REVIEW


msp
Review Glass Candy and Shattered Theatre "Live s/t?"
Tue Sep 25 10:29:07 2001



pictures speak a few more words.

i dunno.

this is a live lp recorded at kimo's in sf on 9/10/00.

glam?

i think that's probably the best answer. this trio shuttle punk bits round and round grooving meanly with only bass and drums while ida no, the screaming femme on the mic, plunders depravity.

there's lot's of between song banter that's mostly indecipherable.

so you have this sparse punk prak. the songs are catchy and messy. the vocals grate appropriately.

the finest vocal traditions of early female punk vocal bunches can be heard but with a hedonistic, glamour nokilljoy end.

i managed to miss them playing locally as i didn't know who they were. i heard ida no got mostly naked, just as she did at kimo's (there are pics included).

i really dig this bowie porpoise rendition of the slits.

thanks for the pictures. i think a live album is really nothing without pictures. and i think a glam band is really nothing without pictures. this band's look really reaffirms the alien hardcore mystique.
m.

REVIEW


msp
reVIEW oF DYMAXION "Dymaxion X 4 + 3 = 38:33"
Mon Sep 24 09:25:41 2001




This is spectral command bringing you our latest intelligence on the THINKTANK known as Dymaxion. Feel free to use G-g-x! methodology to search and replace all instances of the word FOLLOWING with their appropriate counterparts:

a "Elves" with "Guys"
b "Dragon" with "12 inch LP Record"
c "Robot" with "7 inch Single Record"
d "Cache" with "Singles Collection"
e "Scientist" with "Jello Mold"
f "Hymn" with "Surf Rock"
g "Cinematic" with "Cinematic"
h "Alien Installations" with "Samples"
i "Hypnotic Pulses" with "Bassline's Germ Warfare against your virally determined psyche"
j "Death Ray" with "Keyboards"
k "Golems" with "Audiences"
l "Bad" with "Good"
m "Good" with "Good"
n "Spies" with "Marshmallow toters"
o "Man" with "Even"
p "or" with "more"
q "Astroman" with "Fucked up."
r "Omen" with "Dirge"
s "Herman Munster" with "Agent msp"

Begin Message

These Elves got together have have produced several Robots to please their need for Spies and Death Rays. They're selling their Caches in expectation of Omens, Astroman, and Scientists to conquer a new format: Dragons. These elves are both bad and good. They only know how to appeal to certain Golems. I, Her man Munster, saw them perform their subterfuge once and they sung Hymns with Hypnotic Pulses to woo their little feats into feet and carry us off to our doom. This Golem was pleased. Even after being shot with Death Rays and paraded around like a Ptolemaic Monkey of the 6th order, I arrived under the cacophony of a glorious hypnotic ray. The gorgeous bikini monster women explained to me that the thunderous onan of my hips could not be stopped. Placing a call under the psuedonym Halter B. Top, I found the elves very misunderstood. It's this Agent's opinion that while the beef may be a little orange, it's really the spray that matters.

I recommend this Dragon is charged with 4 counts of Bad.

End Message

Message CheckSum (Inverted, XOR): B5
Initials of Agent: m.

Anecdote


hugo sideburns
Antwerp Anecdote
Sun Sep 23 09:02:35 2001

Invitation


Cameleopard
It's all in the gustatory direction...
Wed Sep 19 14:23:10 2001


Hearken yourselves to the deed of a diorama on the cusp of knotted woods and leaving leafs left in leftover turkey containers. Oh, blithesome blewits, pour yourselves on the floor and escape the built-soap powder jingling gently in the wind. The diorama captured my visage in gristle and throbbing meats encompassing enkindled flames of notorious passion and scandalous bra clasps. Give over your toenail dancing and Georgian blight fostering in the noonday darkness descending onto your lip-smacked coat hanger (in the hangar). Burly blokes screamed "BOLLOCKS!" until their faces sloughed off and all the firey pigments leaked into the air. "Bollocks to the dog", I joined in for the posterior shots and money making engorgements of lusty humans endowed well beyond a normal array of lengths and diameters. The wood is rotting on the floor in the kitchen. The screen door has a number of water droplets reflecting hell inside. It's a diner for the damned and you are invited!

REVIEW: ENON Believo!


abomp
more on Believo!
Wed Sep 19 13:21:57 2001


so i listened to it now and remember how good it is at parts only to be thrown off by the last tracks again. i'd still recommend it though...

I think Enon are one of the few bands (i know, mind you) that combine electronica and rock in some sort of coherent way (well, mostly).

I listened to "Long Play" once, and didn't like it that much. It's mostly instrumental, but it's like a not so good version of "Believo!". So i don't know if you need more than one album by them.

Anyway, i do recommend this one, if it were only for the first 20 minutes.
"Rubber Car" is one of my favorite songs of last year (or the year before or whatever year it was). Prince and his evil grunt-twin backed by (sometimes out of place) electronica. And then it's over and you play it again. Will be inside your head for at least a week.
"Cruel" is sorta like a lofi Portishead with male singer covering Tom Waits' "Black Market Baby". Skipping vocals.
"Conjugate the Verbs" is, yeah, a pop song....uh...
"Believo!" is actually an incredibly catchy sexy song, fucked up by a very busy beat. But it fits. Like this whole cd bounces and falls out of its role within the pop song structure. (well, not the whole cd, in retrospect)
"Come Into". Oh yeah, that song! Another song which you think you heard before but not this lo-fi computer-processed.
"Matters Gray". Oh yeah, that song! Ok, i think i'm starting to find words for their sound. Pop songs processed through some robotic minced meat machine. Or maybe i didn't. An overload of effects, but, yeah, fitting. Am i repeating myself?
"Get the Letter Out". See above..
"World in a Jar". Here's where the decline starts. This is just not a great song, so now the effects start to distract and you start to think it's just a shtick and the rest may not be that good either....hmm...now it reminds me of that Badly Drawn Boy album, which also wears quickly.
Oh, but skipping back to those first 7 songs, they're still great. Phew..
"For the Sum of It". This is why i don't like "Long Play". Too much elctronica wanking at this point. It's slightly overdone. This should be a 2 minute song, but there's some odd breaks in the beginning which stretch the song by a minute, and then there's some "atmospheric" guitar at the end which stretches it for another two. Interesting for a while, but it seems like they're being too difficult here. Stick to the pop gems, please. By far the longest song at 5:11.
"Elected". Superfluous too. Yowza!
"Biofeedback". This has a nice beat which is what more or less makes the song. A hyper-deformed voice, and it's kinda nice. I think they should have just called this an EP and only put the first 7 songs on it. It's a record definitely worth having, but 32 minutes is a little long. Huh?

COMMENTARY FROM CONFLICT


mark e smith
who makes the nazis? you do! (an esoteric expostion)
Tue Sep 18 16:36:10 2001


what do the twin tower terrorists and the bush/cronies have in common? alot, if the us of a goes to war with its own holy jihad against the taliban under the ruse of "fighting evil". the victims, the peoples and tribes of afghanistan.

doesnt the government realise the gig is almost up for osama bin and his cell of followers? the world, those who are rationale, feeling, and understanding persons have seen what misplaced anger and deeds will do. the death of innocents is really a death of all peoples.

what osama bin did was take the indigenous swastika of islam (truth/beauty/belief) and rotate it forty-five degrees. just like the nazis did with "their" version of the swastika.. just like bush is thinking/planning on doing with the ideals and truths that we, as americans cherish. namely freedom.

lets all be like joseph beuys.

backstory: he was a pilot for the nazis before being shot down and saved by an indigenous tribe in siberia. they wrapped his body in fur and fat, saving his life. he spent the rest of his life performing shamanistic pieces of art to help free peoples mind from the state! independent minds..

beuys tried and i think he partially succeeded in turning the german swastika back to its original resting place.

to make a long winded, and perhaps with little thought, rant complete, be wary of bush and cronies. the republican/military/industrial complex is getting aroused. it will be an ugly sight if we let these rich, white fuckers let loose with their ugly boners.

http://gygax.pitas.com


818
A CD made me happy today...
Fri Sep 14 13:13:47 2001


Superchunk - Here's To Shutting Up

A group ignored today as much as they were adored ten years ago (cf, Sebadoh). But unlike Sebadoh, I believe that Superchunk's music has sustained the smart innocent quality that made them appealing to me in the first place.

