tue Dec 4 22:54:37 2001



bully play me a speaker song.

the apes played 70's rock like no band from the 70's ever was able to. someone thanked sat(urday)a(n)n for that. a river of keys, no guitar, and a lovely set of clothing manufactured in no decade--these are among the evident. give me a cigarette. give me neck pain. call me a resident alien and take me in my camaro to the philharmonic for flashdance and pickled angles. oh limes, beer, and tartar, where are you?

i need a fish.

there's a (not so) new rocker breed of lead linger that feels it's time to confront the audience. singing in our faces. playing with our clothes. reaching up our shirts. meeting us. breaking the cloven barrier between the civil and sylvan. the absurd was everywhere.

les savvy fav is simply good this way.

they're at the show to meet you. to see you perform. to perform with you. their own claque, hired clappers, sudden beer bottles, light changes, spontaneous dance, and lifting weights outside the bar while singing. strain. mixed metaphor. interpretive dance. a rocker unlike rock.

spittle and corn. we give them a thumbs up.

the champions of ourselves.
m.

LIVE REVIEW


abomp
Caesar @ Rotown - 29 Nov 2001
Fri Nov 30 07:12:18 2001


Caesar @ Rotown - 29 Novemeber 2001
Hugo Sideburns and the Aftereffects

Yeah, so, after hiding for almost a year the Dutch now-four-piece Caesar played their first show with new material in Rotterdam last night. I didn't really know what to expect since they sorta evolved from straight up guitar rock on the first album "Clean", through more Pavementy stuff on "No Rest for the Alonely" to more produced songs with strings, keyboards, and noises on "Leaving Sparks". I was kinda hoping they would evolve more in that direction and they kinda did.

After travelling through the streaming rain for three hours to get tickets and get back home to eat and get back there again to see them i was soaked. Lucky enough the two people accompanying me, Zoltarrr and Sandorrr, were soaked too, so we were starving for a cold beer in the cosy warm club.

During their soundcheck, Zoltarrr introduced me to Caesars soundman, a fairly well-known guy in Pavement-circles, Remko Schouten. Zoltarrr used to play in this band called the Soft Parade and Remko was soundguy for them too. I think i told this story about 40 times before. We had a short talk about what the sound was going to be like and Caesar started their set.
They started by playing "Stains", which was funny to see, since the girl behind the drums is singing quite a big part of it, and from where we were standing we could only see the three guys standing on stage. Fun. Yeah. It sounded kinda thin though, and after a massive applause Roald, the singer, said something like this was just the soundcheck and they'd have to get backstage to put a different shirt on.
Ah, you want me to capture the feel of today, right? So "Stains" was the first Caesar song i introduced my "lady-friend" to, and since the last time i was at Rotown was with her, who is now some thousand miles away, my thoughts wandered away for a second. And then this morning i got her message to think of her when they'd play "Stains". Awww....bingo. Capture today's spirit, right? Don't worry this will become more rambling and self-indulgy.

Uh...so 15 minutes later they got back with more or less the same shirts on (i think they just had different band names on them or something) and the rock started. Sometimes pumping, sometimes subtle, sometimes a little undefined. Remko would later explain that that was always the case in Rotown. You couldn't really define the sound there. Zoltarrr and i thought it was more because was busier trying to light a joint then turning knobs and pulling switches.

Some of the new songs were really really good, more experimental than the older ones, if you will. Although two were almost Iggy-Poppish retro. And they were easily the best songs of the set. I could have sworn they were covers, but apparently they're not. If their new album comes out look out for a song that goes something like "There has to be something supersonic, something BiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiG!", and for a song sung by Sem with the brilliant lyrics:
This is a song about the CIA, about the CIA, about the CIA, about the CIA
This is a song about the CIA, about the CIA, about the CIA, that's what i say
CIA! CIA! Whooooooo!
This is a song about the FBI, about the FBI, about the FBI, about the FBI
This is a song about the FBI, about the FBI, about the FBI, i don't know why
FBI! FBI! Whoooo-hooooooooo!!!
That will probably end up being a b-side..

They also managed to change around their older songs a bit, and i think the highlight of the evening was an extremely tortured "Mistaken", with a long, brilliant, tense, instrumental part in the middle. Adding a second guitarist surely added to their sound.
The last song was "Man with a Plan", during which Zoltarrr told me that that song was about him, since he now has this plan to find a girlfriend and have 6 children before the end of the year.

