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REVIEW
msp
review: champagne kiss s/t cd
Tue Nov 6 08:49:18 2001
industrial haze fed9 by love. 2 member+s of camera obscura, the drone hardcore noi5e band. triumphant. melodic.
driving rock. electronicly superscripted.
industrial haze fed8 by love. 2 member+s of camera obscura, the drone hardcore noise band. triumphant. melodic.
industrial haze fed7 by love. 2 member+s of camera obscura, the noise band. triumphant. melodic.
industrial haze fed6 by loops. 2 member+s of camera obscura, the dr0ne band. triumphant. melodic.
driving rock.
$i_ndust_ial[4] haze fed5 by love. 2 member+s of camera obscura, the drone band. triumphant. melodic.
industrial haze fed4 by killing jokes are bloody valentines. 2 members of camera obscura,
electronicly superscripted.
the dr1 hardc0re noise band. t_iu_ph_nt. melodic.
industrial haze fed3 by luck. 2 member+s of camera obscura, the drone noi5e band. triumphant. melodic.
driving rock.
industrial haze fed2 by labor. 2 member+s of camera obscura, the hardc0re noise band. triumphant. mel0dic.
vocals dripping away in dispair.
positive industrial.
ind_str_al haze fed1 by hope. 2 member+s of camera obscura, the drone hardcore noise band. tr1umphant. melod1c.
"she the pocket" calculators, pecking in t1me.
industrial haze fed0 by walls. 2 member+s of camera obscur@, the drone hardcore band. triumph@nt. melodic.
it's not over, it's just different,
m.
LIVE REVIEW
gygax
No Subject
Mon Nov 5 13:07:59 2001
i caught sonic boom last night at a dive south of
peir 70 in bayview that used to be an stripclub named
"The Bounty"... well shiver me timbers, matey.
pete "mainliner" kember definitely has the nicest
bowlcut this side of the right side of john cale's
welsh melon. he played a vox teardrop and then that
perfect prescription/playing with fire toned
keyboard.... much better than the usual spectrum
show. partly because i was there with some folks that
were like way older than i was who never got to see
spacemen 3 tour because they never could get into the
country.
me, i've always been a sonic boom type as opposed to
the jay spaceman type. the juxtaposition of the pound
sf versus the warfield (where spiritualized is playing
later this week) is just humorous. sonic
is like the drone monotone two-chords, tremolo, reverb
rinse and repeat. so we're talking early "recurring"
era spacemen stuff interspliced with a nice medley of
american covers: when tomorrow hits "i pinched this from mudhoney who pinched it from wire who pinched it from the stooges"/True Love Will Find You In The End/Rock and Roll Is Killing My Life.
two encores, the last was this 10-15 minute solo feedback space jam that left little to the imagination... full-power interstellar galactic acceleration into the heart of a collapsing blue star.
REVIEW
jack cole
REVIEW: Shaggs Tribute
Sun Nov 4 20:18:28 2001
Ida
Optiganally Yours
Thinking Fellers Union Local 282
Mongrell
Bauer
Joost Visser
Deerhoof
R. Stevie Moore & the Olsiewicz-Chusid Ensemble
Plastic Mastery
Slot Racer
Danielson Famile
Furtips
The Double U
Better Than The Beatles: A Tribute To The Shaggs
Animal World Records
"I get a lot of letters. Most of them are nice. I got one awhile ago, it was insulting, or asking if we were trying to insult them. I guess they didn't like the music, or didn't think it was music. I just threw it away. I figured everybody has their opinion. If they don't like it, they don't have to buy it." Dot Wiggins, as told to John DeAngelis, New Rhythm & Blues News #19, October 1984.
Once upon a time in Fremont, New Hampshire the mother of Austin Wiggins, Jr. had a vision that his daughters would form a band. To fulfill his mother's prophecy, Austin Wiggins, Jr. bought his daughters instruments and paid for music lessons. He would be there manager and produce the albums, Dot Wiggins, the oldest daughter, writing all of the songs. Though the townsfolk may have laughed at what the Shaggs played, nonetheless, the family band create of the most unique and powerful musical visions ever. Still, outside of Fremont they went virtually unknown, completely out of sync with the mainstream they wanted to be part of with their group. In 1969 they recorded The Philosophy of the World, pressed by the shady Third World, which ended up only sending them one box of records, stiffing them on the rest. Soldiering on, they continued until Austin Wiggins, Jr passed out of this world in 1975. Though the Shaggs may have quit, the sisters becoming good citizens of Fremont, raising families and working, the album itself took on a life of its own. Praises were poised by the likes of Terry Adams (NRBQ), who reissued the record in 1980, Frank Zappa, and Irwin Chusid, a man who has built his career on outsider music. The Shaggs' legacy became greater than anyone could imagine -- especially for the Wiggins sisters. Their songs careen in their innocence, uneven strumming, and lyrical tributes to Foot Foot and the importance of parents. Covering a Shaggs song would be a difficult proposition in deed, capturing the spirit and sound difficult. Deceptively simple, Shaggs compositions have their own internal logic, quirky structures of guitar and drums. The act of attempting a Shaggs cover brings to mind when Tom Hazelmeyer of the record label Amphetamine Reptile attempted to play with Cows. Prior to that experience, Hazelmyer had thought that Cows songs would be a piece of cake to play -- that is until he attempted to play with the band and discovered that the surface belied the convoluted contents. The Shaggs are the same way -- deceptively primitive, but actually intricate.
And now Animal World Records has released a tribute to the Shaggs, 13 bands attempting to do the
the Shaggs' "own thing". I understand if you hesitate. Tribute records, in general, are cesspools -- ragged patchwork quilts of the good, mediocre and bad. Who wants to listen to terrible bands destroy good songs? Who wants to listen to boring covers that attempt to recreate a song note by note instead of building something new that is more faithful to the original spirit? I can probably count on one hand the number of good tribute records I've heard. To that tally, I would definitely add Better Than The Beatles, which succeeds more often than it fails. Almost every band choses to cover songs from the Shaggs' Philosophy Of The World, with the exception of a few who dig into The Shaggs' Own Thing, a collection of material that came out on Rooster in 1982 composed of songs they recorded between 1969 and 1975 before ending the band.
Let's first briefly run through the known bands on the tribute, saving the wild cards for later. Ida opens up the tribute with a pretty stiff version of "Philosophy Of The World." The song's life is completely drained from it by their rigid vocals and tiresome "college rock" instrumentation. Fortunately, the tribute perks write up with Optiganally Yours' take on "You're Something Special To Me." Pea Hix and Rob Crow tear into the song with gusto, adapting it to fit into their airy optigan style. Rob Crow injects passion and wistfulness, making for a fine cover. The tribute just gets better with TFUL 282's "Who Are Parents." They follow the Shaggs' lead, transforming the song into something almost sacred with its angelic background vocals on top TFUL 282's skewed playing. They almost convinced me that parent's aren't so bad after all. A few songs later, Joost Visser appears out of the void he has disappeared to, tackling "It's Halloween." Visser clocks in with a nicely done spare rendition consisting of himself and his guitar recorded very lo-fi. His version, unlike the Shaggs', is a bittersweet nostalgia for a holiday he can no longer participate in with the loss of his youth. Visser is followed by Deerhoof, a band that always strikes my fancy. Deerhoof choses to cover the classic Shaggs song, "My Pal Foot Foot," tearing it apart and rebuilding it sloppily in a elliptical series of distorted melodic chunks. R. Stevie Moore, the eccentric NJ resident and the only person contributing who ever actually saw the Shaggs play live before 1975, on "My Companion" is the only musician who is able to precisely capture the Shaggs sound to which he adds his voice processed to a high pitch. His Shaggs interpretation comes off as a novelty song, but then again, what R. Stevie Moore song doesn't doesn't sound like a novelty? Next for the known groups, the Danielson Famile provides a sweet version of "Who Are Parents", which contrasts nicely with the TFUL 282 stab at the song. The Danielson Famile approach is to turn the song into a sweet children's song marked by cheap keyboards and guitar. Whereas TFUL 282 probably don't buy into the song's message, the Famile buys the whole hog as is to be expected with their Christian perspective. After the Famile, Furtips leap in with a wobbly and lax, fuzzed out "You're Something Special To Me", another nice contrast when put aside Optigonally Yours' recreation. Appropriately, the tribute ends with the Double U's vision of "Philosophy Of The World," sweet singing ably supported by even sweeter melodies slipping their way out of keyboards and guitars.
Now that the household names are out of the way, let's take a peak at the fledgling stars of the underground who appear on Better Than The Beatles. None of the newcomers will annoy you and all of them seem to be handle the Shaggs. If most of them suffer from any problem, its probably not having a unique sound yet to call their own, the arrangements straight from the indie rock playbook. Mongrell has a nice strum, folk vibe in their rendition of "My Cutie." the song as adorable as a frisky pup. Bauer transforms "We Have a Savior" into harmonies between the boy and girl in the group supported by a bright sixties foundation what with its organ and shiny guitar parts. Slot Racer is probably the most prosaic of the batch, their twofer, "Painful Memories"/"Wheels", undynamic with its low in the mix hushed male vocals. Their cover is mediocre at best. The best of the newcomers, I think, is the Plastic Mastery, who dive into "Shaggs' Own Thing" with gusto. This Tallahassee, FL band oozes with potential as they swagger through the rough-around-the-edges pop licks, prancing about territory usually reserved for Antipodeans like the Cannanes, Crabstick and Huon. They completely capture the essence of the song, the Shaggs' own thing becoming their own.
I heartily recommend Better Than The Beatles: A Tribute To The Shaggs. Not only is a fine band given the respect it deserves, but the majority of the bands conjure up fine takes of the Shagg's compositions. Moreover, the compilation turns a negative (multiple covers of the same songs) into an asset. I was fascinated by how different bands approached the same songs, warping them to their own whims. No finer compliment can be paid to either the Shaggs -- or to Animal World Records, for that matter, who have put together a rare item -- a good tribute.