This album is one in a long line of consistently listenable Superchunk albums. A bit more emotionally sensitive than the remote processing of Come Pick Me Up, there is no longer a sharp distinction between Mac's solo project Portastatic and the band's material. Which is fair to say his life is driven by music, and THIS music. Portastatic's outstanding Brazilian covers EP--De Mel De Melão--is referenced rhythmically and vocal phrasings here and there, as well as Mac's stint alongside other Yo La Tengo 2001 sidemen David Kilgour, Sonic Boom, Robyn Hitchcock, and Neil Innes(!?!). Not too say that this a deliberate facsimile of a Yo La Tengo record, but structurewise and pacingwise this album reminds me of the heavily-New Zealand-y influenced mid-90s Yo La Tengo.

There are many sophisticated pop hooks, the impossibly pop entirety of "Rainy Streets", the post-chorus(?) of "Phone Sex" (a song that's been available in demo-form on their website for months), the droning chug-churn of "Florida's On Fire", the chorus of "Art Class (song for yayoi kusama)".

But there is more to the album than uptempo 6 chord barn burners interspersed with droney ballads ectched with mini-Korg symphonies or optiganal sunny confessionals... for once, Bob Weston makes the music sound very live and real. Laura Ballance's very creative bassplayer is understated, in fact, the musicians are all in fine form here.

I haven't had time too digest the lyrics but they appear just fine from the times I listened to them.

This CD has made me happy today.
Here's To Shutting Up.

COMMENTARY


Cameleopard
Only slightly unrelated...
Fri Sep 14 10:55:06 2001


It is true that morality is quite relative from place to place and from individual to individual. But I still think there is a basis for SOME universal principles of what is and isn't good. No matter where you live and no matter what your religion may be, murder without reasonable cause such as self-defense is wrong. No matter your financial situation, stealing for fun or for survival is wrong. (If I were homeless I would probably steal food and such. But this in no way makes my actions right.) There really are at least some universals when it comes to good and evil. And these universals are not founded upon the idea of Biblical mandate, nor upon the idea of political state. It is the very basic principle of an individuals rights to live, and to live without undue intrusion from other individuals. It is thusly that stealing, murder, slavery, and so on may be condemned universally.

E-Mail


Note: Doctor Faustroll has taken the liberty of changing the name of the e-mail's author.

down
An Email From Palestine:
Wed Sep 12 18:53:42 2001


> Date: Wed, 12 Sep 2001 00:55:10 -0700 (PDT)
> From: L
> Subject: Tragedy

> Dear friends and family:
>
> For those of you who know people in New York or Washington DC, I
> hope and pray with you that they are safe.
>
> All of us are shocked by this; there is simply no way to even
> think about this tragedy as reality, much less express thoughts
> on it. My colleagues and I watched from Palestine in horror as
> the news continued to break.
>
> I also received very well meaning and concerned e-mails from
> several of you regarding the Palestinian reaction here and my
> safety.
>
> In Ramallah, all I saw was shock and fear -- many have family or
> friends in New York and Washington. I saw no dancing, no
> celebrating, no handing out of sweets. But on my television at
> home, we were able to get footage from CNN and ABC News showing
> such scenes. The footage was taken in Jerusalem, and the twenty
> or so people you saw in the streets were the only participants
> as far as I can tell from friends in Jerusalem. The streets
> here were deserted as most people kept their eyes glued to the
> television or their ears glued to the radio. Probably much the
> same as in the United States.
>
> As for the thought of Palestinian involvement, it is nearly
> unthinkable. I realize that those were the initial reports, but
> they were quickly denied by the leaders of all the Palestinian
> groups. The international media and US political leaders
> interviewed by them are quick to point out the possible
> connections to Ossama bin Laden. Frankly, no one knows, and
> understanding the kind of evil that must be behind the attack is
> impossible.
>
> I do have a concern: that because of the world's attention on
> Arabs for responsibility, I think that there is a serious danger
> of all Arabs suddenly becoming stigmatized or even abused. We
> don't like to look at what America did to Japanese Americans
> after Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor. That was a horrific
> attack, as was the Terrorism we saw yesterday. But the Japanese
> in America did not deserve to pay the price, and neither do the
> Arab Americans -- or Arabs anywhere -- today.
>
> I know that you are praying with me for the souls of those lost,
> and peace of those left to cope with the tragedy. One friend
> wrote of singing with her colleagues the words of Nelson
> Mandela: "Love is stronger than hate. Life is stronger than
> death. God is stronger than all." It is difficult but necessary
> to have that kind of faith in the midst of all of the hatred and
> fear we are slapped with during this time.
>
> For the time being I am planning on staying here. If there is
> fear of reprisal in this part of the world, I do promise that I
> will move myself to safety.
>
> Prayers,
>
> L

Commentary


Jack Cole
Don't get mad at me, Tim, but . . .
Wed Sep 12 10:10:03 2001


people are upset and they are simply expressing how they feel during a trying time -- don't get down on them for that -- I'm sure lots of shit is going through all of our heads and it's fine to vent here. Moreover, just because some of us do not have confidence in the President, that doesn't mean we don't think his cabinet, etc can't handle the situation.

In addition, I have to admit personally that watching Bush on TV scared the fuck out of me and I don't think his canned speeches and unwillingness to speak "live" in front of reporters was either inspiring (something gravely needed at this time) or dynamic -- but that's just me and it doesn't mean I don't love my country or have any National pride. I mean, I know how you feel -- I hear all of the time from co-workers how the US sucks and I heard that yesterday as well -- but that's not me and I believe that you can have national pride but also be critical at the same time.

Let's face it -- I may not be a Republican or whatever, but I'd feel lot more confident if it was Daddy Bush as opposed to his son. A leader should inspire his people. A leader should make them feel secure. Dubya does none of that with anyone I know here. Thank the lord his cabinet will hopefully be able to hand the situation -- for once, thank god for Dick Cheney.

EYEWITNESS


Happy
review: WTC attack
Wed Sep 12 11:39:41 2001


Yesterday morning, we heard the first plane fly over our house and thought, damn that's a loud plane. Then a minute later NY1 news coverage is interrupted with the report that it crashed into the WTC. I thought how unfortunate and what a tragedy, etc. No one thought anything else other than tragedy, until it was discovered that a second plane had also hit the WTC. At first we just thought it was an after-shock explosion. It was a few minutes until we learned that it was indeed a second plane. MInd you that at this time we're standing on 6th Avenue watching all this happen with our bare eyes. The worst part was seeing all the emotion on the street. Everyone was on their cell phones or pay phones, desperately trying to reach the people that they knew. At this time, there wasn't a single person in the city that wasn't scared shitless. (Btw, Susan Sarandon was spotted on my corner, watching the tragedy unfold just five feet away.) Then the unimaginable happened and the first tower collapsed. At that moment, the street erupted in shouts of horror and everyone weeped. I tried calling my realtives to let them know I was OK, but the phones were now down and I couldn't reach anyone in my family until late in the afternoon. All I wanted to do was to let them know I was OK.

My office was a block away from the WTC. I have not heard from my partner yet. The neighborhood has been evacuated and I can only hope this is why I can't reach him. His girlfriend takes classes in the WTC in the mornings and I hope for their safety.

personal comment


jack cole
Falling
Wed Sep 12 01:48:07 2001

No one says it better than Nora . . .


Nora
In what ways do you imagine?
Tue Sep 11 14:01:14 2001


I mean is it an "innocence" thing or will there be a war or what?

You know, I wasn't even 18 when the Gulf War broke out but Andy was a December baby so he was eligible for the draft. He was totally freaking out and I couldn't empathize with him. Now, I am scared of the biological weapons, the nuclear weapons and apparently of aircrafts that can completely destroy our way of life.

Maybe the scenes from the "Day After" made for tv movie are just resurfacing in my head but this doesn't feel very good.

To what end do we chase this? Hiroshma (sp?)


I got to work this morning around 8:30am when a girl I had never seen before came by my desk asking about a tv. She said she had heard two planes collided over the WTC and that the internet was clogged. I suggested she try the workout room but she didn't even know we had a workout room. I walked her over and several people from research were already there watching the Today show.

I walked in to the footage of the 2nd plane circling around the back of the south tower as 3 usually ignorant co-workers were digusted that the media automatically assumed it was terrorist act. "Maybe the air traffic control system was down" In disbelief I was wondering what they were watching because I was pretty sure you don't accidently bank left to hit a building. and it's not like those planes are easily manuevered. Gab, gab, gab this jerks go on with their theories and I am trying to hear what the tv has to say.