So after a truly great, and sorta different then expected varied set of almost one and a half hour the show was over and we started chatting some more with Remko. He hadn't seen Zoltarrr in a while so they had lots of stuff to talk about. Especially how much weight he gained. And how he enjoyed touring with Malkmus although Malkmus is the most arrogant son of a bitch you could ever imagine. And how touring with PSOI was just plain fun. Coincidentally, a couple of days ago i sold Zoltarrr Pavements Australian Gold Soundz single, which has the 5-4 Vocal song on it, with the equally brilliant lyrics "It's the dutchman, it's the dutchman, it's the dutchman, it's the dutchman SCHOUTEN!!!!!!". So Zoltarrr started about that and Remko replied by saying that all of Marble Valley's songs were about him. Oh yeah, i joined the conversation too...heh.....i don't know about Sandorrr really.

Anyway, since we just kept on talking, Remko decided to continue the conversation backstage, where the three of us were introduced to Caesar. That was kinda clumsy since the band members themselves didn't bring any guests, and they still were really tired from the show. If there was one thing they were not waiting for it was probably three strangers. Two of whom were in a band nevertheless so they might even promote themselves. Bah!
We tactfully didn't mention the Bucket until a good hour into the talk. But at first the three of us felt pretty stupid to be there just because some (by now pretty drunk) soundguy invited us.

Well, after enough beers from the backstage fridge everything went okay though, and we were talking about their songs, their new ones, i advised them which ones they should release as single (...), and in the end we were talking about nonsense and had a great time. Lucky enough Roald himself started about bands, and Remko started about his new label, so finally the Bucket and Laterax (and Klink and the Secrets!) were mentioned. Roald remembered the big LP-packaged DLB CD i sent him some time ago, and started talking about Triple Jet Lag..ha!

At that time two real groupies came walking in, and one of them was called Jane Riplet, from the punk-band The Riplets. Yeah. There were overly drunk and wanted autographs on their bodeyyy. The other girl wasn't in her band, but decided to join them just there so she could get autographs too. At that point Sandorrr left to talk to his girlfriend who just arrived..

Caesar packed up their stuff soon afterwards, so Zoltarrr and I were left with a (now not only drunk but also pretty high) Remko. About half an hour later he got some coke out. So now i have another nice story to tell my grandchildren in fifty years.
"How was the first time you did cocaine like, grandpa?" "Oh, it was backstage at a Caesar show with Zoltarrr from the Netherworlds and Remko Schouten". Hmmm..

We went back to the dancefloor afterwards, and i thought it might be a good idea to not stay with Remko and the now again arrived Caesars for too long, so i joined Sandorrr again. He was in some sort of unpleasant discussion though, so i sson left.
In the meantime Zoltarrr stuck to his plan and already got Caesars drunnergirl's e-mail address...Roald was talking to the punk-groupies, Merijn disappeared since he obviously "can't handle more than three beers", Remko looked a little far out, and Sem looked a little left out so i started talking to him. I think he gave me about 50 beers or something and at the end the two of us must have resembled those two old guys from the muppetshow, commenting on the rest of the gang and laughing. (A position i often find myself in, i believe). Well more talks, mentioning of our US tour, Zoltarrr stupidly mentioned my old Pavement site, so i had to explain the interview Bob N did once where my site was mentioned, and so on. That was really stupid.

Well, a good night was had, and the aftereffects are that Remko's label and Laterax might combine efforts, Sem is waiting for the Secrets/DLB split and the Klink disc in his mail, Zoltarrr will have 6 children with Marit at the end of the year, and the next time the Bucket tours the States we'll bring Caesar with us.

Oh, and the feel of today: Something's in the air on all fronts. Happiness.

REVIEW


Tim
The Strokes
Sat Nov 24 16:14:12 2001


The strokes

I was talking to a co-worker of my wife’s one-day asking him if he wanted to go see King Crimson. In the course of our music conversation he suggested that I check out The Strokes. I usually trust this mans taste as he has seldom ever turned me on to any band that I felt was a waste of time.

I went and purchased the CD. This album did not initially grab me and throw me on the floor, but I must say that after 3 listens I was hooked. I haven’t heard such good mastery of pop chords in years. The singer with his lethargic crooning and whimsy is likely to have college girls creaming their panties for years to come. I had heard or read that these guys were like the Velvet Underground but that couldn’t be further from the truth. There is a song or two with the feel but in general I would say that musically they are much more adept at pop structure and less concerned with flash. The somber mood doesn’t come off as being cool; it comes off as being genuine. The lyrics are self indulged and somewhat down but in many of the songs the song structure comes up and asks you if you’d like to dance.