REVIEW
jack cole
Review: Pinback
Sun Nov 4 12:30:09 2001
Pinback
Blue Screen Life
Ace Fu
The first Pinback album was a bit of a disappointment to me, the songs somewhat boring. Nothing caught my attention or made me want to listen closely. The record was pure background music, and though some may see that as a positive, I mark it on the ledger as a negative. This isn't to say music can be good in the background, but it must also hold up on closer auditory inspection. Pinback was unable to do so, which surprised me since I have held a long time appreciation for Rob Crow and Armistead Burwell Smith's work apart in groups such as Thingy and 3 Mile Pilot. Perhaps some of the problem was Crow trying to too serious, his charm rooted in a goofy melancholy absent. Perhaps some of the problem was Armistead Burwell Smith's dynamic sameness, the same trap that Pall Jenkins (Smith's bandmate from 3 Mile Pilot) fell into with the Black Heart Procession. Once you've heard one BHP record, you've heard them all, the follow ups seeming like the band plagiarizing itself. The first Pinback album, however, is like having one song, the rest just reworkings in their slow melodic drone. Still, something wouldn't let me quite give up on Pinback yet because, gosh, that Rob Crow and Armistead Burwell Smith have made some fine records outside of Pinback.
Perhaps the new record, Blue Screen Life, would be different.
And the prognosis? Blue Screen Life has lost some of the drone, Crow and Smith's sensibilities finally fusing together to perhaps make a more cohesive whole. Whereas one might guess that Smith's ideas dominated the first Pinback album, on their new album Crow seems to hold his own with Smith, the band becoming more of a team. Musically, the songs no longer drone as much, Crow and Smith becoming slightly more playful. Lyrically, the songs veer away from the Euro-ennui one word titled conceits of the previous record, tapping a more personal vein, which has always been at least Rob Crow's strong suit. Still, "Inside this leaking submarine/ the hull is closing in"("boo", Blue Screen Life). Somehow by losing their drone, becoming more pop centered, Pinback has lost what made it original. Though the first album may not have been successful, I wish Crow and Smith had not given up on the concept, shifting gears completely to more prosaic compostions. Instead, I would have hoped that they would have struggled with their direction from the first album, working towards making that sound something viable instead of falling back on a less complex and more obvious Thingy/3 Mile Pilot hybrid. Strangely, I have to say that though Blue Screen Life is a better album than their first, it is not the path I think they should take. Blue Screen Life is a good, if not great, album -- but it also something both have done ad nauseum in their separate musical careers.
REVIEW
abomp
review: De Artsen - Conny Waves with a Shell
Thu Nov 1 10:34:47 2001
This is long overdue, but a big fat thank you to all the fine research scientists who recommended this.
I can't believe i overlooked this for so long, since they must be credited as some forefathers of spirited lowland rock quite everywhere.
It particularly strikes me how Joost Visser has such a cinvincing singing voice. It really grabs your attention while it manages to stay in the flow. Maybe the finest singer this country has ever brought forth? I can't think of anyone else... Backed by an extremely solid and especially grooving rythm section. I guess this is what Bettie Serveert should have been. There are definitely comparisons to draw between the too, but this is much more natural and much less spun out, having a droney vibe all by itself without droning on. Simple, whith extremely fine guitar work.
I can imagine Amsterdam college kids in their mid- to late-twenties getting completely sucked up in this about ten years ago. That's the spirit it breathes. Kinda like the time i found old REM and Echo & the Bunnymen tapes in my 38-yr-old uncles Ford mobile a while ago. A subculture that's no longer here, except for in some quarters of the bigger cities.
10 Grains sounds so much like an instant anthem classic i'm led to believe it is. When i was at the PSOI concert and they covered that song, one or two be-spectacled ex-students were shouting along. That kinda vibe. Sorta nostalgic and missed out upon. But this record almost makes me feel like i'd been there too.
LIVE REVIEW
msp
review: puppets/bands at the end 10/31/2001
Thu Nov 1 07:03:30 2001
puppet show, only 'til it hurts, dave cloud, paul booker and the dynamite operators.
we walked in as the puppet show was goin. it was divided into short skits though. a vampire and a werewolf get into gay porn to make a lot of money. the vampire falls in love but the werewolf doesn't. sad stuff. sorta. it's weird seeing puppets perform anal sex. it was funny to see this one puppet have trouble getting an erection after the vampire sucked his blood. the next skit was about a mad scientist creating a rock monster to have someone to be in his band. this one was less inventive.
only 'til it hurts had three vocalists, guitar, bass, and drums. sexually charged screamo. one guy had tight jogging pants, cowboy hat, and a very erect penis during the show and kept running around saying, "what are you lookin at?" he put the microphone coming out of his ass, put the microphone down his pants like a penis and the female singer felated the mic and screamed bloody murder. she was in a clown costume. the other singer was in a a grass skirt and he had a coconut bra on. many sexual positions were assumed on the floor between the three while they screamed. meanwhile, the music was a grindy hardcore originals mixed with covers. ..."dazed and confused" ..."helter skelter". ..it was great. a very good halloween, drunk as heck, blisterfuck.
dave cloud showed up as paul booker and the dynamite operators were starting. . .the rest of his band was there, but he wasn't. i saw him get his guitar and leave. dave cloud was the crazy elvis guy in gummo. he plays a damaged rock and roll. it's destroyed, but it's great. alas, sorrow.
paul booker and the d.o. came on as my friend fell asleep and my buzz started to wear off. it's a country/r&b/soul mix that's very broken and drunk. it was cool, but the timing was uncool. when we saw dave cloud leave, 3 minutes later we were outta there.
hallow the hallowed's eve,
m.
LIVE REVIEW
jonathan quayle higgins
a few reflections...
Thu Oct 25 06:49:46 2001
on the mooney suzuki at the black cat last night:
1) how can you take a band seriously when they have a lead singer that looks jerry seinfeld?
2) they seemed a little confused schtick-wise. the bassman and lead guitarist had very mod-psych get ups and the lead singer/rhythm guitarist looked as if he just got back from a rehearsal for the knack tribute band.
3) seeing a band you have limited exposure to, but have heard a lot about is a dicey gamble. it's almost implausible that you're expectations will be met, but when they are, it's such a great feeling. that being said, the mooney suzuki fell short of my expectations. they seemed to be shooting for a much bigger rock sound than i would've figured. a fellow i was talking to drew comparisons to ac/dc or radio birdman...i thought some things they did were even a bit reminiscent of kiss. on the rare occasion that they did venture in to that mod psych rock and roll rave up territory, they performed ably. the lead guitarist and bassman were, quite simply, shredders of the highest order complete (replete?) w/ contorting histrionics and bobbing heads.
opening were local lads, the phobes. the trio performed tight, concise rock in the vein of early jam or elvis costello, although the guitarist/singer perhaps played up the elvis angle too much. even his sound (a jazzmaster played through vox and a fender deluxe) was a virtual carbon copy of in the city era paul weller or my aim is true elvis. not that i'm complaining...it was palatable stuff that made for good live listening.
LIVE REVIEW
msp
live review: the love life and get hustle at springwater, tn
Thu Oct 25 08:51:00 2001
let me descend into one madness first before i descend into another. glamour has it's required appendage snobbery, and i think amputation is where it's at. a short conversation i had with the singer of the love life led to her minor comment that they expected there to be little response to "national acts" like theirs in the south. it was such an idle comment that infuriated me. i was drunk. there was no intention, i'm sure, to be so condescending, but perhaps that's what she was going for. that thought pissed me off to no end.
but perhaps that's what they were going for. both get hustle (from LA) and the love life (from baltimore/parts east) descended upon the tiny punk rock meets hick dive bar springwater like fashion models. posing and moving. you know the strut. you've seen them. it's that somewhat standard, ubercool, indierati thing you can especially run into in the bigger cities. scarfs. long, thick coats. nice leather shoes. impossibly skinny. shiny slacks. all black. almost everyone in both bands runs with a punk rock resume that crowns them somehow victorious in the race to stand out. and welcome to nashville, lords and ladies, now fuck off and yee haw! low and fridge were playing in town about 8 blocks away, so the turn out was less than spectacular. the drunks of springwater were out in full force though. scenesters more interested in AC/DC on the jukebox than some pretty little lady and her organ grinding feedback friends.
but hey, shake it!
and they did. both bands performed like incense amongst smoke. choking us beautifully. the love life play a dirge to a dead loved one. sailing on a funeral pyre burning out to see that never stops burning and never sinks. the drunken loss of a fevered, neverending piss stalling you while the rest of life moves on without you. and the only haze available is a lurching press of empty grace, the facade of glamour and drunkenly beautiful razed fields of grain pressed into alcohol and injected into your blood.
that's what they were going for. delusion washing over them and trying to wash it over us. and the get hustle walk in with the same randy smile. the nudge of sexuality, but from a golden era show biz style merged with psychedelic overtones and a more freeform structure.
they should project billy wilder's "sunset boulevard" and have their own 4 or 5 reporter/photographer cronies around on tour with them shooting photographs and asking them questions in between songs.
but maybe that would be too obvious and how would they be better than us if they didn't stay shrouded?
m.
EXPLANATION
Cameleopard
On Oulipo
Thu Oct 18 23:03:24 2001
“An Oulipian Definition of Oulipo”, or, “A Workshop for Potential Literature”
The wood is full of Nordic perverts in folded clothes with a rickshaw on your frigate. Whereas Pataphysics is the science of imaginary solutions, Oulipo is the science of imaginary problems. Take heed: petty daedal baubles are prophetic symbols floating in the soup of existence. Oulipo is a literary movement in which the author purposefully constrains or uses a predetermined system for the writing of the text. Preceptor reservations aside, a skillful forgery gazed at the impaled threads wafting in the breeze. Mathematical formulas, grammatical formulas, vowel omissions, consonant omissions, and on and on are what composes Oulipo. I want to catch your disease! The Oulipians have been described as "Rats who build the labyrinth from which they plan to escape." Albeit, the Theory of Cornered Animals is not a pliant germ culture meant for future study. In my random story generator, I have written a cursory set of words and placed them in a number of databases. Your liars are screaming about pies in the loo. Then, I leave the construction of the story up to a small program written expressly for that purpose. Consequently, the screaming mouths of non-invasive surgery are on the eyeball. The constraint in my case is that of not being allowed to construct the phraseology of the story. I sit upon the corpse so prophetic the seers plastered leaf nozzles. My only allowed input is in the dumping of words. A humble drummer is a bright and killing forgetful Ptolemaic grafter the impaled corpses met fervently. And it is through the choice of words (and construction of the program) that I hope to eventually create something passable. In due course of time paddled waters garbled the confinement of the reader. This is my current Oulipo project; my first Oulipo project seems to me now as being more audacious and generally massive than I had at first thought it to be. Gothic modern men in flighty bourbon screens think most of the lingering lemurs are impenetrable, wherever it may be found. Currently, there are only six base files and a relative handful of words and phrases to draw from. Notice: petty daedal baubles cataloged the boring details, top to bottom. This is why you see so many repeated things in a random story. A corpulent effigy says that rusticated menageries bring a pliant germ culture for future study. . It is my desire to greatly elaborate on the number of files and number of words available. Dazzling confetti of skin reports lassitude of the confinement of the reader. Indeed, what greater Oulipian feat could there be than having the only control over your story in the actual words allowed? Oh, hubris stained gowns ignite the dreamy fires of lawyer burnings. And so, the first randomly generated book will likely involve me generating the book then shaping it within the grammatical context laid out by the random generation. The rabid pull at my shirtsleeves so, brigadier generals in the lime light for the scalar quantities of size indeterminate pile driving. This particular description has been inserted between randomly generated sentences, as you might have guessed. Ah, let us do it all, a skillful forgery of the impaled threads wafting in the breeze. One might note that a short monument to failure gives the clinging particles of dust to sweat. A corpulent effigy says that the sheen of burgundy drapes blowing in the wind is a warning from the pixel rays. The scalar quality to it all is becoming clear, the lassitude of a generic device implanted in the sky. Cautiously, market any of them deserving cynosure of the scalar quantities of size indeterminate pile driving.