As I watch in silence my mind races to the thought "this isn't over, what's next? as we watch this, something else is going to happen..." and I marvel that those buildings are standing at all with the gapping holes.

I'm extremely thankful that any footage of the people jumping to their deaths was edited out or hasn't been shown. I couldn't see that.

With flashbacks to the feeling I got watching the Air and water show practice and thinking it wouldn't take much for any one of those planes to come crashing through my 31rst floor window, I decide I need to get a coke so I go back to my desk, grab my purse and head for the elevator. We stop at every floor as people stream in- their employers have told them to leave the building. I reach the ground floor security is turning people away saying the Hancock is closed. Outside the street is filled with suits just standing around trying to get a line on the cell.

I return to my office sans the drink to inform my coworkers that the building is closed to which the bimbo of an office manager says "no it's not". I get my coat and inform my boss that I am leaving and if the Hancock isn't really closed, I'll mark it as a vacation day.

By the time I hit the ground level, the announcement is being made over the intercom that the building must be evacuated. I wondered what the residents would do but left the building with an eye to the sky looking for rogue planes.

The streets were filling up as building after building evacuated it's employees. At 9:15 the trains out of the city were packed as were the platforms. It felt like the end of the world.

I get home to word of the Pentagon and soon after the crash near Pittsburgh and I feel beyond sad and scared to just numb.

My mom called from Ann Arbor, she wanted to make sure I wasn't still in a highrise next to the lake.

Hunny finally called to say that downtown looked like a ghost town with everything shutdown.

My mind wonders to the future. This isn't going to end soon or pretty. What is the landscape going to be? How much devastation will there be? Am I the only one with very little confidence in the US Military and our Commander and Chief? How do you win against a people who find honor in such terrorism? Against people who have been a state of war for hundreds of years?

I'm just numb and wish I could fast forward to the end to see how this will all play out.

:(

REVIEW


Cameleopard
Review of Vespertine by Björk.
Mon Sep 10 23:30:50 2001

Björk: Vespertine


It’s like roving through, or maybe over, a dense forest in a land of frozen wondrousness. Yet at the same time it’s also like being on great and open ridges stripped bare by the lumbering power of glacial movement and bitter cold. And always there is the fiery intimacy and closeness of her voice. We may be alone in a field of ice chunks breaking the silence by breaking in the distance but we are also having passionate and thoughtfully time-taking sex. One is left with the impression of floating in a sea of deeply red passion, drunken on love and simultaneously drawing back endless layers of sheer, light-blue veils. That is, we swim in the ethereal and nameless places her voice and momentary rhythms create. Infinite wispy evocations which fade away when we try to grasp them or label them.

This is certainly the most serene of her five solo albums. Her voice seems to be much more a part of the auditory landscapes crafted by the backgrounds of the songs. Whereas the juxtaposition in her previous albums was that of voice and instrument, this album offers to us the unification of the two and the revelation of a new or merely different juxtaposition. In this album we are always internally opposed by what we hear; on the one hand there is the lush and barren (a contradiction in itself) outside and sterile world and on the other is the inner deeply personal, often sexual, and just all-around intimacy-rife one in the songs both lyrically and mood-wise. I have noticed a few critics decrying the self-same etherealness and unification as being boring and repetitive overall. But one needs only go to a level one step deeper to appreciate this album for its true and perhaps slightly hidden innovativeness.

Björk has enlisted the services of the uber-duo Matmos for much of the programming on the songs. Truly though, their sounds are either lost in the mix of the many other collaborators, the strong vision she inevitably has for her music, or they played a role more similar to “moral support”. Choirs and harps, analog keyboards and brittle scratchiness. Through all the extensively engineered and eclectic resources there is only the unmistakable sound of Björk.

The opening track, “Hidden Place”, immediately immerses us in Björk’s long-time staple of austere funky bass rhythm looped with little variation. But the rest of the background that enters this scene later serves to unite voice and predominant rhythm, setting the tone for the rest of the album. She sings of a love and her passion overcoming her shyness and inviting the love to her “hidden place”. And she sings of new sanctuary to be found with this love.

“Cocoon” is the type of extremely intimate and sensual song that gets us guys in trouble for liking Björk. Her voice is extremely close to us. Her voice is breathy and high. Her voice is telling us about a lover’s intimacy with her, and his sensitivity. It is rife with the prolonged emotional closeness that makes so many cringe in fear of either peer judgment or real exposure.

“It’s Not Up To You” plods along in mid-paced step with repeated admonitions of “It’s not up to you”. A number of quirky sounds work their way into, and are lost in, the overall “feel” of this song. Both the harp and the choir make themselves known. But the pop-ness of the beat really kills affectations otherwise possible.

Björk sings with a slightly off-timed version of her own self in “Undo”. The harp is put to good use in the softly convulsive rhythm of this song. Waves of sheer blue fabric float down and tuck us in to bed. Her voice, and an orchestra, convinces us to give in and go with the flow of life. We sit back and relax; we fall asleep in the immense bed she has prepared for us. For a while we believe that life can be so simple and so happy.

“Pagan Poetry” opens with a Japanese sound and sustains it through the bristling bass beat that knowingly carries us soon after. Björk is at her best in this beautiful song. “Swirling black lilies totally ripe” invigorate the magic of this one. A capella and once again up-close declarations of love at the end put a fine point on it all.

“Frosti” is totally instrumental. The resplendence of chimes in the echoing walls of an ice-cavern takes the listener to a place reminiscent of an intricate music box and carnival show. Below this there is a subtle melancholy and an unspoken or unsung moral.

Footsteps plodding through the snow, chimes of moonlight, and the voice of Björk open “Aurora”. The use of Duchamp-ian found objects for the purpose of music remind the listener of “Selmasongs”. Instead of a guitar solo, we are treated to the plinks of a harp solo. Like the lyrics, the sound of this song invokes the ascent of a glacier, moonlight sheen on crystal snow, and the glorious shimmerings of the Aurora Borealis (hence the name).

“An Echo, A Stain” is the chthonic and wispy prophetic dreams of an unknown sleeper. Very ambient noise and very soft, slow singing accompanied with the ebbing intensity of atmosphere lend themselves greatly to the impression that life is but a dream. An odd electronic beat overlaying the wistful sounds of voice and instrument cohere an otherwise abstract composition.

“I will wade out till my thighs/Are steeped in burning flowers” is part of a poem borrowed from E.E. Cummings by Björk for the song “Sun in My Mouth”. This is a small song also lending itself to the dreamy and ethereal sound prevalent in this album. Her voice takes us from nighttime thoughts to the heady heights of flying in salty air with seagulls.

There is something magical invoked in “Heirloom”. It is beyond my ability to describe, but there is something of her days with the Sugarcubes in the beat. The best way to think of it is to imagine yourself sitting in a small and white kitchen in Europe. The curtains are opened and outside there is the greyness of a distant glass plant and the inky plumes it blots the sky with. It’s the mid-seventies or maybe the mid-eighties. The two kitchen chairs are made of hollow and slightly rusting metal with textured plastic seat pads. The wallpaper is white with cream-colored florets. A newspaper on the counter, used as a place to set wet but clean dishes, is yellowing and plastered with moisture. The temperature is around 50 and it is mid morning on a Sunday.

“Harm of Will” is a quietly strong ballad making use of an orchestra. Cryptic but sensual lyrics wash in over us with the softness of her voice and the softness of the orchestration.

“Unison” leaves us in the dream world while awake with only a sample from Oval. There is minimal scenery while floating in this void. A carnival sound adds structure to the chaos of limbo. Then the song breaks into somethingness with dual Björks, a snappy beat, and an orchestra. But it all keeps losing the cohesion of fullness in rhythmic display. And the title and theme of this song display quite nicely the unison of sound with voice replete on this album.