Anyway, song by song here is the tally

1. IS THIS IT - Title track, very sweet little song, nursery rhyme sound initially that builds into a question about life in general. Very mundane lyrics fitting with the music like an interesting puzzle that turns out to be a field of gray when you finally finish. Relativism to the fullest.

2. THE MODERN AGE - This song just rocks. The strength and energy is unbelievable. Add a little Jim Morrison swank in there. But cooler than Jim ever was. Nothing magical here! This song is ageless. They know what they are doing.

3. SOMA - A little more Morrison action to start up with but then there is a change in pace. A little more sorrow in an up-tempo. One lyric, “I am…stop and go…. in your eyes… I am……stop and go, oh darling let me go… I tried it once and I liked it… I tried to hide it… said I’ve been doing this for twenty- five years and I’m not listening no more.” The guy belts it out like there is no tomorrow.

4. BARELY LEGAL - Car driving tune - very happy about stealing a girls innocence. Sleepy teen angst .. sleepy sexual frustration. “Oh mamma runnin out of luck and little sister just don’t give a fuck.”

5. SOMEDAY - Lounge tune, this is a song about the good ol’ days. Looking toward the future. Not too shabby. Reminds me of some 80’s pop tune but I just can’t place it.

6. ALONE TOGETHER - Nice structure, really tight song. Very anxious, I am trying to explain something I can’t explain but I’d like to get in your pants. Everyone else is depressing but you should still let me in your pants.

7. LAST NIGHT – This song is destined to be on the charts, it is a perfect pop tune. Great little “I am leaving you baby” song.

8. HARD TO EXPLAIN - This song is a little mellow pop once again trying to express some forbidding future logic that reverts back into your past. We need to explain that we aren’t what we seem from both past and future times as well as the present. “The joke is on you cause bliss is a zoo.”

9. WHEN IT STARTED - This song is too happy and melancholy. Keeps the same beat during both emotional trips. Cool trick.

10. TRYING YOUR LUCK - Another 80’s sounding song. Very sappy but somehow convincing.

11. TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT - The finale, wow. Could pop sound get any better and still have depth like this?

I am addicted to this album and I don’t understand why because it really isn’t the type of music that I normally go for, but this one is different. Oh yeah, and another interesting lyrical trick is that the guy seems to sing from other peoples opinions looking back at him. Very nifty trick. All in all I think only the most cynical indie fan will reject this album. All others will adore it and I forecast that in about two months you will begin to get sickened by all the praise they get. But hell, they are just that damn good.

LIVE REVIEW


Queequeg
Thrones/Lowdowns show review
Fri Nov 23 12:54:40 2001



Thrones, The Lowdown, Monitor Bats
Fastforward, Portland, OR 11/13/01

The Venue
Fastforward Basement of a house that people live in. No address or anything, the only way to realize that it is the right place is the numbers of bikes locked to the chain link fence and all the hipsters loitering outside. Just take a deep breath and hope you’re not crashing a party for people hopelessly cooler than you. That’s actually basically what the place is like, but you paid your $3 at the door so you don’t feel obligated to leave. Kids drinking 40s contributed to the party atmosphere along with a slight tiki motif – bamboo, grass skirts and the like. In the absolute center of the room was a huge furnace – at least 5 feet tall and 3.5 in diameter. It had all these ducts coming off of it in strange, octopus like way. They were all at least a foot wide and it seems like there was one for each vent in the house and gave the behemoth the feeling that it could come to life at any moment. Kind of made the whole being able to see the bands thing difficult (it’s not generally easy for me anyway, not being what would be considered tall). Somehow all this came together into what I would say is a good place to see a band.

The Bands
Monitor Bats An absurd band with costumes, wearing all white with see through clear raincoats and those granny sunglasses that you wear over your normal glasses. FANT; passed out nonsensical flyer with a play on it featuring the word FANT. Each had on a letter of FANT on their clothes and glasses. White sheets hanging around the stage, bright lights. Repeating FANT between songs. Noisy, scronky, absurd. Sax. Liked what they were doing, percussive, noise, loud, but ultimately not sure how much of their own they were bringing to it - how much was just liking the style of music. Costumes a plus though and plenty of energy.