RANDOMLY GENERATED STORY
Cameleopard
My first randomly generated story...
Thu Oct 18 00:25:23 2001
The Perl script randomly picks bits of this and that and strings them into sentences and paragraphs. I have a LONG way to go before these random stories could make any sense at all. But, this is the first thing I got successfully outputed from the script. Oulipo Oulipo! This is rather different from my Pataphysical stories in that there really is some kind of underlying logic and continuity to them. I hope to eventually compile enough words and enough syntatic relevence to generate a book. We'll see I guess. Anyway, this might be an interesting read (keep in mind that the phrases are picked from six smallish separate files and smooshed together into sentences and paragraphs--things get repeated):
Ruling out the following, hubris stained gowns were encasing singing liars. Lobed ears grate their toes. "Of what effect is the sheen on polished silver to me?" In response, the Theory of Cornered Animals turned out to be a factual lie. Note that the nuances of loss are prophetic symbols floating in the toilet. It is always possible that the endless parade of folk singers and parachutist's nightmare situation be realized. The scalar quality to it all is becoming clear-- muscled men and an obtuse preacher in wicked green trousers.
Give over your toenail dancing and Georgian blight fostering so the liberated cornerstones can have a boring time. Shoddily, visionaries roped the forgetful nine. Take heed: all of the juicy glands are singing liars. Note that some qualified applicants burdened the desiccative nature of this venture. No courts can legitimately inhibit this from happening. So, an uncanny sense for the times is a laughing piano in the lock for your keys.
Without commandeering the blighted scenery of the keen, foxy scaffolding told a factual lie. Take heed: relative truths drive the rains. Shoddily, licensed dealers of the lingering, forgotten haunts of the freezer coiled like snakes. A corpulent effigy says that all of the ineffectual sexuality spares the boring details, top to bottom. The rabid pull at my shirtsleeves for a lagoon of carried weights and a red badge, not for courage.
Impossibly, a group of the obsequious fetters a laughing piano in the lock for your keys. This blight on the minds of men cannot be presumed, all of the ineffectual sexuality caned the impaled corpses fervently. Oh, enunciated cottages and singing liars. Lobed ears grate their toes. All of the juicy glands preserved the desiccative nature of this venture. Your skinless briars are creating a scene! Go, and take all the somnolent avengers of the lingering, forgotten haunts of the freezer with you.
Oh, lo the welcome cringing! It must be that the heightening imbroglio has a generic device implanted in the sky. Through it all, the contradistinction of prophetic symbols floating in the soup of existence knobbed me. Since Frank is licking Polly on the couch, the nuances of loss by non-invasive surgery on the eyeball are remedial. Cautiously, an uncanny sense for the times quoted the looping hoops of Jupiter's rings. Looking back only once, a fistful of flesh and pliant germ culture for future study was taken.
Dazzling confetti of skin reports flexing muscle men and a parachutist's nightmare situation realized. Afterwards, a lingering deviance of a tattoo on your arm remains. I am throwing up for consanguineous warriors, the crying losers in disparate array. Nothing means anything, thus the naughty bits and orgiastic foray spill into the car. In due course of time the clerisy in their temples poop prophetic symbols floating in the toilet.
Under the scornful eyes of the moon and sun there is an uncanny sense for the times, the driving rains. No courts can legitimately inhibit this from happening. So, a lingering deviance is the confinement of the reader. Take heed: showers of sex linger over the insipid lakes of thirteen museums. Knock over the wall! A corpulent effigy says that Nordic perverts in folded clothes dwell in the lingering, forgotten haunts of the freezer. Wherever you might eat lobed and reddish ears a parachutist's nightmare situation is realized.
Death on the cement, cars in the liver, and relative truths pat crying losers in disparate array. Indeed, the tired hikers gnaw looping hoops of Jupiter's rings. Soon, enunciated cottages will catch corpses in fretful dirt huts. I want to grease your balls. Therefore, all of the secondary remains are an offensive strike on your sanity. Indubitably, a thoughtful amount of jostled hair helps the enological system of basal bridge playing.
The Robotic End
REVIEW
msp
review: Vincent Gallo "when"
Thu Oct 18 20:46:56 2001
old people wind.
it settles itself out into the room. coming out of the cold speakers, they're getting warmer now. like a negated bebop, the windows sit on walls and we can look out on buildings that have been standing longer than most of those who put them there. a little lasting wind.
the simple smile of false teeth.
she had alzheimer's and she was my wife's great aunt. she never married, because she was an independent woman of the 30's, who had went to college, and worked for the war department. i was given all her old LPs, many from the 40's and 50's. "songs of hawaii". "songs for the romantic". "songs for. ...". collections of radio classics. war-time hits.
vincent gallo's voice is almost feminine. i'd be the first to confess that i've even thought it wasn't his voice, but it is. it croons like some lost voice from the age of war-time hits. warm evenings where the light of the stereo was all that poured over a couple sitting on the davenport. the occasional ticking of a mechanical clock counting down to the announcement of a quarter hour or the hand on her hair. cars driving by on a still night of rain or snow.
not so mysterious things happen. dancing in the living room, one touch can lead to another. there comes a time when you want to go to bed and regardless of the radio's austere warmth billowing over you, your warmth is walking into the next room with that special someone.
seems like i remember my grandmother leaving the radio on at night sometimes. perhaps passions fade, or perhaps the warmth of some tubes gleaming over the living room was too hard to walk away from.
an electronic hymnal hearth, these lurid lights shine life. little audio hearts putting a blanket over us.
some point in the night, nustled in and warm, we'd be asleep, or in that realm, and i'd hear the creeping of my grandfather lurching down the halls and the radio would suddenly fade to silence and be gone. some nights you'd notice and some nights you wouldn't. the nights you'd notice were the nights of some kind of terrible meandering haunting, a possession of the FM bleating out unendingly, or just trying to tell you a story when you were tired and grateful, but needed to go.
you'd had your one favorite lullaby, you didn't want six of them.
i can remember one specific weekend when this happened and on his way past our room i waved and he waved.
the apple doesn't fall so far from the tree, i guess.
but something still compels me to stack up the wind passing out of long dead arch of a back, then curve it outward and rustle up the hearth yet again, for even after the end of one day, we rotate onto the end of the next.
gazing upward into wonder. dreaming again.
m.
ESSAY
Tim
Does anyone think this story sucks?
Thu Oct 18 16:43:06 2001
The Good Life with Sympathy for the Devil
by Rev. M
It seems only subjects I think of these days are baseball and sex. Baseball just because it is a fine sport and sex because that has always consumed most of my thinking day - I thought for a moment that I would visit those two subjects and try to write some article for YTC when it hit me that those are just the underlying symptom of deeper and more distressing issues.
You see, I have changed a lot over the last couple of years. I suppose that changing isn't really that big of a deal....but honestly, it really fucking is. I suppose I could tell you that this saturday I went to a friends house with my wife to celebrate a few other friends birthdays. It was a decent social event. Not unlike any others I remember over the last 5 years or so except there was no nudity or fucking going on. That had all ended years ago anyway with a different set of friends, my old-school friends. Of course I was never included in all the fucking back then, but it was always going on. I suppose I don't see any crazed fucking any longer because I don't associate with any real losers any more. Why do all the total losers have all the fun anyway? Well I don't really have the answers to that but I can say that I have noticed that all the old junkies and drunks I used to hang out with are beginning to look pretty fucking old. Older than 30 anyway. I think sometimes that I got out of most of my bad habits just in the nick of time. I remember even merely 7 years ago the weekend warrior type seriously offended me.
I have a small pimple-like brain and I used to believe the dumb shit my compulsive behavior drove me into doing, but alas, no longer! I now spend my evenings quietly and somberly dying with a minor drunk here and there to kick my shit-mind in the ass while I am thinking of just what in the fuck I am actually doing. I find that the true American dilema isn't that the American way of life is so bad- the real dilema is that the American way of life is too good. If you even try half-assed and have a reasonable personality you will somehow end up graduating college or getting a decent job, or something along those lines and then you get to spend the rest of your life in a state of complete boredom. Where are the wolves at our doors? Where are the bar fights? Why are you fucking the same person over and over again for years on end? It is more than likely just my perception as I am an anxious person to begin with. I suppose that I should be happy, but I like many I know have this wierd empty feeling and it isn't going to be Christ who fills it. Our catagorical culture will blame modern dissatisfaction on a number of things, but I am just going to blame it on one thing: life. Life is boring and a pain in the ass, we all know this. So, being the positive guy that I am, I started to try to think of things I have been unhappy about and decided to try to change them.
So what to do? What to fucking do? I decided to go on a diet, amongst other things, you know when you are skinny, you do feel better- that is just common knowledge. Yep, so now I am eating a fucking orange and a bagel and one plate of food when I get home. It is neccesary, but it makes me pretty damn cranky and the end result is going to be that I will still probably be dead in 30 years or less. This seems like a long time but I now know that it isn't, however unlike most people it isn't dying that bothers me so much as it is the thought of what I am going to die like. I don't guess that even really matters, no matter how you die- dying still has the end result, you get dead. No more you.