LIVE REVIEW


msp
review WhiteStripes,Greenhornes,SheBangs at TheEnd 9.9.01
Mon Sep 10 00:07:59 2001



she bangs

started out while i was waiting for the bartender to come back around. they (3 "shes from sheville") did a vocal harmnony of sorts only to realize at the end that the bassist's mic was kinda dead. they played a dirgy, dirty, lusty, corncob-swallowing, pungent garage rock. vocals leering and lurking around us to beat us down into vernacular submission. i was receptive to such advances. i hooted. i hollared. i shook and shimmied. the best was very slow and mean like whiskey and a good piece of ahem.

after the guh-urls played, the greenhornes from cin cin nada came on and gave us a very animals-reminicent treatment of soulful rhythm and blues. holy fuckin good. these guys know how to put some tone into what they do and make it big and make it sink like a freaking anchor planting your landed little butt to such a stand-still you can help but fall forward and give it a little hoo, a little hah, and little oh my fucking and finally some god.
the break downs were stuff of yah-yah legend.

this place was hot. filled with smoke. looking at the spotlights made me wanna cough. it was packed. usually about 100 people at most are in this place, but tonight, due to white stripes white-hot, and media hype, it was easily much more like 200. you better believe that the gremlins and orges were out to perch in front of your humble oratory deli vendor going court reporter to piss him off. some oaf decides to park it straight in front of me. how he got there, i do not know. there was no room. through slow, distorted cracks in the atmosphere's pressure i was moved without actually moving. PRL scientists need to figure this out. by the time the jack and meg? stripe decided to whip-or-whil on our dusty asses i was not a happy camper. the bears had come out and instead of encroaching on my pic-ee-nick bask-ket, they stood in front of me so's i couldn't peep the peeps.

so i listened. let me preface that i've never purchased any of their merch because well. ..if the shit's too hot, sometimes it makes me leery. it's the whole indie-curse. hype leads to disbelief by the truest of believers, dogmatic may it actually be.

i've heard led zep. comparisons and i could see where one might do that du. there's a twang twang rock! twang twang thing. and his bluesy thing that surely needs to be given another influence. you do the math on that one. for a while i was so oafed off, that it was hard to deal with it. then he whipped out the hollow body and freakin slide and proceeded to show me how it really was. holy shit. that probably puts it in the best, most honest, and most concise form i can muster. his lyrics were funny. very mojo-this and lady-shake-me-that. most of it was abrasive blues, but he sang this sweet little ditty pop number about playing with a school love that was very awesome. i hate to not umfph praise on her but she was time, she made the moment move, what else can i say? she whacked hard. not with particular fill-filled glory, but with tight whiteness dashing with her "brother" down the streets of nashville streaking their naked, stripped blues all the while flashing their pinky love of red blushing plush with us.

it was nice.

and enough rock to make it so that i, at 2am, cannot sleep.

it's been a day of rock. first practice, then rockstar the move, then this show.

hopefully my heart-rate will drop by next tuesday.

m.

REVIEW


Scott Tuma Hard Again Truckstop Perhaps at a disservice to Mr, Tuma, I can’t help but invoke his past excursions in Souled American. After Sonny, with the loss of their drummer, Souled American slowed down to a glacial pace through their last two albums (Frozen and Notes Campfire, the bass and guitar drifting without a rhythmic center below Jeff Adducci’s plainitive vocals. Scott Tuma’s first solo album, Hard Again, continues in that direction, the rubbery Souled American basslines replaced by occasional accordion moans and quiet whitenose backgrounds to flesh out skeletal guitar plunking. For certain, Hard Again is not a good time record for you to pull out at parties to impress your friends unless you want them all to kill themselves so that you can have a fresh start in life. Without vocals, Tuma’s instrumentals mournfully meander as if replicating in sound a tired and sad old man sitting in front of a general store quietly musing over his disappointments. Almost perfect, Tuma’s only misstep is having Jim White (Dirty Three, Venom P. Stinger, etc) drum on one of the compositions. White’s clattering, nonrhythmic drumming disables the distraught simplicity of Tuman’s playing, overbearingly capsizing it into a Dirty Three pastiche.

Admittedly, I had reservation about this record before listening to it. In general, I’ve found most of the records on Truckstop to be less than interesting and the involvement of Michael Krassner always sends up a warning flag for me. As soon as I see his name I expect to be bored beyond belief by his sedate and uninteresting playing. Moreover, he tends to overpower the performers he produces, sinking their compositions under his own overbearing sound (I can’t forgive him for what happened to the second Maneschevitz album or the last two Simon Joyner records). Perhaps because Scott Tuma is an old hand himself, I barely noticed Krassner presence. Tuma rises to the occasion and imprints Hard Again with his own signature abilities. So, next time you’re looking for a record to end your life to, you should check Hard Again out. Tuma will serenade you in your final moments, or, at the very least, make you feel more depressed than you already do. Thanks, Mr. Tuma, for writing my suicide note for me. I’ll be sure to pass it along.

REVIEW


jack cole
review: - - - - - - -
Fri Sep 7 15:57:16 2001


here's the scenario that scraps my gums, making me taste blood. let's say
you have a band that has always shown potential and, in fact, has periodically
crafted some fine albums. sure, at times, some of the songs sink
under the anxiety of influence (ie galaxie 500), the parts overcoming the composition, but
in general they usually have something going on that's enjoyable quirky
pop. hell, you might even go so far as suggest that their second album
is a classic of sorts, pop songs evaporating into lo-fi studio chaos. yet
as time passes, the band is no longer a working one, transformed into an
infrequent occasion where friends get there. after a singles compilation
and 2 albums, the next 2 (culiminating in the most recent released last
month) show the drift into "tasteful playing and sedate lyrics" reflecting
mature themes. The bonfire becomes embers and then you watch the embers
growing cold, the sparks disappearing under a drizzle of staid
"americana." Occasionally you hear bits and pieces of the spirit,
flakes of ash that disappate. You realize they have taken the well tread
road most decide upon, their music encompassing their responsibilities as
adults -- but at the same time, you tell yourself, just because you're an
adult now doesn't mean you have to become a drag, the proverbial stick in
the mud. shaking your head in nostalgic revery and disappointment, you
wave your hand and say goodbye to Moviola. Later that evening, brushing
your teeth before going bed, you notice a few grey hairs on your own head.

Project For The Future #2
abomp
ok, here goes...
Fri Sep 7 12:36:24 2001


(hmmm.....i'm not overly proud of this review, but i typed it out so now i'm gonna post it too. i guess that's what the record does to me. see stuff that isn't there.)


dEUS - The Ideal Crash

First of all, this is not my favorite album, nor is it one that get's played all that often, but whenever i put it on i'm grabbed by the magic of it. It's not one to play a few times in a row either, since i don't really want to commit suicide (that's what it does to you in the end), but it's just so overly beautiful, complex, yet not too, catchy in a sinister way, and the lyrics are completely overwhelming in parts.

All in all the perfect record to break up a relationship to, which is exactly what happened to me once, which adds to its emotional value even more. I'll try to give a song-by-song review, and probably write down a lot of relevant lyrics too, to express why this record is so special to me.

Put the freaks up front.
"So you're suffering, i know it huerts a lot when it's the first time"
Starts with shrieking feedback, and then layers and layers of guitars (the layers are in all the songs, but anyway), adding horns here and there. A pumping drive, and a touch of evil.
"Whenever i begin, make sure to keep my empathy inside"
In the first interlude, there's so much going on in the background, it's insane. Still doesn't distract from the main theme or the vocals. Which, to me, is the beauty of the whole record. It's so full and so layered, yet it doesn't really become too much or get to the structured approach post-rock tends to have. "Noble designs slip away"
"The agony preserved, your eyes are slowly losing all their softness"

Sister Dew.
The concept sounds so bad. A guy goes to a nun to confess that he has murdered his love.
"Oh my sweet Sister Dew what have i done? All my life i've only loved the one" Yikes. If i ever were to write these lines down i'd scratch them immediately. How come it sounds so upright though?
Interlude. He recalls how it felt to kill somone. Strings come in. Can it be more corny?
"We were kicking ass, we didn't fight it. She never once expected that she had it coming soon."
Why the fuck do i have shivers all over?
"I'd like to stick around here for a while"

One Advice, Space.
Setting the scene of a sinister bar in space. Drunk anger of a shaking man. Not sure if you're sad or mad or just pretending to be.
"Somebody pushed me, i just pretended that i fell. I said that i adored you, but i could never tell"
Anger, confusion, illusion, bullshit!
"Finding my own inarticulate prose"

The Magic Hour.
The word gets out. Let's have breakfast on bed with our clothes on and break up.
"I had a plan, was all made up" Bossanova for the broken hearted.
"I had a dream, a simple plot. I held out my hand asif she never pushed it away. The sun is still there, except it's not. Beside her i care to linger even though it's not safe."
It's so pretty it makes you go insane.
"I had a plan, was all made up. The magic hour seemed to be fading."
Cello, please.