The Lowdowns From Santa Cruz I think. Another band with a sax, the look more demure than they are. Political but not at the cost of energy, creativity and generally fuck you attitude. Noisy, percussive, discordant again, but not without melody. Fast guitars, scronky sax and good use of keyboards. Their music sound like pent up rage or maybe just energy – the kind of energy that builds when you are bursting, need to move but have to sit all day not being physically of mentally stimulated. When you do get to move, when you do get to think, this is what comes out.

Thrones Joe Preston has a kind of gentle, shy demeanor. He fills the room with sound as thick as mud. You can feel the buzz not only in your chest, but also in your fingertips and at the base of your neck. Gives you a feeling that all you want to do is sit and feel your body vibrate. He creates this thick drone and then layers on top of it. In some songs what he layers are very high notes that resonate in your brain. His low, bass, thick mud resonates in your body and his high stuff pierces your brain. It’s pretty intense. Reminds me of a guy I used to know who was did weird experiments trying to induce different physical and psychological reactions by exposing people to different frequencies of sound. Throne is the closest I’ve ever come to being able to relate to that.

COMMENTARY


msp
COMMENTARY: Ocelots, (Rides on Trains), Verona Rescue at
Mon Nov 19 12:44:51 2001



COMMENTARY: Ocelots, (Rides on Trains), Verona Rescue at the Java House in Bowling Green, KY. The following is commentary and not review because I participated in the show and am entirely too involved to be objective.

it's a small, quaint coffee joint in a college town where 75% of the kids go home every weekend. bowling green is cool.

verona rescue got up as a two piece bass and acoustic. driving. heart wide. quirky. bob mould doing a coffee house circuit. i was nervous about our show. i wanted them to stop about 6 songs befor they did.

since i'm in rides on trains i can't tell you much about us.
our bassist knows how to put on a pretentious sort of air around himself that's hard to deal with unless you're a friend. i had my back the audience. we played in the center of the place with a crowd on 3 sides. we didn't talk between songs. we barely stopped between them. by the end of the set i was out of tune. i could barely hold my pick. we randomly threw a verse of "she's lost control" inside our psychedelic jam. we played our songs about twice as fast. we adlibbed twice to cover mistakes. we got applause but also a lot of stares. were we intense? were we bad? were we good? i expected my wife to hate it, but she actually honestly thought it was pretty good. that alone was all the judgement i really needed.

ocelots came on and blew us away. oh my god are they great. tight. fast. together. greg the bassist sings.
the humor and twang of pavement. the motion, eloquence, and speed of the minutemen. the solemn tone of yo la tengo. noise bash of young sonic youth. i can't wait to see them again. it's great to share a practice space with a band that's actually pretty damned good. it's inspiring.
they named a song after rides on trains. they played a tralfaz cover. tralfaz is a defunct nashville band that never really tried hard to become well known and is known to us mostly because they were friends of.

a fun evening.
m.

ALBUM ART #2


Ronno
cover art
Fri Nov 16 07:42:44 2001


I'm more inclined to think believe that the cover art represents the way an artist thinks of him/herself or the way a label thinks of an artist, not necessarily what the music sounds like. For instance, most divas, no matter what kind of music they specialize in, are likely to be on the cover of their albums. That's because they and the label their with realize that it's all about The Face. In the 80s, when everyone wanted to look presentable yet high-powered, groups appeared on the album wearing pastel sports jackets against neutral or tastefully lavish backgrounds (best typified by that horrific 1985 Boz Skaggs album cover). Death metal guys put skeletons and witches on their album covers even though there is no proven correlation between tinny speed metal licks, cookie monster vox and death. Hair metal guys choose their cover art similarly, even though there is no real correlation between bad blues ripoffs and transvestitism. Many sexybeat oriented R&B and hip-hop musicians choose pictures of themselves in limosines wearing gold pinky rings when a large close-up of intercourse would be more appropriate. Yanni album covers show a man with long hair behind a grand piano on the cliffs of dover when a housewife mopping the kitchen floor would be a better representation. No! The album cover is an idealized representation of what the genre should evoke in people. A few guiding images are provided and we humans, fascinating beings that we are, fill in the blanks based on the compliment those images provide to the music.

ALBUM ART #1
Cameleopard
l-o-n-g--w-i-n-d-e-d--r-e-p-l-y
Thu Nov 15 21:59:34 2001


“What is the relation between the record's art, be it album, single etc, and the music inside?”