This reminds me of a few guys I knew back in my early 20's they were consumed with thoughts about death. They would dress like pirates and listen to goth music (it is different music than what they consider it these days) they would always run around seeking tradgedy and grave yards..they were facinated by this subject. I was more facinated with the loose women and the drugs, but I would sometimes allow myself in some of these idiotic conversations and the end result for me was always the same. I would just tell them that they needed to either die or quit thinking about it constantly because that will put off any positive or constructive thoughts they might have for the future...which was fucking brilliant psycology...if only I had ever applied it to myself.
They all want/ed sympathy. Everyone now wants a little sympathy. I say fuck sympathy. It makes people want bigger and better things to happen. It makes people disatisfied with other peoples disatisfaction. It makes empathy die a slow death while the irritant known as the victim reigns supreme. I hate sympathy because I never feel it. I could however feel empathy. If I was a shit bum then I'd have empathy for my fellow shit bums and since I was at one point a shit bum I still feel empathy for them, but never sympathy.
Sympathy is a lie. People merely pretend to have sympthy. If any bad shit ever goes down where they begin to get sucked into the sewer by those they were sympathizing for they high tail it for the hills.
What the fuck is my point here? My point is that I am not like an old pirate/goth/artfag friend of mine named Robert who currently lives (for all I know) in the Dallas Texas area. There was a certain untamed wild animal quality about him and when I initially met him I found that supremely refreshing and it amped my out of my lathargy. My college was going nowhere, my relationship was going nowhere, my life was going nowhere and here was this artist/pirate guy who could drink like me but was much worse behaved and still somehow endearing to most who knew him. He had a way with women that was undeniable and that of course is admirable in anyone.Yet at the same time I knew women who hated him more than anything else in the world. I had seen him pissing in broad daylight on a street corner waving to passing cars. I had witnessed his horrible lying to women only to have them eat up every fucking word of his gibberish as they somehow saw something good in him when in reality the guy was the fucking devil. To this day haven't met anyone quite like the guy. I am being polite in this rendition, fuck that guys life would make a brilliant biography about a whacked out life. It seemed that his destructive ways were more creative than most on one hand but on the other hand, possibly more mind numbingly ignorant on the other.
Toward the end of those years however the liqour and other things began to take a toll on my friend mentally. He was blacking out and doing terribly bad things (not that I was an angel, mind you). What was worse was since I was considered by many to be his best pal, I got called every single time the guy was doing something insane and asked to babysit. I found this intolerable after sometime and began associating less and less. I wanted to drink and go apeshit with the guy but he had reached that point where most people check into a clinic yet he still had to go on and that he did and still does. I keep waiting to hear from Dallas some day that he is dead. I am watching the clock.
I sometimes wish that I still had the physical and mental strength to go on murdering myself. I still have fond memories of all the twisted and screwed up things we did. I will admit that I laughed and still laugh heartily about the mayhem he provoked, but I am different...
Why am I not like him? I have found a path of boredom, I am willing to go quietly insane over the next 20 years and try to not make a spectacle of myself in the process. I say that, but I wonder sometimes if some bug will crawl up my ass some day and force me back into that world. The world of piss, shit, bile, and disease..the world that some people call fun.
However, it seems that to me lately that it is actually better to fade away than to burn out.
LIVE REVIEW
jonathan quayle higgins
one review (kind of related)
Mon Oct 15 07:14:31 2001
the quails/please @ the black cat, 10/12/01
sf trio the quails graced the small stage at the cat on friday night delivering a short but energetic set of furiously rhythmic, minimalist rock. it's hard to tell how much of their live sound intentionally deviates from their recorded sound, as one can see the impracticalities of traveling w/ an upright bass, but the growling bass lines of seth lorinczi (former circus lupus, vile cherubs) combined w/ the sonic assault of julianna bright (electrolettes) behind the kit were a pleasure to behold. additionally, the room is walled in by cinder blocks w/ a tile floor and no baffling so the prominence of the drums and bass in the mix was easy to grasp. this, by no means, detracted from the guitar work of jen smith, which was disciplined and appropriate to each number, but very well coordinated w/ lorinczi's bass lines. the vocal interplay b/w the three quails was perhaps one of the more enjoyable aspects of the performance w/ all three handling lead duties at different junctures, various off kilter shouts and yelps combined w/ more traditional backup vocal arrangements. w/ this in mind, it was unfortunate that the vocals were kind of lost in the mix.
jesse quitlsund's (capitol city dusters) solo project, known in its various forms as please, opened as a solo act. combining odd guitar tunings, slide and dissonant vocals, please it always interesting.
4 REVIEWS
Jack Cole
Mon Oct 15 01:33:36 2001
1. Orthrelm
IORXHSCIMOTOR
Tolotta
Another Mike Barr group (see my review of Octis, his recent solo release on Peterbilt) this time matching the hyper guitarist with Josh Blair on drums. Really, this is not much different from Barr’s first duo, Crom-Tech with the exception of perhaps a bit more space popping up on occasion in the sharp helium induced metal guitar skittering. However, it is good to see Barr playing with a live drummer, making all of the difference raising it above Octis, which was afflicted by its stiff drum machine gunfire. Josh Blair brings the bits and pieces of compositions to life, some breath blown back in the lungs that almost petrified.
2. The Flying Luttenbachers
” . . . THE TRUTH IS A FUCKING LIE . . . “
Ug-Explode/Skin Graft
You either love Weasel Walter or you hate him. You either think he’s a jazz poseur posturing behind his no-wave and noise rants or you think he’s just the kick in the ass the moribund music box needs. Following the death metal collision with jazz pile up that was Gods Of Chaos, the latest Flying Luttenbachers configuration on ” . . . THE TRUTH IS A FUCKING LIE . . . “ takes a sharp U-turn by slowing down the proceedings tossing in electronics, mellotron, cello and various woodwinds. In an e-mail to me, Weasel Walter commented about the album, “Ah yes. The Truth... a document of confusion and ennui.” If only my own muddled head and boredom could spur me on to shake myself up as it seems has happened to Mr. Walter’s work. The additions present on this album have added a depth and opened up new directions previously unpredicted in the history of the band whose only constant is Walter Weasel himself. I look forward to hearing the Flying Luttenbachers’ just released Trauma to see where they have careened next in their mad dash.
3. Parker Paul
Wingfoot
Jagjaguwar
Advert your gaze from this gruesome wreck along side the road. Close your eyes and try to remember the good things about him, forgetting the remains in the smoldering chassis of a once fine automobile called The Curious Digit. Remember him for being 1/4 of that instead of the sound that makes you shake your head in disgust. Try not to wonder why he has decided to emulate They Might Be Giants, pelting you strained jokes and derivative piano key tapping. He was a good boy once. Maybe he can find his way again -- but only if someone takes mercy upon his lost soul and toss every TMBG record he has into a bonfire. Whatever you do, just don’t notice and go on your way.
4. The American Death Ray
Welcome To The Incredibly Strange And Erotic World Of . . .
Sympathy For The Record Industry
This is what I wanted the Knoxville Girls to be when I first read reviews suggesting they were a hybrid of garage rock and the Velvet Underground (which isn’t to say the first Knoxville Girls record sucked, though the second one definitely did). Nicholas d.Ray has provided for me that sound which was not provided by that other group. Like the Knoxville Girls, the American Death Ray, hailing from Memphis, Tennessee, is also a gordian knot of musicians from other good, if less well known, bands: Nicolas d. Ray of ‘68 Comeback (and the leader of the Ray), Brad Pounders of the Clears, Brandon Lee of the Compulsive Gamblers, etc. Perhaps what brings it all together is Monsieur Jeffrey Evans (Gibson Bros., leader of ‘68 Comeback), who recording recreates the monophonic glories of the past. Flat, claustrophobic and almost muffled, the American Death Ray rambles along cribbing melodies from the last two VU albums (a line that ends with Loaded and goes no further -- have you seen that Doug Yule box set being offered by Captain Trip which Lou Reed isn’t even on? What a fucking ludicrous joke -- I hearby demand a stop to the coming Doug Yule revival that is being formulated behind the scenes) and then slicing them open with Suzzette Hendrix’s saxophone screams. A nice late night shuffle to pass your time as you sit back in your easy chair, eyes glazed in the semi dark of your living room as you nurse a whiskey.
REVIEW
jack cole
Refrigerator
Comedy Minus One
Shrimper
Down at the Sideshow of Music, the crowds always moves on to the newest exhibit, attracted, like moths to a crackling bug light, to the carny barker's siren call to get on the latest and greatest. Crowding around what is proclaimed to be Fresh, they barely notice as their wallets are lifted and hands explore their purses to liberate cash in all denominations. Yesterday's Garbage is today's Radiohead, the Prodigy replaced by Korn and Korn shoved aside for the White Stripes while the next in line patiently waits. The barker's voice diverts all attention from the older performers, patiently perfecting their acts no longer under the spotlight or even noted in the zinery, empty space in the atlas now.
Yet if you stay behind for a moment, ignoring the flashing lights and garish posters telling you otherwise, you might be surprised at what delights you may discover by those who persue their art through sheer drive and the need to shape sonic sand castles to be washed way in the high tide of critical apathy. At the edge of the carnival on separate stages out of the way you might come across Refrigerator-- paying special attention to Dennis Callaci and Allen Callaci.
With his cassette (and now CD and LP occasionally) label Shrimper and his band, Refrigerator, Dennis Callaci, with his brother Allen, spearheaded the bedroom lo-fi movement of the early nineties by spreading the sounds of countless bands and solo performers fiddling with their four tracks. Through Callaci’s advocacy and network of Inland Empire and international bands, we have been brought such treasures as the Mountain Goats, Good Horsey, Noggin and Nothing Painted Blue, a spectrum ranging from pop to noise -- a true DIY ethic celebrated. Along the way, Refrigerator has evolved from its boombox sound primitive beginnings to their recent release, Comedy Minus One. Refrigerator’s sound has always pivoted on Allen Callaci’s seemingly earnest melancholy self-pity undercut with subtle wit supported by Dennis Callaci’s simple, repetitive melodic guitar structure. In some respects, each Refrigerator song is almost a sugar coated dirge of unfulfilled or lost romantic desire. Their last album, Glitter Jazz, should have been their breakthrough, shoving them into the forefront of attention. Assisted by Franklin Bruno, Glitter Jazz fully realized Refrigerator’s marriage of delicate, sweet melodies and bittersweet vocals. With additional instrumentation, the record soared through the shadows of Allen Callaci’s broken heart.