The Ideal Crash.
"Stay by my side, it's over. The ride isn't what i told you. The painkiller side of this life, is to not look behind, it's over."
Nervous drums come in. Whispering the lyrics, almost crying. Suicide song #1.
"I'm drawing myself the ideal crash, but i know i won't believe me".
Actually written in Ronda in Spain, on top of a bridge. How's that for overdoing it?
"Stay by my side, i want you. Continue the theme that's us. Even though it's only lust."
The nervous drums have slowly changed into maniacal beatings by now.
"CRASH. Another way to say that you want to make it up."

Instant Street.
But there's hope.
Jeez, part of this cd are so incredibly arty-farty....but with so much taste. How about a banjo-intro to some string and multiple guitar-layered song? Ok, a new love. But not really. Can I start again?
"And now i found something to look for, but i can't decide. 'Cause i might find, to stroll behind, is better than to score."
But this time he'll go for Instant Street. In a beautiful melody, over romantic strings: "After any old motherfucking wall, i'll be back" A man with a (cracked) plan.
"I'll put on a movie, i'll play something groovy, as a matter of service. And i'll chuckle when you smile, as a matter of love."
And then the madness cuts in. One guitar theme, two guitar themes, three guitar themes, this goes on for ever. Everytime you think they can't possibly find a way to add another motiv or play louder, they do. In the end one big mess of noise. Fucking melodic hiss.

Magdalena.
On a Spanish highway fighting in a car. Ah, a confusing love. Or is it? This is over before it even started. "It's a funny time to fall in love." Into the new, and out of the darkness.
"But i'm feeling good, and if you don't exist, you're still one illusion that i can't resist"
A ballad, hombre.

Everybody's Weird.
The evident radiohit that was no radio hit. Drum machines and James Bondthemes. The weird song on the album, 'cause it's catchy and doesn't hide it like the others do. The theme's stick in your head forever, but that's all there is to say. Maybe the most old-school-dEUS song.
Only now it's layered drummachine madness.

Let's See Who Goes Down First.
Ok, never mind the radio hits, let's get back to the main theme.
"I was walking down the river, playing solitary quiver. I was thinking about a million different lives."
Oddly sampled, chopped, yet flowing. Somehow this does indeed feel like flowing on a river. High on motion sickness or whatever that was. (ahaha..) Finding some weird shiny girl spreading whiteness like a fountain. Almost makes you want to take a shower afterwards.
"Now i heard stories about this kind of thing, how it haphazardly just sucks you in. Makes you do stuff you never thought you'd do"
"What if anybody had seen me there?"
In the end we can all sing along: "la-dee-da-dee-da-dee-daaaaaaaaaarrrrghhhhh". If you can hear yourself the the noise, that is.

Dream Sequence #1.
Apparently Tom Barman dreamt the chords to this song. How do you do that? But was this all a dream anyway? "My little dreamone, you OK?"
"Heaven and Moonshine, you gotta be kidding. You wanted to give it a try, and i didn't. I never wanted to be looking back, i need to find a little more insight, gimme insight."
Got enough insight in one Tom Barman by now. To put it in the worst record review sentence ever: "best not put it on repeat".

I don't know, sometimes it all sounds so bad, and sometimes it all sounds so right. All the things you hear in there just can't work together, and somehow they don't indeed. But it's sheer beauty. Precisely layered and dosed. But if they make another record like this i'm not gonna buy it.

Project For The Future #1


818
Re: Project For The Future
Thu Sep 6 21:03:41 2001


Fennesz - Endless Summer - Mego [Austria] - Mego #035v

Christian Fennesz is an Austrian guitarist/keyboardist who uses his own custom-designed DSP* programs to resample/resequence/reproduce his own source material into a new medium of accidental chance data assembly. His work is mostly comprised of digital accidents of ambiguous noise, tweaking pre-recorded electro-acoustic pure-tone material into rougher, buzzed, cold, plastic, random, chaotic bastardization of pure analog sine waves.

My experience with artists such as Fennesz have been met with uneven results. Even within the limited human range of hearing, the DSP permutations approach inifinity of ways of taking pure sound and winding up with a fractured synthesis cut-up collage of music, rearranged, devoid of natural design.

Perhaps it's my poppu myujikku background that desires melody... however shrouded/buried/distorted into a hyperpixelated deformed warp... polyphonic and arythmical... altered and foreign... just give me something that will resonate deep within the juicy folds of my wits. Pure unsyncopated monotonal noise (or chaotic reformations thereof) has a place in somebody's record collection, just not mine.

Leaving off where his "covers" record left off (Mego 7" available on CD courtesy of Jim O'Rourke's Moikai label), Fennesz is in full tamper/temper mode, mid-range filtered two-chord acoustic guitar strums repeat endlessly under bubbly gurgle and low-pass filter buzz, pops and snaps. Seamless barely-there organs hint at airy strands of warm, glitch-free bliss. Occasionally, new rhythms are discovered... harkening back to days spent home sick from school... sitting slumped in your den chair under the influence of cough medicine listening to mother's wind-chime on a day of scarce breezes.

Listening to the signal-processed rhodes/guitar through the bass keyboard amp... skidding chirps... stuttered surface noise... I thank mouse on mars for never recording their early material on a rusty compact disk. Naming your prettiest song after a Japanese cosmetic company is probably worth mentioning at this point.

And the album is a near-success, like a runthrough of "Diamond Head" submerged at 20,000 microleagues... except for the seventh song, "Before I Leave" which wears its Sean O'Hagan/Markus Popp influences a bit too obviously. A sobering moment of an otherwise vague buzz.

Endless Summer's curious aesthetics prove to be more than just window dressing for a beautiful songwriter, the philosophy of expression here is the sound you make.

*DSP = Digital Signal Processing.

Construction Project


Cameleopard
Construction Project...
Sat Sep 1 23:53:23 2001


Destructions on the completion of your very own Pataphysics Stray Brain Wave Catcher. This device was first perfected by semi-authentic Incas in the woody plains of mid-central South America. Any resultant tapping into of non-physical and/or hostile realms is NOT the responsibility of the author. Any negative circumstances in the mordant physical and/or social realms is strictly NOT the responsibility of the author. Use with caution, has been known to attract lightning, deflect beneficient aliens, and destroy the hard work put into constructing a facade of "normalcy" (read, idiocy). It is solely up to the user to determine if the promised imagined and "real" (a difference? nah) benefits (most notably in the field of Pataphsyics) are worth the possible negative side-effects.

Following is a description of the construction of the Humble Transmission Collector At Large:

Necessary materials:

1. newspaper
2. glue and/or tape
3. a coil of metal wire, copper preferred.
4. wire-cutters
5. rubber ducky
6. screwdriver
7. aluminum (or tin, but aluminum returns the best results) foil
8. sexual partner
9. rubber nipples
10. dead toads or frogs found inside geodes

Destruction construction instructions:

Step 1. Fold the newspaper into a pirate's or dunce's styled hat.

Step 2. Take your metal wire and wrap it around a cylindrical object approx. 1" diameter forming a coil. Any resulting length under 3' will do.

Step 3. Punch a (small) hole in the peak of your hat, passing a straightened end of the coil through and anchor from the inside of the hat with tape and or glue.

Step 4. Affix the rubber ducky to the summit of the coil by impaling it cruelly while in the sulfrous pits of hell or a hell-like place.

Step 5. Wrap your bare arms and legs in the aluminum foil.

Step 6. Affix numerous rubber nipples (the more the better) to your own and your sexual partner's naked bodies (also works better if your sexual partner also wears a matching hat and foil).

Step 7. Glue or tape the dead frogs or toads found in the geodes over your own and your lover's eyes.

Step 8. Have sex with, in this condition, in a public place. Arm yourself against the obligatory cavalcade of police with the screwdriver until having completed, both of you, the delight of orgasm.

Congratualtions! For as long as you where the hat after this initial ceremony you will be better enabled to tap into the unseen realms that exist and don't exist everywhere/nowhere.

Variations:

If you are without a (willing) sexual partner, you may perform the ceremony with one of your hands as long as you still dress the hand appropriately. Also, a Ms. Shelley Lyndburg of Mount Corpse Pa. has written me with a most ingenious double use of the screwdriver. I will leave the particulars up to the imaginative audience I have before me.

Hope this helps on your pataphysical journeys and experimental revelations!

Live Review Shins Part 2


nora_better late than never_drive
Quit your whining Mac*
Tue Sep 4 19:59:09 2001


Shins Review (a week later)

**NOTE: the performance wasn’t spectacular so this is more a story than review; per my usual….**


A little more back history about your favorite princess that will help you understand the significance of this account:

Due to a long history that I won’t go into, I was very much straight-edge through high school and most of college. I didn’t shave my head or draw x’s on my knuckles. I even ate red meat but I was very anti drugs, cigarettes and alcohol and had very little tolerance for people who indulged in such vises. So as one of the melodramatic tactics Andy would employ to incite me was to smoke or drink and that usually ended up in an ugly fight. Prior to the Shins show, Andy, whom I have known for 13 years now, had never seen me drunk. So let the story begin….