The unifying factor underlying all album art is the simple truth that there is no single relational syntax between an album’s auditory content and its visual aspect (which is secondary in almost all cases to the purpose of the album). It would probably be reasonable to presume that most album art tries to reflect the “aura” of the music. Or, it is reasonable to presume that most album art is used as a tool to explain visually what is heard. One may note a relatively static dynamic between languages--audio, visual, textual, gestured, etc. In a circle, one form of language is used to elucidate another. We often discuss music textually. In a section of his oeuvre, Paul Klee attempted to communicate visually what was auditory. Or, he was trying to interpret his impressions of an auditory piece to imagery. (This is something Kandinsky also attempted, amongst a number of others.) Similarly, we often make body motions when speaking of something, or make gesture, often unconsciously, in reaction to an “event”.

But, not all album art attempts to communicate its contents in visual terms, or at all. Sometimes an album is used as medium to display the creators’ fondness of a certain image or the deferred presence that image may offer. (There is even then probably some coincidental correspondence between imagery and auditory content, or underlying connection in the creators’ proclivities for imagery and music.) Or perhaps an image is chosen by “outsiders”, those not connected directly to the creators of the music. Or imagery is chosen not in relation to auditory content but in order to affect some emotion or communicate some idea not related to the content of the album (shocking imagery or sexy imagery to attract the eyes of a music store browser). In the end, the point is that there is no universal relation of content and imagery.

“How, ideally, should it work?”

I really have no ideal for the relationship between music and its album imagery. My criterion is based solely on whether I like the artwork or not. I have no desire to see all albums represented by art that reflects the contents accurately, for instance. That being said, it is almost always nice to “know what you’re getting into” before the purchasing of music. But this can be achieved through another form of linguistic interpretation—the review. Or, one can often listen to songs or samples of songs before making the commitment of purchasing a piece.

“What's the best and the worst you've seen?”

I honestly don’t know. And I guess it depends on the context too. The purposefully bad art of Beck albums is humorous for example, thusly elevating its position in my mind.

POEM


Cameleopard
Special love for Tim, an erotic love poem
Sun Nov 11 22:00:21 2001


Neon robot slobber is electronic bouillon gravy
I’ll drive your fleshy automobile to the depths of depravity
Rapscallions by the million snuggle up to your fame
You wiggle like jello melting under summer pool party spray
Hurting from the whiplash strands of a caned-back game
Automatic maids roll in tune to real screams from subsumed play
Burning giraffes, roiled smoke and buzzing fur
You’re spinning on my coiled red velvet bed, the pillows purr
Fragrant oils, shaving kit creams and slow-mo fantasy playback
Parade of jiggling jailbait fat shimmering around lacy thongs
Gyrating pink tightening the ropes and then cutting the slack
Pantless jocks grabbing their cocks to the tune of a techno song
Steamy fume of female excitement mingling with burning rubber
Man, woman and robot burning away in animal orgy their blubber
Crackle of static jissom arcing in the humid air
Buzzing pussies and fuzzy cocks, tubes of electrified neon
A pool house party with modern day flare
Amidst the slapstick random biological motions of the gone
When we’ve all cummed we can recruit ourselves into the Navy
Harbingers of neon robot sex dreams spreading around the gravy

LIVE REVIEW
Hanoi Jane (with some Jack Cole)
LIVE REVIEW: Superchunk, The Good Life & Rilo Kiley
Sun Nov 11 13:11:56 2001


Rilo Kiley
The Good Life
Superchunk
November 10, 2001
B Complex, Portland, OR, USA

The reviewers had never been to B Complex before as it generally hosts shows of the raver/electronica type where the hippies of the 21st Century like to get down. It would be a nice venue – a good sized room with a nice view of the stage and great sound - if it weren’t for the stench of patchouli incense burning at the tea bar. Yes, they only sold $3 -$5 cups of tea and “Herbal Elixirs” with descriptions like “reportedly Lao Tzu’s favorite blend to promote regular bowel movements.” The tea-tender was an interesting chap who spent the entire show compulsively arranging and rearranging the candles on his counter or doing yoga and tai chi. Perhaps all of this prompted Jim Wilbur’s question, “Do you like punk rock? Then why do you buy so many Radiohead records?” Then again it could have just been the squeaky clean assortment of milquetoast 16-22 year olds that seemed to make up the audience.