2 years have passed since Glitter Jazz made its appearance onto the midway and was quickly forgotten. Since that time Shrimper has slowed down drastically as a label and Refrigerator has sunk further into obscurity. One might hope that their new album, Comedy Minus One, would resurrect Refrigerator’s presence but that would probably be a pipe dream. Therein lies the tragedy. Utilizing the same title as an Albert Brooks comedy album, Comedy Minus One is another sad and downcast Refrigerator work cleanly recorded on a 4 track in their living room. Whereas Glitter Jazz was recorded in a full studio with electrically charged guitars, Comedy Minus One is a more relaxed, acoustic affair -- a diorama of suburban regret accented with occasional piano and cello flourishes. The album’s cover captures the contents to a T. Upon the front one is first presented with the four members wearing suits and ties, their faces masked in clown greaspaint. All of them look up towards a floating red balloon except for Allen Callaci, who is much shorter than the rest, who stares at the ground. Each song is the moment after a joke no longer seems so funny after all, half hearted punchlines buffeted by plainitive sighs. “Kill the TV . . . . there’s no place to go.”
At the point I should stop, though I have only barely touched on Comedy Minus One, providing the tiniest of tastes. At this point, as it always is and will always be, the proverbial ball is in your court. Close your ears away from the carnival barker’s verbal advertisements, and wander down to the lest crowded exhibits. Past the dog faced boy and the crying bearded lady, you may stumble across Refrigerator subliminally transmuting your blank smile into a knowing frown.
Excercise
Cameleopard
He knows everything, a Pataphysical thought excercise...
Sat Oct 13 23:36:18 2001
He knows everything, a Pataphysical thought excercise:
“Who keeps their Teflon strong?” In a chorus I heard the words, “we do”. I must not have asked the question correctly, or I probed too accurately into the depths of the unknown. I didn’t have a lamp to rub, nor did I have a waxing cloth for a bowling ball. Maybe I should have asked, “Who are the we that keeps their Teflon strong?” Would this have made adequate sense to the echoing specters offering me one answer to one question? Their response would surely have been, “The we are us”! So then, my question would surely have been better posited as, “Who are you that is we that keeps their Teflon strong?” Oh, lamentable situation! Their answer would simply have been, “We are they that are us that keep our Teflon strong”. The needles of confusion prick at my brain! The rays of light are shards of broken thought-glass. So then, I must have constructed my question, “Who are you that are they that is we that keeps their Teflon strong?” And the horror of unreachable knowledge would have then gripped my clever heart for they would simply respond, “We are they that are them that are us that keep our Teflon strong”. Oh, rabbits of mystery stop hopping in and out of the shadows! Eternal timepieces twirl maniacally in my mind. Sanity is surely slipping away. Should I have asked, then, “Who are they that is them that is those whom are the we that keeps their Teflon strong?” Burning eyes of lavatory lust linger over the afterimages of intense enlightening. Haunting laughter echoes louder than the vacuous response I imagine hearing, “We are those that are them that are the ones who are the we that keep their Teflon strong”. And my internal struggle in their vaulted hall bursts at last from inside my mind into the lonely depths of abysmal knowledge seeking. “What then, what? Am I to believe that knowledge is impossible? Yes, yes,” I respond to no reply needed giving, “but the knowledge you give is only cursory—general and not specific. To define an answer is all but impossible! Is it so that the only knowledge I may possess is that knowledge which I already possess? Is it so that external knowledge, new knowledge, is merely represented by a unique configuration of elements already possessed? Is it a presumption then for me to say that language of the mind is brother to language of the tongue? ‘You are they’ simply says that there is a ‘you’ and that you are them! There is no definition of ‘you’ beyond the definition that already exists! The first deferment is in the actual language, the letters and the words. The second deferment is in the mind, the language of organizing what I know to define new knowledge. It is reasonable to presume there is some existence to you, and that it is you who are keeping Teflon strong, but there is no definition possible beyond what I already know either in the terminology or in the conception of the mind.” It was then I realized the magic of the answering cave! Your question asked, it echoes back the answer you already know! Every question asked presumes the answer in its asking. It is them that keep the Teflon strong, and this I knew all along! This thinking has made me hungry; I suppose upon arrival at my abode I shall cook an egg. What is an egg? An egg is that which I shall cook! Ha, ha I know everything!
HISTORICAL ANALYSIS
Cameleopard
A short history of the meat cylinder...
Sat Oct 13 16:58:01 2001
Meat cylinders were what the ancient Easter Islanders called dildos. Also, meat cylinders were used during WWI and II in Germany as a pestal for the grinding of substances into powders and such. Anywhere else in the world and popular taste for meat cylinders would have precluded their use as a pestal due to a likely to be preferred softness, limpness. German women, as we all know, are of a hearty stock and it is thusly that their meat cylinders were contructed of ash, steel, or other dense and hard materials. A popular poster of the times admonished the unwitting German housewives, "Always be sure to properly cleanse your meat cylinders before and after use in food or masturbation." In fact, these posters were only put up after a severely spreading outbreak of gonorrhea of the mouth. For a period, the hearty construction attributed especially to the term "meat cylinder" was practiced in France; during the mid twentieth century, public meat cylinders were installed on the sides of many public and private buildings in metrpolitan Paris. Indeed, it was not long before men discovered the possibilities of these meat cylinders that were commonly a private affair of the wife. And this is why France mandated that all public meat cylinders be removed from buildings; they were afraid of a virulent outbreak of homosexuality and decline in the population.
P.S. Russia could have played a larger role in the history of meat cylinders themselves if it were not for the inordinately large size of preferred common construction.
LIVE REVIEW
abomp
Preston School of Industry @ Rotwown - tonight
Sun Oct 7 16:24:50 2001
Spiral Stairway to Popheaven
I must say i wasn't too impressed with All This Sounds Gas (on mp3...i didn't even buy the album yet). As much as Spiral Scoot has my sympathy much more so than Stephen Malkmoose and his combo, i was left underwhelmed by his recorded efforts.
But live....wow!
Where are the times that Scott was the humble rhythm guitar player? Exactly when did he start to jump up and down the stage? Who ever imagined him *shouting* into the mic!? Free Scotty! The soundcheck was all false impressions with him mumbling something insecurely into his mic. But once the show started....
Summer's here kids! Unpretentious pop galore. And once again it's a proven fact that Pavement was certainly more than Malkmus. As a matter of fact, this show was a LOT more Pavementy than the Malkmus solo wanking. Yes, i liked Malkmus solo too, and sorry about the comparisons, but man....MAN!
To me it is crystal clear now. Spiral added the edge and the weirdness to the Pavement sound. Scratches here, Pling-Plongs there, a guitar god in a nutshell. And actually HIS solos were what made Pavement Pavement. I never imagined him playing that good (at least not after seeing him with Pavement in 99), and those "solos"...rave-rave-rave. In all its weird awkward pop glory. You should have seen it.
I was there all by myself (along with maybe 40 other people enjoying it just as much, but since everyone else i asked to come along was just as underwhelmed...), but i was jumping up and down. And then he played "Coolin' by Sound". Maybe the most underrated popsong ever. Yee-effin-Haaaw! Greatness.
I couldn't quit smiling at how they used the other guitar, making the exact electronic noise of why i ever bought a ProCo Rat (and, yes, i bought it because Spiral used one, and if you listen to the Things not to Mention demo, you know exactly what noise i mean). In every song. Brilliant. I wished Paul, or own modest guitar hero could have been there to see the resemblence. It was uh.... striking. But...
I've seldom seen a seemingly shy guy get so loose, and i couldn't get the grin because of that off my face for more than one hour. I felt great for the guy (damn, that sounds bad....but i mean it!) And then just before they quit: "This is a cover of a local band. They're called 'De Artsen'".
!!!
And then they started the encore: "Who here likes Ceasar!? They're friends of ours." I think i peeded my pants.
I don't care if both Malkmus' and Scoot's albums end up in the recycle bin. Scott is my newborn hero.
And then in the train back home i met a guy i actually knew: "You were seriously enjoying the show, weren't you?" Huh? I didn't notice anyone else.
The only downer was that they didn't sell records at the show. BAH!
I mean, i can post raving reviews all i want, but this was seriously honestly truly the best show i've ever seen on my own. And i've seen Pavement on my own too. And i didn't even drink anything before (well, only two pints of Guiness).
On a (Hugo) side(burns) note, i'm also in love with the way the other guitar player insecurely rascally looks into the audience (badumshhhhh).
We're the Preston School of Industry. We're from San Francisco.
Indeed.
I don't know what that adds to the review, but it sounded so right.
Please go see them.
Essay from CONFLICT
A Little Hatred
By: Tim
I think it was when I was 17 that these guys killed my dog. I had that dog
since I was a small child, I suppose he was my best friend, as people like
to say. Yeah, hell, he was my best friend, nothing like a dog to tell all
of your pains, hopes, and fears to when you are a child.
These guys that lived in my neighborhood were always troubled people. Even
before the drugs and liquor entered their lives. I or anyone with a brain
for that matter, could see a mile-wide streak of hate and ignorance in
them. Hating Jews, niggers, rich people or just about anything that they
could hate.
I even saw their human side growing up, their tears when their parents
would beat them within inches of their lives, their tears when they were
told by their parents that they were worthless. Their adolescent tears when
society closed up for them through their bad behavior in school and society
in general. I had always tried to be nice and talk with them about their
issues and even for short periods of time take it upon myself to attempt to
befriend them. By the time we reached high school however, life and society
had separated us and I had got on their shit-list. I was a very mild kid,
very happy-go-lucky.
I wasn't like them you see and even though I had never done or said
anything bad about them they took my 13-year-old dog downtown and dropped
him off on the side of the highway. For a while I had thought that my dog
had just run off and died somewhere which was sad in itself but then a
friend overheard them bragging about it and of course told me the details.
I was horrified and outraged and there was a feeling of emptiness and
sadness inside of me that was unbearable. I of course immediately told my
parents who were also outraged, but I think the sadness in their hearts was
greater because they saw the way it destroyed me and my naïve belief that
people were generally good and that if you were good to them they would be
good back. My mother, ever the Jesus monger, resisted her anger and thought
that she should speak with their parents but over time realized that would
be fruitless as the kids involved would deny it and that their parents
would have a hard time admitting to themselves that their children were
capable of such crazy and in-human actions. Although honestly in hindsight
I could see that their parents were a big part in creating these little
monsters.