Hunny and I arrived while the first band was on stage. I didn’t catch their name and their set left me with little desire to follow-up on that front. By the time the second band, The Busy Signals, took the stage I had 3 pints of woodchuck inside my belly and realized I had quickly passed through the “I love you” stage of my drunk and straight on to the “cynical-think I’m funny” phase. Being an inexperienced drinker (I don’t do it often and I started late in life) I always underestimate the power of the yummy, yummy cider. ALWAYS!! I drink fast thinking I’m fine and immune to the buzz only to excuse myself to pee and find myself waking up on the toilet. The most disturbing part isn’t the falling asleep in a bar, it’s waking up actually sitting on the pot. Sober, I hover. Realizing I was nearing the “asleep on the pot” phase, which follows the cynical/funny one, I started to get nervous because neither Andy or Brett had shown up. I hadn’t gotten that awkwardness out of the way and it would only be made more awkward if kept on this cider paved road.

The Busy Signals is usually just a very large (3bills easily) smoking, drinking man that I’m sure had everyone in the audience wondering if they’d be able to do CPR on him when he would undoubtedly collapse on stage, that performed with a sampler. As support for this Shins tour he recruited a guitar and bass player from a band called the Triangles. The extra people didn’t help one bit. In fact, (and I read this from someone else’s review too, so it’s not just me) the bass player was a huge distraction with her dancing. After a few songs, about the time the big fella’s banter started to get bitter when the crowd wasn’t awed by his college radio airplay stats for one of him lame songs, I decided a 4th pint was gonna be required if I was gonna make it through the Busy Signals. When I finished that beverage too quickly, I decided to reassure myself I wasn’t so drunk that I would fall asleep on the toilet-several times.

Upon returning from one of those many potty excursions, I noticed James Mercer had arrived. I can’t recall if I mentioned this in the instore review or not but I was disappointed that James Mercer didn’t turn out to be the fella that actually plays keyboards. The keyboard guys oozes with gobble-him-up goodness, the real James is a little too shy to be a rockstar. Anyway, James and I had exchanged a couple of emails so I thought I would introduce myself to him in person. Our conversation started with the introduction and me asking about how he like playing in Denver. He spoke of driving through a storm that hovered over them throughout NE and IA. I mentioned that when I drove out to Chicago in February of 1999, I could see a storm in my rearview mirror but being that NE is so flat, I had no idea how far away it was. I spent 2 days of driving hoping that storm wouldn’t catch me, and it didn’t. To which he replied with very serious eyes that ride was “scary”. He mentioned his sore throat again and how his computer caught a virus (which he sent to me, btw). It was at that point that I realized I really had nothing more to contribute so with a “good luck” from me to him and a “enjoy the show” from him to me, I made my way back to hunny’s side to quietly ridicule the Busy Signals who were still on stage.

This is probably the point where I was bored and drunk enough to be considered in the “taunt” phase. So I recant my early statement, between cynical and asleep, there is taunt, which is arguably just a grey area on the fringes of cynical. Sober, I would NEVER (loudly) taunt a performer. I mean, *I* surely don’t have the balls to get up infront of that many folks and put on a show of any sort. Sober I can keep this last fact in mind but with fatty getting hostile, his sampler always breaking, and goldilocks dancing like she was plucked from the rainbow gathering, I was teetering on the taunt fence. Hands cupped around my mouth for projection, ready to holler something witty* like “have a seat big guy”, I see Andy enter the room and quickly move in to invade his personal space. Having never seen me intoxicated, Andy was unprepared for my red-nosed, pinked cheeked, wet mouthed greeting (that is to say I spit when I talk drunk not that I planted one on him..). After covering the basics of what transpired since we parted ways at the in-store he quickly moved on to business asking if I wouldn’t mind speaking to a certain booking agent on his behalf. Intoxicated, I can convince myself the pope will do what I ask, so I assured Andy I would certainly talk to said booking agent. Stalled and staled, we are both saved from an uncomfortable silence by a horde of record store lackies who hope Andy can get them some drinks on subpop. I, once again, return to Hunny’s side.

It is now time to make our ascent to the front in preparation for the Shins taking the stage. On our way, my mind has wondered from the task at hand to ponder this thought: Why don’t we have an amendment to our constitution of things you’re allowed to pull while intoxicated. We have laws that say what we can’t do, let’s have one that says what we can. I ask hunny (who grew up in MA and seems to know all sorts of history related facts that I don’t) how many amendments we currently have. He says 23- the 23rd being the repeal of prohibition. As I’m mulling this over, I notice a girl wearing my exact glasses. As silly as this seems now, at the time it was quite an event and she seemed to think so as well. I mean, there are several people who have similar glasses. Those are the folks who chose saving about $250 for something slightly less than perfection. This girl and I knew that perfection was worth the cost. I get up entirely too close to her face to make sure I’m seeing correctly. Yep! My glasses only she has the black ones and mine are tortoise shell. I dwell on this coincidence far too long (not unlike now) and propose the same amendment question to her and her date, the date says the voting age amendment came after the repeal so none us are sure how many there are. I figure anything I say would be protected under the 1st amendment and proceed to the front feeling ok about what I may or may not say to Andy with my body filled with liquid courage.

Doing the “oops sorry” weave people clear the path and hunny & I get right up to the stage. Like the in-store, this set starts out with excuses-his throat again. I sang/mouthed along, did the indirock girl dance (you know the one: hips/shoulders with a little toe tapping) But it was over before it began. Shit, it’s taken me longer to write this stupid review than the actual show took! No more than 40 minutes and with distance between us, I realize the show was lackluster. A little too textbook to be considered rock and roll-heck! even pop for that matter. Andy summed it up best when he said they hadn’t found their “live legs” yet. I mean, they are competent musicians and the music translates well to the live setting but they are gonna need some pyrotechnics, splitkicks, something if this show is gonna fly…

After the show, as I said goodbye to Andy (didn’t run into Brett once-woo-hoo) hunny went to get me a t-shirt. I said nothing incriminating or that would otherwise have me seeking the protection of our constitution. Hunny returned from the merch table with the shirt, a flake music single and a BUSY SIGNALS 45!What?! You heard me. Apparently big fella was working the table and looked real sad. Hunny’s calling it charity, I’m calling it a coaster.

And while I know that wasn’t worth the wait, it’s all I got folks.

Research


Cameleopard
Wally's pataphysical loss...garden of
Thu Aug 30 13:47:18 2001


Garden of Ingratiation

"Gosh Wally, is that your pneumatic jumping jack blow torch inflator?"
"Why yes, yes it is you small munchkin of disrepute."
The little munchkin pauses to defenestrate the toads in his pocket. After doing so, he licks a billion dollar bill and slaps it down on the table. Then he challenges Wally, “go get me a cream soda from the mannequin of Dead Wichita on thimble of Golden Fleece, I dare you.
“I poisoned the crap-filled waters with hubris from a dead god. Now it’s your turn to scale a proposition without getting brain rot or stomach jellification.”
Wally, a tad bit cream colored from his parachute adventure in the cornfields of Vietnam, shivered his left leg and let a troupe of albino gnomes tumble out. The thought of returning to Greek mythology left his Wendel Automatic French Kissing Castrator in the murky fields of no-thought.
Wally scratched his tusks and picked at a scab forming on his blubber, a scab forming over a wound from his encounter with the Herpes Giant of Lower Crete. With a wavering pencil in his hand, Wally signed the agreement the munchkin jammed up under his whiskery face.
“All right then, picture me in a new boat on the way to Lodge-Pole Island. I accept your crystalline challenge and throb in the belly for speedy return. A fever-pitch on the wall of your cliff, no doubt!!!”
The eager beaver jumps in place so hard a new continent registers Richter vibration in the gassy skies of Jupiter. Pluto yawns in hell, scratches his neck and switches orbits with Neptune. Neptune claws his lover passionately on his descending route. The sky turns hazy and clouds of glaciers descend upon the unwitting.
Wally fingers his albino gnomes back into his pants and starts caressing the dildos hanging from the ceiling of the cave. Man, that Wally has a crusty left eyeball! Wally slips on his shrunken head boots and starts out the cave.
Chiming in with synchronous harmony to the wind, the bucolic bucktoothed French munchkin says, “golly Wally, aren’t you forgetting the wager?”
Wally pauses in the shiny doorway and turns slowly to that conniving little bastard.
“What the fuck do you want?”
Grinning from tusk to tusk, the hirsute little mammal says, through his thin nose, “well gee Wally, I’ve been eyeing that fine pneumatic jumping jack blow torch inflator you won from the Nameless Ones in 3 bc.
“I figure I could wreak some havoc on Andromeda with a fish-scaled tool like that.”
Wally rubs his hair-dappled chin with an expression of deep skepticism. In the end, he concedes to the fat bastards rightful, but tricky, claim.