Speaking of milquetoast, Jenny Lewis and Blake Sennet of Rilo Kiley certainly fit the bill. Sounding more like a band that one might hear on Dawson’s Creek when the young characters hit a club or were just moping by themselves in their room after a break-up or a fight with Mom & Dad. The band epitomized vapid, SoCal “Indie Rock” as played for the hip and attractive who think combining Karen Carpenter and Liz Phair is not only a good idea, but also innovative.

Moving on in the hip and attractive category, The Good Life was next to hit the stage. Though their name might lead you to expect some Phish like jam band, these lads and lass from Nebraska were the sum of their record collection which by all appearances consisted of a few Cure records and the soundtrack to The Breakfast Club. Front man Tim Kasher seems to revel in the idea of being a Musician, performing pretentious theatrics to flesh out the part. At one point, he jokingly chastised the audience for not telling him that his guitar was tuned a little flat. Of course, Kasher’s jokes were merely a disingenuous vehicle for stroking his own ego, placing him above the audience.

Once Superchunk appeared, it was all worth it. Mac donned a puffy orange parka because he was so cold. They were hot and clearly enjoying themselves. The addition of Annie Hayden, formerly of Spent, gave them some extra flavor. Jim Wilbur and Mac engaged in their amusing stage banter, with Mac playing the straight man to Jim’s crass musings on subjects like the experience of having a cat give birth in his mouth and what the placenta tastes like. The new material fit in well with the old, notably the acoustic pairing of “Phone Sex” and “Detroit Has a Skyline” as well as the frenetic encore backing “Hyper Enough” with “Act Surprised.” Part of the fun of the show came from their willingness to push the limits of their songs, giving some of the old standards a fresh sound. Their version of “Driveway to Driveway” was the best I’ve ever heard, and their transformation of “Hello Hawk” into a raw, more energized song made me appreciate it in a new way. They maintained their fire for the duration and were only peaking at the end of the show giving one the impression that if the audience had been less reserved there could have been several encores lasting into the wee hours.

REVIEW


jack cole & hanoi jane
review: Quasi
Sat Nov 10 19:11:10 2001


when originally starting my label, the poor, mired down Wire Monkey, I e-mailed a lot of people, asking them various questions to help my start. One of those folks was Ben Goldberg (Ba Da Bing!, worker drone for Matador (though he was with Merge when I first made contact) who puts out Badaboom Gramaphone, a fine once a year journal. At that time he was putting together the Bands Not In The Trouser Press Record Guide issue. Jane and I contributed this, which somehow was printed in it and resides on Insound. Here it is for your scorn and derision.

from Badaboom Gramaphone:

QUASI

Early Recordings (Key Op) 1995

R&B Transmogrification (Up) 1997

Featuring "Birds" (Up) 1998

Perhaps ex-Donner Party leader Sam Coomes’ songs in Quasi are best described by Peter Laughner’s lyrics, "Life stinks/I like the Kinks." Along with Janet Weiss on drums and assorted instruments, Coomes has mapped out an emotionally fogged terrain punctuated by his percussive electric clavichord, English 60’s pop cynicism and a fascination with death, machines and the physical properties of water. Over the past five years, Quasi has developed into a melodic, raw duo shyly sharing its frustration and disappointment with its audience.

Quasi’s self-released first album, Early Recordings, though, isn’t the place to start your first foray into the group’s sound. The album is a home recorded laboratory containing Coomes and Weiss’ sonic experiments. What ensues is a more intermediary position between The Donner Party of the past and the second album waiting in the wings than a cohesive whole. Here, the songs are built from effects processed guitar parts, electronic gadgetry and Weiss’ one woman rhythm section. At the same time, all of the pieces are all present to form R&B Transmogrification.

R&B Transmogrification possesses a live quality lacking in the first album. Here, the songs have been charged by performance. They teeter between melody and atonality in a wedding of noise and pop. Coomes explores an emotional wasteland centered around betrayal. Weiss grounds Coomes’ electrical arcs of damage as he sifts through hollow chocolate Easter bunnies, robots, vampires, ghosts and his questionable existence. At the heart of the album, the title instrumental track is a building gasp of noise as Coomes bludgeons his instrument to express what he cannot verbalize. Overall, Quasi’s second album achieves a moment of intense personal anguish courting a desire for numbness. Quasi becomes a down on its luck, romantic Kinks with only half of the members. [hj/jc]

COMMENTARY


Cameleopard
Wherein it is revealed hiccups are condoned by author...
Fri Nov 9 22:06:37 2001