My father however asked if I would like to go get some beer and some food
and go talk about this with him. My father asked if I had done anything to
these guys equally as bad or if I was fucking someone's girlfriend or
anything that would cause this and in all honesty, I wasn't, I existed, I
was different and my parents were well off and that made us appear as a
symbol to them of all that they hated. There were of course other reasons.
(refer to white man article) This session concluded my father simply
stated, then they must pay for this, and he forewarned me that there would
probably be repercussions for me and suggested that I arm myself with a
lead pipe when I was traveling in my vehicle.
We drove immediately to the eldest of the kids and my father saw him in his
front yard, he asked him to come over to the truck, which the kid did -
grinning ear to ear as if his secret gave him the biggest joy of his life.
My father got out of his truck and asked the cruel little heathen point
blank if he had killed our dog. The boys eyes grew with shock, he gasped in
disbelief and began to proclaim his innocence. Then, my father took a step
toward him, (my father was 6'5" and around 300 pounds..) and the guy bolted
and scurried up his driveway and hid under a truck in his carport and
started crying like a small girl. My father simply said, "remember this;
when the shit hits the fan these kind of people are total cowards." My dad
yelled at the kid and said that if he proved that he did this to our dog
that there would be hell to pay and left it at that.
We went home and I suspected that my father was correct about
repercussions, and there was, but I no longer cared, because I knew that it
was I who had the courage, the courage not to harm other people or their
property and the courage to defend mine from there on after without fear. I
soon was incited to fights and arguments that led to fights on almost a
weekly basis, their crew throwing rocks at my vehicle, putting a cigarette
out on my head with my back turned to the culprit in a crowded smoking
lounge. But systematically I confronted each member of their crew alone and
put the fucking fear of God into them. Soon, the group of idiots were less
likely to devise plans of torture for me as they knew that if I found them
alone they would face a hatred greater than any that they had ever faced in
themselves, and that was my hatred of them. They were human stains. Finally
the day came when one of the main cohorts decided to face me and walked up
to me with a shotgun in his hands. He said, "I heard you hate me, if you
hate me so much, then why don't you kill me, or are you too big of a pussy
to do that?"
I responded calmly, "I don't have to kill you John, you are already dead.
You have been dead for years and unless you do some serious soul searching,
you will never be able to feel alive again."
I know that my dog is not nor was not as important or any thing that
happened to us on Sept. 11th but I am obviously trying to encourage a point
here. I could have told a story about my time in the middle east, I could
have given a little history lesson, I could have went off on all of you out
there that are hiding behind the new Maginot Line of imaginary racism and
globalism. But I told this little part of my life instead so that you may
understand, in my opinion, that sometimes you have to deal with the issues
at hand in a serious manner because life and love are serious matters, the
most serious matters that a human can involve himself in and that sometimes
there are people out there willing and eager to take that away from you for
no rational reason at all. You should not have to lay back and take it, you
shouldn't try to comprehend them, or empathize, you need to destroy their
will to do you any harm and you need to do it as soon as possible.
REVIEW
Osmond Ristle
REVIEW: Electro-Muscle Stimulators
Sat Oct 6 14:08:51 2001
Osmond Ristle
Electro-Muscle Stimulators
Never Get Up
Slapped Together Records
The opening sound: the low hum of a tranformer gradually increasing in volume. 4 seconds in, a voice begins describing an experience from his first day in the first grade. In detail he delivers the event, sitting on the bus nervous. A ragged guitar begins to grumble underneath. A simple synth chug crawls below, the bleep bleep of memory. The voice becomes agitated as it relates his head being slammed into the bus seat metal frame by a bully. Abruptly the music starts. The song, “Into Elementary”, is over, the next, “See Sawed In ½” beginning. A ping ponging bass line blurps to the syncopated synthdrums. A lilting guitar melody is sprinked on top, floating care free. Images abound as the singer ties the listener into knots of tetherball, prison ball and playground equipment. The instrumentation shudders, sliding together into a carnival tune, the singing gone sing song as it sings of the transmission of cooties. I could go on, but simply put, this record is astounding as it picks the scabs of hazed over schoolyard traumas. The group seems obsessed with reliving each moment, dissecting the terror of socialization and adults. Intrigued, I wondered where they had come from, e-mail their label for a response. LaMonte Ingersoll, Slapped Together owner, responded back to me quickly. He wished he knew who they were. He had received the demo in the mail and his only contact with the band had been e-mail and PO Boxes (stretching across the country). I shook my head in disbelief. Perhaps the mystery of music had not perished yet after all.
REVIEW
jack cole
REVIEW: THE LOCUST
Sat Oct 6 11:41:15 2001
The Locust
Flight Of The Wounded Locust
GSL
CD
With the latest Locust salvo, the sonic pallet begins to open up, the synthesizers pushed up more in the mix to stand equal to the blur of power violence guitar. At this juncture I think the Locust have finally created a recording that captures their live intensity and hilarity (for example, the song title "Gluing Carpet To Your Genitals Does Not Make You A Cantaloupe"). Whereas previously, the Locust's recordings have been compact buzzy firecracker explosions, the members of the band have finally started to tinker with the formula a bit more, using the synthesizer as a more effective part of their artillery instead of just as a novelty. This is perhaps best exhibited by the final song, the title track, which consists simply of the synth and a processed voice in the throws of a slow demise. Sadly, this line up of the Locust is no more, but they have left behind a document that they can be proud of in its entirety. One wonders what the next Locust line up will accomplish.
REVIEW
Cameleopard, still assless
Mini review of "City of Mirrors"
Sat Oct 6 10:20:03 2001
“City of Mirrors” consists of a big band in small regard. There are fifteen contributing musicians on the album; the instrumentation wielded by these artists includes the clarinet, vibraphone, bassoon, trumpet, piano, synthesizer, contrabass, drums, saxophones, and a few others. The sound of this album is not immediately recognizable as Motor Totemist Guild fare. And thusly one might do well to listen, if possible, before purchasing any MTG based on this album alone.
The sound is sometimes reminiscent of Frank Zappa (especially earlier Frank Zappa). They describe themselves as "the songs of the mockingbird mixed with the delicate ambience of a diesel exhaust pipe". And truly, the sound does range from melodic neo-jazz articulation to avant garde abstract cacophony. There are occasional bursts of swing and playful beatnik entendering. The group is officially listed under the “rock” genre but they are by far much more akin to modern experimental classical music. There is even an occasional likening to the Squirrel Nut Zippers in their more lounge and swing inspired moments. The album consists of only six songs but is over an hour long; this is not an album you can listen to one ditty off of on the way to or from work. Indeed, this is the sort of album I enjoy while painting or just drifting in space on a lazy weekend afternoon.
No single song can be accurately described because of the frequent and wild oscillations in speed and style. There is a very deep complexity to the ever-changing tempos and rhythms. And the effect is that of being in a strange world with ominous abstract occurrences writhing under your feet. Yet, no sentence I could write would be able to describe these compositions—you must simply hear them for yourself to know what I mean.
Lyrics For Bloated Incubus
Axl's having a hard time writing new material for his death metal band, Bloated Incubus. Won't you help him with suggestions so he can lyrics ready by the time practice starts in his mom's basement?
1. Ruffles Kilt (Chanchester)
by jon
*Ruffles kilt*
*Slash begins with slide guitar*
She's as smart as me!
Aaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwweee!!!!!!
She's as smart as me!
Aaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwweee!!!!!!
Where's my sister???
Where's my partner??
I was saving it for a surprise, but SHE'S as SMART as ME!!!
Na-nan-nananana-nana-Na-Na-Yeaaaaaaah!!!!
Her name is Christ, and mine is Jesus!!!!
Awee! And I'm in love with Her!!
Where's my sister and my partner?
Where's my only friend?
(This is one of his ballads, btw...)
Aaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwe!!!!
I know She's capable of inspiring love,
I know She cares for people's feelings...
What happened in Manchester?
What happened to US??
We will be more alive, together, but what have we lost?
I care, I care, but who said "He was a friend of mine?"
What did She do on a road a thousand miles from home in manchester????
You SHOULD tell me.
I have lost that part of my life.
I'll be happy with the home I make for Her.
I was s'posed to have that part of my life with Her, yeah, yeah.
I don't wanna have it with no one else, yeah, yeah...
She would have to teach me, yeah...
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwee...
But Christ's as smart as Jesus, yeah...
I can't believe She couldn't help me if She tried.
I was gonna save it for a surprise, but She could help me if She tried..
I know She hasn't stopped singing...
I know She hasn't stopped thinking...
What happened in Manchester, Mr. Smith? Yeah I remeber you.
What happened in Manchester?
What happened in Manchester?
What happened in Manchester?
What happened in Manchester?
What happened in Manchester?
AAAoooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwweeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!
Love,
Jon-as-Axl
2. Throbbing master power cock
by Cameleopard
BBBRRRRRAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHuuuuuuuuu
RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Evil sitting bleeding eyes
Spinning growth deposits after highs
Cancer saves me from your lies
Cancer in your fucking sties
UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH
Dandruff pockets scolded rears
Daddy shanks me and grabs my ears
Death time for him is near
Death time you fucking queer
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Groping scabs burning barns
I went shopping and forgot your yarn
Wrinkly skin scraping me in the morn
Wrinkly bitch your fucking torn
PPPPPPPPPPPPPPOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Raging slabs of rotting meat
Raging slabs of rotting meat
Hell's in line to burn my feet
My raging slabs of rotting meat
My power cock is throbbing meat
(repeat after each verse twice)
GGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRUUUHHHHHHHHHHH
So you claw your way back from hell?
So you think I won't send you back?
I'll fuck you up, you unearthly swell
I'm on the power of potent crack
I am super throbbing power cock
I have raging slabs of burning meat
I rape little puppies for the shock
I am hellspawn, isn't that neat?
Guuuuhhhhhfawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
HuuuuuuuuuuuubbbbRRRRRRRRAAAAAAHH
Yeah!
Ho!
Yiyi yi yi!
FFFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUCCCCCKK
Yeah!
Wo!
Huh!
Huh!
Yeah!