On the tar pits in the colder sections of space, Wally caught a glimpse of a dandelion politicking it up with an escape artist on the shores of that matter. “What a dark matter I see before me”, Wally postulates in the manner of one who has the eons to spend thinking—the time to cultivate or go insane that intellect that all deep travelers have. In other words, if he didn’t wax philosophical his wick would burn out far too quickly.
On another shore, the shores of Throttled Bottleneck Landslides in Thoroughfares of Polite Menageries, Wally saw displayed to his eyes a sight of unspeakable horror. The Ganymede teeth projecting frigate was cast ashore in numerous places. All that decaying flesh was turning right again, and yellow arrows pointed out with efficiency the humble beginnings of new life in the cosmos. Virulent capsules and ampoules were jittering and throbbing with meaningful intent; the logs were sprouting green wiring. Unable to alter his predetermined course, Wally could only look on in horror as the start of a new beginning commenced to engage. He was screaming in the vacuum, “you know what this means!? Existence will once again be relegated to the physical in aspect. Blindness shall once again determine the randomness of reality. Oh, Nyarlathotep, can’t you not do anything about this?”
Meandering particles started to destroy his Polar Ice Cap Fountain Disease. But onward he journeyed to finish his testicular commission. And finally he did arrive at the juicy buboes of Knoxville Castrato Symphony Dimension. He labored in ardor for more than an hour just trying to get free from the muck in the harbor. He strived for another five in the hive of a Bob Evans franchise outlet, just trying to stay alive. He cornered a joker in the golf-bag of a dead beetle.
“Give me your nose bleeds and forget this un-event!”
Wally guided his glistening alpaca, ridden by a cone-headed sherpa, to the sharp edges and heady heights of a newborn physicality. Ay last he did find the soda machine in a drift of limbo cast there by the solar wind. He chiseled it out and inserted a coin. He inserted another coin, finding that the first was a shape-shifter searching for oblivion (and finding it). This coin was a plant that looks like coins and gummed up the control center inside, killing all 144,000 civilizations contained. He had to use larceny, murder, and assault to get into the damnable pop distributor; he stole his sherpa from the sherpa and bashed his head against the front of the machine until it, and the sherpa, cried for mercy from a banal god of anal pleasure. Sorting through the can-corpses, Wally finally found the cream soda. Never he, or you or I mind that the shifts had changed and this was no longer the mannequin of Dead Wichita. And never remember this account because it is all too real to be made up.
Wally tried to go back from the edges of limbo, but he never made it. His dead sherpa lived for many more years in the new Cliffs of Oblivion. His alpaca became a lounge singer with only an audience of none. The eager beaver wallowed on an ice-flow behind his pocket protector of vigilant behavior.

Story


Tim
A story for your consideration
Wed Aug 29 17:09:28 2001


The Cherry Bean Bite-a-man

By: Tim

Bill asked, "mom why can't I go swimming?"
His mother answered as only mothers can, "you know I don't want you kids to go swimming in that filthy creek, especially right now with it up in its banks."
"Jeez mom! First off, I am not a kid anymore. Second it's so hot today I heard that the devil was trying to buy an snow cone." Bill whined as only a teenage boy can.
"I said no, what part of no don't you understand?" screamed his mother.
"Please mom?" begged Bill.
"No!" screamed his mom again. "Besides you have some chores to do, when are you going to take out the trash?"
"Later." Resounded Bill.
"Are you going to do that quarter before or after later?"
Bill rolled his eyes and huffed, "Okay, I'll do it."
Taking out the trash wasn't the only thing that Bill was going to do. Bill was fifteen years old, old enough to go swimming wherever and whenever he wanted. He decided during the mandatory screaming match with his mother that he was going to go swimming regardless of what she said. He picked up the bags and hauled them out to the garbage cans. As he walked down the driveway his mom yelled out, "I better not hear you were down at that creek!"
"Yeah, yeah…whatever." He said in a muffled and ungrateful tone.
After he dumped the trash he made his way to the creek. About halfway there he met his friend Bob. Bob was sitting on his front porch smoking a cigarette. Bob was around a year older than Bill. Bill thought that Bob was a very cool guy. Bob did anything he wanted; Bob smoked, Bob drank beer, Bob even had a tattoo. Bob was cool.
Bob called out to him, "Hey Bill! Where are you going?"
"To the creek, to go fishing or swimming, I don't know really. What are you doing?" Bill responded.
"Nothing, the creek sounds good to me. Mind if I come along?"
"Sure, that would be great."
Then Bob said, "well hold up a minute and I'll grab some fishing poles and steal a six pack from my old man."
Now Bill was happy as a lark. He would be swimming in the creek. He would be hanging out with Bob with the added pleasantry of beer stolen from his keepers. Today was turning out to be a glorius day.
They walked lazily on down to the creek, the tree line offering shade to the muddy and alluring creek. There was something about catching fish that made you feel like a grown man. Grown men answered to no one. Soon they found a nice little fishing hole that was deep and suprisingly clear. It was alive with crawdads and perch. There was a little metropolis of nature hiding in there waiting for Bill and Bob to conquer. They sat down and fished and began to reminisce about their short lives. Soon it became dark and they were both drunk and flush with stories of imaginary conquest.
Bill exclaimed abruptly, "I am going swimming!"
Bob responded, "I am not sure if that is such a great idea, the creek is up kinda high and it will be getting dark soon. I mean you could drown. Have you ever been drunk before? I mean, even if you have been drunk before it isn't very smart to go swimming. It just isn't a good idea. Shouldn't we be going home by now anyway? I mean it is getting pretty late."
"Shit Bob, you kinda sound like my mom. I thought you were tougher than that." Bill gloated and then full of himself exclaimed, "Nope, I am just perfectly fine right here, you go ahead and run home to your momma."
"Well Okay, but I think I am going home, I am getting kinda tired, I mean I would hang out but I got stuff to do tomorrow. Here, you can have the rest of these beers for the road." Saying that Bill got up and staggered home.
Bill lay back on the dew laden grass and contemplated the stars through the brush of the tree limbs above. Nature humming along with his alcohol induced buzz he noticed that the stars were moving in concert with him and although it made his stomach churn oddly, his head was on fire with this symphony of the stars.
He knew that things would seem funny when a person got drunk. Once he watched his older brother when he was imbibed and his brother had an in-depth conversation with a dog for a whole hour. That was pretty funny. Everything was seeming funny that night, when suddenly he imagined that somehow he began talking to something as well. For a while he wasn't sure if he remembered where he was or what he was saying.
"I don't like anyone telling me what to do." Bill was mumbling. "Me either," said something in the gloom with a hiss.
Bill sat up and rubbed his eyes, he couldn't believe what he was seeing, sitting next to him in a flannel vest and a fishing cap similar to that captain on that MASH TV show was a big red lizard.
Bill exclaimed in a startled manner, "Did you say that?"
The lizard replied, "Why yes my friend, who else would it be? There is no one else here but you and I."
"Yeah, that is right, but lizards aren't supposed to talk let alone wear clothes." Bill giggled nervously.
"Well that is because I am not just your run of the mill lizard. I am special in the reptile department. They call me a Cherry-Bean-Bite-A-Man. I am supposed to talk and wear clothes." Commented the lizard while grabbing a flask of corn whiskey out of his shirt pocket.
"Wanna drink?"
"Yes, yes!" Bill took a slug of the flask and choked down the burn and then gasped, "that's good stuff."
The lizard then grinned, "I see that you are a drinking man - and a fisherman to boot. Surely a man of my own taste."
Bill rubbed his sleep ridden eyes a few more times and then opened them slowly and precisely to make sure once again that he wasn't seeing things. When he adjusted his eyesight he only saw the yellow buggy eyes of the lizard staring back at him.
The lizard smiled at him in his best reptile smile and said, "So what occasion brings you to this fishing hole at this late hour?"
Bill responded urgently, "Well, I just get tired of all these people telling me what to do. I needed to be alone for awhile. Everyone is always telling me what to do. When I want to do something, everyone tells me not to. They all do what they want to do; they go fishing, they go swimming whenever they want! Everybody always tells me what to do, I can't do anything unless THEY tell me I can…It really pisses me off."
Bill then chirped, "It is just like today, my mom told me not to come here but I am staying here anyway."
"Good decision," gurgled the lizard. "Stay here under the stars, yes stay under them forever - I have - no one tells me what to do. Let us ponder the stars for a moment. Let us say that each star was a soul, would they stop shining just because someone told them not to? Let's stay here under the stars. I am, I always have - I have always done exactly what I wanted to do."
Usually the Cherry-Bean-Bite-a-Man is not so friendly - however he is very friendly if he sees an opportunity. His slit yellow and bloodshot eyes are seeing one now. Usually, the lizard will not attempt to fill his belly of land-dwellers - a lazy fat catfish will usually fit the bill. The reason for this is that he is clumsy on land, where he has all the grace of a sloth. However, in the murky, muddy water he is the ballerina of carnivores, the artist of eating, the poet laureate of ripping flesh from bone.
The lizard continued on, "Yes, I do whatever I want, when I want to go swimming, I go swimming. When I want some beer, I drink some beer. Say I want to catch some fish, well then - I catch me some fish, it is all rather a happy life that I lead."
"I am going to do whatever I want as well!" Bills voice crackled with delight.
"Good, that's the spirit young man. I think I am going to go for a dip. Man, it is hotter than fresh bacon grease today. How bout' yourself?" The reptile smiled cautiously.
"Yeah, I am sweating like a pig - a swim sounds awfully good right about now." Saying that, Bill gave a howl of manhood and dove into the churning water. The reptile slid in elegantly behind and made a savory meal of Bill.