I think everyone should be allowed to have hiccups if they want them. There, I've said it! It's been eating at me a long time and I just don't care what you think about it! You can poke at me with your un-salubrious librarians (or harpoons), ostracize me from Pataphysical research, or even plant puddles of gravy wherever my presence has been. But know this: I am most fond of beef flavored gravy! I also take a fair amount of pleasure in partaking of turkey gravy, but must say it is the beef flavor I like the most. Chicken gravy can be good, too, but just doesn't cut the mustard most of the time. Pork gravies, excepting ham gravy, are generally rather nasty. But the ham gravy set aside in the previous sentence is rather delicious when eaten in smallish amounts. Cat gravy is usually bitter; squirrel gravy too blande. Gravy gravy is like swallowing a fractal glass of water mixed with insulation; you may well tear your innards up with it. The point is, I'm no tatterdemalion when it comes to gravy attire. I may look eldritch, but certainly not pauperly, in comparison to the jeans and t-shirts of gravies around the world. Indeed, I prescribe to the idea that clothes shape the man (or gravy). Look at telephone-pole gravy! It wears practically nothing, the hussy! Peer at grass gravy, attired in Turban and the washed out hues of sun-drenched robes. Blech! I am grateful that beef gravy has a taste for finer clothes, very grateful. And it is thusly that I must condemn almost patently all these neoteric gravies, and their laughable attires (ha!, you bland and bitter clowns)!