3. Trucker Mucker (Suck)
by MES
This truckah is bleeding faster than speed-ah.
he can drive and fuckin' pop pills-ah at-ah the bleeding same time
I fuckin' call that coordination-ah, I fuckin' call-ah that bloody insubordination.
how his-ah ears buzz with truck bloody stop bleeding cassettes and bleeding the CB.
Stomachs cannot resist the-ah chicken fried fuckin' steak and waitresses, cock.
in the night-ah is fuck all but bloody talk talk moan
4. Yaii!
by msp
yaiii!
yaiii!
yaiii!
yaiii!
you preachin in the name!
you preachin your old game!
yaiii!
yaiii!
yaiii!
yaiii!
fettered, feline, fucked!
all in the name of some other man's suck!
yaiii!
yaiii!
yaiii!
yaiii!
marlon brando, i'm with you!
fuck the prance! fuck the poise!
give it up!
give it goooooooood!
give me peace of mind with your piece of!
mr. earwig!
mr. earwig!
mr. earwig!
shout at the devon!
yaii!
5. Yeah!
by msp
(intro)
whoaaaa! yeah!!!!!
(guitar settles)
you think you got some grease!?
you think you need relief!?
well i know i'll never leave!
whoaaaa! yeah!!!!!
well i know how to play guitar!
better than you by far, far, far!
next to you, again, i'm a shooting star!
whoaaaa! yeah!!!!!
whoaaaa! yeah!!!!!
whoaaaa! yeah!!!!!
cause i'm a criminal.
i violent, dust your ass!
i expect you cream your pants!
you'll shiver, and then i'll dance!
whoaaaa! yeah!!!!!
whoaaaa! yeah!!!!!
whoaaaa! yeah!!!!!
you better go home and die, motherf**ker!
slash, you've got my pants!!!
m. copyright 2001
6. Nang!
by msp
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
what old pace of mind?
what old grace to fine?
figured on the back of life
that owe me 6.99!
whoa yeah!
what can of patience?
what can of wheat?
expect acceptance!
what a fucking bleat!
you're a sheep.
yeah, you're a sheep!
you think your angry?
you think you lie?
expect a bag of shit
when i wink my eye!
you're a sheep.
yeah, you're a sheep!
i'm the sinistar!
i'm the greedy biscuit!
show you the life!
show you my wife!
your can of worms
are to govern her inside world!
you're a sheep.
yeah, you're a sheep!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
nang!
Bleat!
m. copyright 2001
7. Rock Ax
by tim
Rock ax
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
possessed
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
hurtful
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
butcher
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
march to the victory of death
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
malicious
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
army fights in the dark pits
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
of hell
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
blood flows through the streets
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
like a river of death
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
march
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
to the death ax
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
siren of death
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
siren of deeeeeaaaath!!!!!
*chug chug chug-vicious metal guitar rasp*
death ax!
"Thankyou! goodnight Cleveland!"
REVIEW
Osmond Ristle
Review: Gravy Boat
Sat Sep 29 17:21:34 2001
Gravy Boat
Schedule Changes
Register Sound
I had given up on Graham Gliss' musical work years a go -- each one of his bands and albums seemed to only strive for an aesthetic built upon lucrative options and marketing decisions. Does anyone remember The Intimidated Incisions? If Mr. Gliss had spent more time forming his own vision as opposed to tracking the bleeding edge, perhaps by this time he could have come up with a compelling vision intead of a catalog of trends on the cusp. One wonders what might happened with his first band, Heating Element, if he had not pushed out Bill Naman, the leader singer and lyricist, after 3 brillant seven inches in hopes of signing a deal with DGC at the beginning of the Nirvana feeding frenzy. In the beginning, Heating Element (with Naman to provide friction with Gliss) had bored into a untapped vein of splurting pop orchestrated with the sound Casio watch alarms blipping out morse code messages for more sugar. Without Naman, however, Heating Element's first album on DGC was beyond the pale -- a terrible Herman's Hermits/Black Sabbath hybrid that pained all who heard them. Not even having the video of their single, "Cloves & Hooves", in heavy rotation on MTV could convince anyone to listen. After that rousing failure and multiple band formation and disentegrations, Gliss seemed forever lost in his pursuit of popularity and financial gain. Whereas Bill Naman had achieved underground cult status with his new group, The Kraken, Gliss had earned only well deserved scorn in his Bowiesque identity shifts to plunder and capitalize off musical trends. Yet without the knowing wink that Bowie provided, Gliss was branded a poseur without class.
And now he reach his latest work, Gravy Boat's Schedule Changes, which is not really a band at all, Graham Gliss alone in his basement studio playing instruments and press buttons on his 24 track console. At this point, Gliss seems to no longer care about success. He appears resigned to never achieving adoration or even airplay. The first song, "Travel Alarm", opens with the sound of toast popping up followed by the dripping of a coffee maker swallowed up by his ringing guitar. On the surface, the piece appears to deal with not hearing his travel alarm and waking up on time in a hotel room -- yet underneath, Gliss seems to be really trying to understand why he sacrificed everything he originally cared about in music to play Och's "Chord Of Fame." Each song after that seems to plummet deeper into Gliss' growing but perversely poppy despair. Each melody either implodes or is invaded by cacaphony, a tug of war between listenability and solipsism. As the album closes with "My Closet Does Not Lead To Narnia", the listen feels claustrophobic and trapped in Gliss' waving white flag. Sadly, this work as Gravy Boat has finally made Gliss relevant, but I fear it may be too late -- he has turned away too many with his previous exploitations. With this record he has given too much too late -- no one will ever open up the gates for him now.
Conversation
Doctor Faustroll
Transcript of My Conversation with a Giraffe
Fri Sep 28 21:36:20 2001
doctor faustroll (9:15:29 PM): have you seen my fingers?
Cameleopard (9:16:13 PM): I have not, are they lady fingers?
doctor faustroll (9:16:40 PM): they were boy fingers but they got all stretched out while vacuuming up the monkey droppings.
Cameleopard (9:17:19 PM): Hmmn, the sofa emits tractor beam rays, I know. Perhaps they have slid beneath or betwixt it's evil, evil folds?
doctor faustroll (9:18:30 PM): I hope so -- I have had this problem before -- once the sparrows swooped down to steal them, thinking they were writhing worms. i had to search through their scat for a week while listening to mel torme records do dah ditty da wooo doo dah
Cameleopard (9:19:39 PM): Ah, sparrows are oft confused with ease! Wrap your fingers in bacon and put them in a baggy under your pillow when not using them. this should increase the viability of them remaining in your grasp.
Cameleopard (9:20:08 PM): Mel Torme used to race the bulls in Spain.
doctor faustroll (9:20:20 PM): Doesn't bacon attract moths? Won't they try to nest under my nails?
Cameleopard (9:20:24 PM): He fell and got his face trampled in due course.
doctor faustroll (9:20:48 PM): A hoofprint is a sign of respect. the ladies are always impressed by fractured skulls.
Cameleopard (9:21:24 PM): Yes, but moths emit a curious and helpful powder for use on their wings. If they wriggle around your fingers it will be like applying talum powder to them! Why do you think I told you to wrap them in bacon!?
Cameleopard (9:21:57 PM): Indeed. Remaining cogent enough to participate in the ladies' preferred activities is also a plus, though.
doctor faustroll (9:22:12 PM): Oh, I see! Will they become useful and shiny again like the butterknives I have hidden from you?
doctor faustroll (9:22:59 PM): Mel Tormé was supposed to be the Second Coming, but he gave it all up to scat. It is written in Revelations, if you know the cypher.
Cameleopard (9:23:03 PM): Yes. By the way, the bathtub is not the best place to hide butter knives! I tried washing my back but found myself speared to the floor!
doctor faustroll (9:23:50 PM): Damn -- the dust mites must have found them under the fridge and dragged them there to rebuild their fortress. Their bent for world domination disturbs me.
Cameleopard (9:23:58 PM): Yeah, I was never too keen on Torme's viability as Messiah though. I saw him laugh milk through his nose, though. It must count for something.
Cameleopard (9:24:49 PM): Mites can be a mighty foe if you let them set up operations in your toe. Brown sugar and a flame thrower make a good cure to them, if caught early on.
doctor faustroll (9:24:57 PM): It was a true sign, until his breath caught on fire singing the angels' wings at the bbq and cocktail party. God had forgotten to bring a fire extinguisher -- the smoke made everyone cry.
doctor faustroll (9:25:07 PM): OWWWWWWWW MY TOES!
Cameleopard (9:25:22 PM): Hence clouds.
Cameleopard (9:25:28 PM): and rain
Cameleopard (9:25:51 PM): A party hat just impaled my knee, hold on a minute.
Cameleopard (9:26:25 PM): Okay, bored it out by reciting the alphabet in Russian.
doctor faustroll (9:26:36 PM): Is it not written, secretly placed in a Electrician Ad in the 1967 Toledo Yellow Pages, "The knee is not of the bee but for the fleas whos itching bite brings bliss"?
doctor faustroll (9:27:16 PM): The alphabet is a conspiracy. It is a virus developed by the Rotary Club in 1945 to fight the Nazis.
Cameleopard (9:27:43 PM): Yes, and, "Roaming toad bugglers foam rugged forest strugglers in their Jesuit chrome ear huggers."
doctor faustroll (9:28:11 PM): at which the pandas embraced, bamboo shoots growing belowing the waist.
Cameleopard (9:28:21 PM): The Rotary Club is a virus developed to fight the alphabet. Funny how these things work!
doctor faustroll (9:29:16 PM): To each their own ballroom dancing partner, Gandhi and Yosemite Sam; General Patton and Don Knotts -- infinite pairs hidden underneath our stares.
Cameleopard (9:29:17 PM): Not forgetting Chinese immigrants working in rice fields for the Burmese. Scuffling all day, they file workman's comp for burnt knees.
doctor faustroll (9:29:57 PM): It takes 23 years to process each claim -- the forms are processed by wingless songbirds.
doctor faustroll (9:30:17 PM): The Emperor raised them with pruning shears and a grin.
Cameleopard (9:30:20 PM): For Yanni? A scrawny belladonna from Gandhi's waistcoat in Bremen?
doctor faustroll (9:31:13 PM): The Brementown Musicians were rounded up by Animal Control and no one would claim them. I sniffled at their disposal. Who would play the dixie cup or the fork?
Cameleopard (9:31:43 PM): Pygmy alphabet soup is not enough to feed the troupe. Wigless cross-dressers in poker-faced makeup masks subverted the bonsai bird pruning of this Emporer's lacksadaisical fantasy brigade.
Cameleopard (9:32:49 PM): Neon frigates in sealess voids. Girl-nets come up empty at every turn of the shift. Corpses and fish, corpses and fish.
doctor faustroll (9:33:14 PM): Their blood was special prepared gunpowder. I would see them explode some hot summer nights, burst of colored sparked sweeping across the ground. Of course, I couldn't dwadle long what with my sacred duty of placing the Emerpor's fingernail clippings in the Secret Fountain.
doctor faustroll (9:33:51 PM): Now I must depart -- the banshees are singing Raffi songs to me again. Bon nuit, giraffe.
Cameleopard: The Secret Fountain was the Public Office's Foundation.
Cameleopard: bye
The Wonderful Besoted Treason
Cameleopard
The wonderful besoted treason.
Fri Sep 28 21:14:45 2001
A likeable tyrant is playing the piano! A humble drummer is standing in line to buy some gum drops. The horns of the tyrant dance in the air like a pair of dangling puppets glued to his head. Their glossy redness catches the lights here and there, beaconing some Morse Code message to the wary; some message of warning, of foreboding. Vaulted hallways echo the toilets flushing the waste of patrons at this gala event. Formal attire and unwashed hands, sophisticated tones of color and of sound, tables bearing the remains of roast beef on thousand dollar plates with gilded trim. The teeth of the rich and the rims of their wineglasses sparkle through the haze of Cuban cigar smoke drifting from table to table. The big, red hands of the likeable tyrant pump the keys with lively animation. His roving gaze stares, not at, but through. One can almost see music note icons drifting into the high ceiling. This brings attention to the chandeliers swinging up above. A mongoloid section of the denizens are drooling and making ornate masks to hide their faces under. A cat is trying to claw its way up a satin curtain. A lemur draped in glittery red evening gown is dancing sexily on top of the white piano. A pencil sharpener gets knowcked off the wall by a drunk and frolicking young couple in the far and dim corner. Confetti dazzles the very old while self-assured waiters with trays haul them into the kitchen to feed the younger and hungrier members of the audience. Squiggly, slimy sea-snakes fetter the madmen clawing at the frosted windows. The floor sucks someone halfway into itself occasionally, leaving pools of blood and maimed bodies for the dancing to slip and trip on. Spiders are crawling down the walls. A demonic voice is laughing and carrying on about an explosion. An obnoxious man is heard to be laughing too, in the background. Birdcalls come from the flickering flames of the highly hanged chandeliers. People's faces slough off while they try to dance with fetters around their legs and arms. Oafish and giant men clad in metal, where their grimy, sweaty skin isn't showing, descend from on high, supported by thick ropes. They bear in their massive arms bloody cleavers or wet, broken tree branches. The gala carries on amidst this massacre; maimed dancers writhe on the floor while embracing their partners still, as if they were still gliding in step to the music. The knowing claw at the walls until their fingers bloody, leaving ominous trails after they are hacked down. Black dogs with glistening coats and glistening teeth, and other beasts of unknown form, feast on the screaming remnants of humanity strewn in bits on the floor. The likeable tyrant finishes his song and sloshes through the chopped flesh and ankle deep blood, in his white suit, to the exit. Looking back only once, he flips a light switch on the wall as he departs.
STORY
Tim
Yipes
Thu Sep 27 19:21:27 2001
I want to believe.
By: Tim
Solve unto me the enigma that I then beheld, interpret for me the vision of the loneliest one.
For it was a vision and a foresight. What did I then behold in parable? And who is it that must come some day?
Who is the shepherd into whose throat all the blackest and the heaviest will crawl?
-The shepherd bit as my cry had admonished him; he took a good bite, and spit the head of the serpent far away: -and sprang up-
No longer shepherd, no longer man--a transfigured being, a light surrounded being, that laughed. Never on earth laughed a man as he laughed!
O my brethren, I heard a laughter which was no human laughter.
-Nietzche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
"Just like I Nietzche to suck my dick"
--Steve Albini
The phone was ringing off the hook. "Where in the fuck is my answering machine?" thought Dr. Wilson. He stumbled off the couch, cranky from a bad TV dream he was having. "Fucking stupid television!" he screamed and then picked up the phone, " Dr. Wilson speaking."
On the other end of the phone, violent music was blaring, MY WAR!!! YOU'RE ONE OF THEM! YOU SAY, YOU’RE MY FRIEND, BUT YOUR ONE OF THEM!!!!" "Dr. Wilson SPEAKING!" the music was pissing him off.
"HELLO!?!"
"Ah, um, yes, Dr. Wilson, this is Thomas, er, Tom Roth, I'm like, one of your patients.
"Yes Tom, could you turn the music down? Have you been drinking?"
"Ummm, yeah, hold on." Tom mumbled.
During the pause, Dr. Wilson thought, "I should have never left the West Coast, and people think everyone in Los Angeles is fucked up? They don't hold a candle to these hillbilly's."
He heard the music turn off and Tom making dreadful noises on his way back to the phone. Tom said, "Dr. Wilson, hello? Hello?
"Yes, Tom." Replied Dr. Wilson in a loathsome manner.
"Well, um, you remember saying that if anything bad happened, er, um, an emergency, I could call you at home?"
"Of course, Tom I like to give my patients that extra attention, if necessary, have you been drinking again? I can come over, we can talk about it."
"Well good, um, I've got a real humdinger here, yes sir, a hum d-i-n-g-e-r!!! Do you remember me tellin you all about them aliens and you said that I was just wanting to believe in em to fill a spiritual void or something? Little gray guys with big oval eyes?
"Of course Tom, I told you these are delusions."
Tom cut him off. "This ain't no delusion doc! I got one, he's dead, have him here in my house, in my cellar! I drug him down there after I got him, I hid him, you know the others will find out, I'm freaking out here!"
Dr. Wilson replied "Now, now Tom, that is absolutely crazy, now I'm coming over there and we'll call your sponsor at AA and get you straightened out." He thought, "Shit this guy is nuts when he drinks, no wonder his wife left him." "I tell you what Tom, I'm calling Andy and we'll be over in a little bit."
Dr. Wilson ran some water over his face to wake up a bit, "What a nut-job." He thought. "Let's see, one house call, 200 bucks, not bad, and to think I used to baby sit drunks in college for free." He called Andy, Tom's AA sponsor and told him to meet him at Tom's house in about an hour.
On the drive over, Dr. Wilson popped in a CD to relax. "Ahhh, Crosby, Stills and Nash, 'Teach your children well,' he began to sing along. " Man I still got it." As he thought about his voice and his looks and his car. Heavy Summer Raindrops were falling on the windshield; a nice heady, warm wind was blowing through his hair. Soon he reached 401 Beacon Street. "You know, for being a crazy fuck, this guy sure has it going on, shit after I'm done with him, he'll be getting a second mortgage," he chuckled.
Dr. Wilson knocked on the door. Tom answered immediately, "That you Doc? Hurry up, come in here."
"O.K. Tom, hold on, can I have some water?" Tom replied, "I ain't talkin to you unless you have a beer. You just have to see it, man!" See what?" replied Dr. Wilson. "The God Damned alien! Weren't you listening when I called? Jesus!" With that Tom forcibly grabbed Dr. Wilson and led him to the cellar. The cellar wasn't well lit and was full of spider webs and old, long neglected objects. Just as creepy as any cellar. Dr. Wilson chuckled, "have you lost your mind? Maybe I will take you up on that…." Tom cut him off, "see, do you see this beast?" Dr. Wilson looked down, and he saw a rabbit that had recently been shot. He exclaimed, "Tom, that's just a rabbit, is this some kind of joke? I think we need to get you in to the office a little more frequently." Then he began to look up, somehow Tom was in a bunny suit, grinning from ear to ear. He wondered, "Did I miss something?"
Tom began talking excitedly, " I have taken a life of the other, and now I have become the other, his life force has crept into mine…."
Dr. Wilson began walking slowly backward, "Tom, why don't we go back upstairs and talk about this." "No time for talking, the Leader has let me know things, the Leader says you may not know them!" Dr. Wilson stumbled over an old lawn mower; a screw or something jutting out of it cut him right under his ankle. He jumped and screamed a quick scream. It was then that he saw the ax in Tom's hands. He turned and ran. Stumbling up the wooden stairs, he felt the blow, he felt sick, dizzy and fell down into the wet grass and mud. Pain shot through his body…"so this is it?" He thought. The smell of the grass reminded him of mowing lawns when he was a teenager. He didn't want to open his eyes, but he did. He saw….30 or 40 rabbit's gathering around him, they were talking to him, they were telling him secrets of the universe and at the same time, they were reading his mind. He saw Andy's headlights shine on the shed in the backyard, he tried to scream, "Go away!!" but, all he could do was gurgle up blood and a little vomit.
Soon they final blow was dealt and the doctor was a doctor no more. Tom stood triumphant over his first victim. "There is much more to do," the master spoke telepathically as he wiggled his pink little nose. "Yes master!" responded Tom. He began to walk out to his driveway to greet his next guest, Andy. The head alien/bunny then telepathed, "What is the first step to recovery Tom?"
REVIEW
jack cole
review: kevin blechdom
Fri Sep 28 10:11:16 2001
Kevin Blechdom
The Inside Story
Tigerbeat6
Kevin Blechdom (aka Kristin Erickson, formerly of Adult Rodeo and currently one half of Blectum from Blechdom with Blevin Blectum) serves up something a little more subdued on this 3" CD, providing only the quieter moments without the squiggles and screetches and voices. In some ways, I found The Inside Story to really not be much different soundwise from the early synthesizer bleeps and oscillations set down to tape by Raymond Scott or even Wendy Carlos (and, no, I don't like Carlos's work -- innane music made before and after the sex change). In approximately 19 minutes, Kevin Blechdom displays 9 compositions that somehow make me think they were some sort of college project recorded for some class or seminar -- I can't exactly pinpoint why I have that impression -- perhaps it is because The Inside Story comes off seeming so much more conservative and studied than her previous work. Whereas her work has always required I attentively listen, I found myself drifting away, thinking of sundry subjects such as clipping my fingernails and if I would have time to buy more coffee beans tomorrow. I wouldn't say I like it or disliked -- it simply left me indifferent.
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