ESSAY


Wed Nov 7 19:06:56 2001


The Night That Indie Rock Forgot
By: TIM

One day around five years ago one of my roommates decided that he wanted to try a hand at promoting concerts. It was a decent and noble move on his part as he had been involved in the indie scene for sometime. In college he hosted a radio show out of the local college radio station that seemed to have a large following and had interned at the Riverfront Times as a music reviewer. All of his work was exceptional as far as I was concerned so I thought when he asked me my opinion that he should go for it. It seemed as if this would be something that would really work out for him as he was suffering from the post-grad syndrome and was getting nervous about job prospects.
A fortune of my friend was that he had a good working friendship with
the guys over at Skingraft these guys are actually natives of St. Charles (my hideous hometown) and went to high school with a very good friend of mine and although I really didn't know them personally I had met them once or twice. I was never really in for becoming a part of any scene (mind you, not that I was asked or anything).
Well, my room mate and pal Jarrett wanted some Skingraft bands to come down and play in St. Louis and had somehow convinced US Maple and MT Shasta to headline. I think they knew Jarrett from his time
writing for RFT and some other little known music zine. I think he wrote a few fawning interviews with the bands, deservedly so. The bands agreed to play here and Jarrett then set about trying to get a venue. He was stuck on the idea that they should play in Saint Charles - I am not really sure why - but he was obsessed. Most he talked to about this would ask him why he wouldn’t find a place for them play down on the
south side or downtown somewhere where people that actually like them would be more likely to convene on a show such as this. I mean don't get me wrong, there is a sizable college in this town, however it is otherwise the historically strictest sense of middle-class conservative and suburban idiocy that I have ever seen. I didn't think that any "indie" band would make it around here. I rarely saw anyone (at that
time) outside of the group we ran with listening to any indie anyway.
Still, Jarrett pressed on and finally found his venue – one that surprised pretty much everyone that was involved. The venue: That old VFW hall out in Saint Peters, which has an arguably worse case of suburbia-itis than Saint Charles. I suppose the whole ordeal was looking pretty sad, but you know how shit is when a friend is involved with something that is very important to them, you egg them on, follow your dream pal! I did however suggest to Jarrett that he better advertise like mad otherwise he or the bands for that matter weren’t going to make jack shit. I suggested he put it up on the local public "weirdo" station KDHX’s calendar or something, anything. Well two or three days before they show up
Jarrett did make quite a few flyers and hang them up in strategic places, which might have done some good, who knows?
So, the day came when Jarrett’s production came out of the ether of bad
organizational skills and into the substance of bad production. First off, if you are going to produce something, never put every friend you have on a guest list that will entitle him or her to free liquor. This is a dumb thing to do and will probably end up costing you a shit load of money, as it did in Jarrett’s case. Second, never plan a show out in the middle of suburbia unless there is nothing but suburbia in you city. People like to think that going downtown means going to something cool. People like to think that going out to the suburbs means
hanging out with their aunt or uncle or something like that. Let's just say that one is cooler than the other no matter which way you try to slice it.
It was really a good show. It began with a local band that was sort of like Helmet (although I forget their names now) it was funny that they had the most people watching them but as they had built up quite a fan base here it wasn't that unusual. The next band was, I think, YOU FANTASTIC! whom I personally loved but I guess were a little strange for some of the people. It seemed the bar was pretty crowded while they played. Now I forget who played next...I think it was US Maple, but by this time I think there was only around 100 or so people left. US Maple totally rocked as far as I was concerned but I felt sad as I watch more people walk away. It wasn't their fault really. I mean I doubt that even 1/4 of the people standing around had even heard of them. I can imagine that many of the people who did like them probably didn't want to drive all the way out to freaking St. Peters or maybe didn't even have the transportation to get out there. It wasn't like you could take the bus or anything. Besides, US Maple and Mt. Shasta never struck me as the type of indie band that a suburban teenager would listen to anyway. I mean they would probably be over this show if it was a rap band or possibly some super trendy indie band that got a lot of radio/MTV play.
Suburban punks sometimes don't think about their cultural influences, and why should they as it has been served to them on a platter since the day they were able to click a remote control.
That was the whole problem, I kept thinking how much suburbia sucked as I was filming this whole situation for posterity, or something like that. I was talking to a little girl with purple or green hair who was really pissed off about something, saying like a she had a friend like who said they'd be like 311 or something and like her friend didn’t even show up and like she was pissed. etc, etc. I asked her how old she was, she told me she was 17, I walked away. There is no point of talking to a girl when you’re single unless she is at least 18. Later I saw some girl say that some guy was not as cool as he could be because of something he was wearing, it made me happy to hear that because that guy was in the previous band performing as the bassist. I mean all hell should break loose mentally if a musician isn’t as cool looking as he should be, right? Anyway, you know how cool everyone is anyway, right? Isn't that so fucking important? Just another symptom of bored middle class kids trying to sound important. I guess so because I would turn off the happy filters if all I to listen to conversations and all I ever heard was a bunch of self-worship and loathing over nothing. It is kind of catchy. I also guess my happy filter was going away because I was drunk, drunk as hell actually and trying to film these bands. It was horrible, a total fiasco.
Finally my cameras ran out of battery power and I was no longer tied to the job of filming. So I began to wander around and socialize. Jarrett was looking pretty angry when I saw him as he realized that there would be little if any money for the bands and of course none at all for him. He asked if he could borrow 50 bucks, I said sure, you can keep it. He asked for more money later on but we won't go over that, it was ugly. So, things began to calm down and we all went back to my house, we had cooked up a bunch of brats and taco dip and a keg and other shit like that. This food was in appreciation for the poor guys who had drove here all the way from Chicago to play in this shit hole. It was probably the only good thing that came out of the ordeal. By this point and time I was drunk beyond repair and at some point dropped a glass of rum and coke on Al (singer for US Maple) and a few other people as well. Soon I had a food fight with a girl, I think I started it by smearing potato salad on her face and chest, she responded by throwing taco dip at my face, the situation seemed to be getting out of control. There was concern as I overheard someone say who is that asshole fucking up this house, anyway the other person said, “the asshole that owns the house is fucking up the house” which was true. I think I believed that I was just trying to lighten things up a bit, I mean the mood was pretty somber as everyone who was in this to make a buck or two was pretty much fucked. I even did a bratwurst play for the guys from Mt. Shasta, they were smiling as I made the bratwurst scream and dance, I thought that they were smiling because it was funny, someone told me later that they were smiling because they thought I was nuts. I am not sure if either was the case. The next day I had to work so that by the time I had got home all of our guests were gone or off visiting other folks they knew in the Saint Louis area so I never got the opportunity to expose them to my sane side. Not that it really mattered to me that much, but for some reason it did matter to some of my pals, I think I may have embarrassed them by my strange behavior.
I still am a fan of US Maple and MT Shasta so, if any of them ever read this I want to make a sincere apology for spilling drinks on you or whatever other crazy things I might have done. Although I am pretty sure that my friends were over-reacting and that you probably didn't even care or remember.
I still have the video of that night, I shot it with 2 cameras and it is the only show I have ever seen taped where the two cameramen spend most of the time actually filming each other and waving and making faces. It is so unprofessional that I can't even begin to tell you. It would make any film student laugh. It still makes me laugh quite a bit.
Now that I look back on it though, I really wish that we had our shit more together, that really could have turned out to be a nice evening for everyone involved. Instead, as I like to say it was the evening that indie rock forgot

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