REVIEW


msp
Review: v/a False Object Sensor (Vermiform 50)
Wed Aug 29 08:27:54 2001



Bad Neighborpolicy - dirtpyunrkock.

Heroin - former former former. san diego. pre1993. covered Battalion of Saints straight up punk plot "Second Coming"

Men's Recovery Project w/Le Tigre.. ..Spastic! Screaming! Oh My! Robots! Die!

Body Part "Young Ginn"...dirt surf punk.

Convocation Of ...song from LP, yet live maybe? straight- up pirate-placed rock drumming and preening with an axe.

Six Finger Satellite ... UFO rock. electrons beat this nice, smooth, yet alien tune. i cannot look away. they're telling me to forget everything. where am i?

damn it.

what's this all about?

weird music's in my ears. i'm in from of a computer. "get on the soap box"? am i on it?

who?

oh shit.

well, there's a cd thing. i'll just review this and remember where i am later.

Fast Forward "Journey To The Center Of Negril". peaceful guitars and beats kick. everything stops. a message! i have no idea what that robot said. nothing worse than a robot who can't speak the language.

does anybody know whose cat this is eating my shoe?

ouch! cat! no!

ok. this song goes on for a while. it's nice though.

tara tavi. ..citar soundin stuff. nice tin noodling. pling! pling! plong! the cd guide says it was written in tibet after a blessing from a monk who can burn his handprint in stone, levitate at will and fly." wow.

hail mary "nine tenths" "destroy!" punk.

towel "go away". ..doom on bass. mystery on guitar. the drums are clouded in distortion fog. the whole track is. we're being swept away by the chorus.

i am a court reporter?

i wonder what my job is?

everything here is rain and pitter patter all doomy.

born against "horkus porkus man". . .beat it on your head punk plunking and storytelling. "Lookout!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

the liner notes on this are funny. don't you wish you could read them? ebay anyone? i'll sell you a xerox of the cd cover. $5. one night's good read.

thrones. . ..man. ..this is BRAHHH! great downtuned guitar romp. judas, let this dood open for you. or maybe you can open for them?

rah bras. ..oh shit! i just crapped my pants. warbbly birds are sing destruction and everyone is cheering. the vocals are in my pants, all brown and tooting. this is wonderful. i would've never thought this would be wonderful, but it's wonderful. it's so completely wonderful. oh, to be wonderful.

i'll change my pants later.

skull kontrol "new rock critic" i know this song. but it's different somehow.

am i a rock critic?

i hope not.

this song rocks.

kitty smellin my drawers.

auto da fe "monkey king martial artists". ..this is great. ..very asian.. .but totally catchy.

i could really go for tofu phad thai from the market down the way now. yumm.

mutician "(untitled)".. .deep, sinister electronic notes. bleep bleep bleep bloop. dr. who? tractors. are the tractors coming to get us? mommy? is that you? more aliens! i remember aliens now! hey! are they why i can't remember anything?

amps for christ w/thrones "amps for thrones" some bearing incomprehensible sacred text being scattered over dr. frankenstein's moody home melodies and bird sounds.

sinking body w/bastard noise. . .we've fallen into the electrostaticly enumurated part of the performance. dishwasher on deep. atari on high. basketballs in gym class. and more aliens. always more aliens on this thing.

moss icon "cornflower blue". ..a rock song. some guy is talking about scarlet night's shrowds and stuff. he must be a court reporter then. i don't think i am.

i'm thirsty. i wonder who's house this is? well, it's probably mine. i must be some kind of internet junky because sitting here seems like the right thing.

now the guy's all talking about images and god and creation. anybody got a lighter?

controlling hand "...love under will". ..some monk dude is talking a lot of good stuff. danger prog music starts and fades out into soap opera stuff. somebody likes tangerine dream a lot!! holy noodler! tomita hardcore?

i wonder if i'm in love with someone?

ok, some woman's voice is shouting something about "come here!!" i better go.

it says "msp" up there. ..so i'll just mark

m.

ps the monk dude said that "mara was enraged!" so watch out.

Chant


Tim
If..........
Tue Aug 28 09:47:12 2001


your pataphysical and you know it clap your hands....
*CLAP, CLAP*
If....your pataphysical and you know it clap your hands....
*CLAP, CLAP*
If....your pataphysical and you know it and you really want to show it....If your pataphysical and you know it...clap your hands!
*CLAP, CLAP!*



WEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

Review: Shins Part 1
Nora_You Ask For It_Drive
Partial review....more oil than water
Mon Aug 27 19:46:10 2001


The Shins, Scuba’s Tavern, Chicago, IL 8/24/01

Cast of Characters:

Me: The ever lovely Nora Drive, on-line correspondent to PRL
Brett: Buyer for Reckless Records
Andy: High school sweetheart of the ever lovely Nora Drive and Sales Rep for Subpop


The Shins experience actually started at around 6pm at Reckless Records on Broadway where there was an in-store/pizza with the Shins. I arrived straight from work at about 5:30pm and having forgotten how, Brett, the buyer for the establishment, was on my short list of people I didn’t really care for, he, of course, was the first person to notice my presence. That sort of set the tone for the evening.

THE STORY OF BRETT:

About 1.5 years ago or so, when I was fresh off the boat here in Chicago, I had met Brett through my friend, Diane. He had asked her if she knew of any soccer girls because his team was short and she mentioned me. I played exactly one time for them but thought I found an opportunity to make a friend, finally. Boy, was that a butt suck kinda of a plan. Brett and I hung out once, he spent the whole night telling me why everyone else I knew in Chicago were jerks and driving around and around trying to find free parking because of the “principle” of the “thing”. I couldn’t wait to get home and put this whole friend making business to rest.

About a week after our disastrous outing I got a phone call from Brett in which he informed me that he had plenty of female friends and wasn’t interested in another. I don’t know if that was his way of trying to ask me to be more than a friend or if he just had his head so far up his ass he thought he really didn’t need any more female friends, either way he was a jerk-off in my book and I never talked to him again. In that evening of whine and principled parking, we talked about folks we knew in Detroit (he was from there as well). I must have mentioned that my high school sweetie had recently gotten a job with Subpop that or he gleaned it from a conversation with diane or something. The point is that being a gossip whore, Brett remembers this fact and says to me as I walk in to the in-store:

Brett: “Hey, I was thinking about you today.”
Me: “Why would you be doing that?”
Brett: “Because Andy from Subpop was in here earlier. Wasn’t he your boyfriend once?”
Me: “Yes, in high school.”

And the really awkward small talk ensued until I excused myself to go get a pop somewhere far away from there. When I returned for the in-store performance, I couldn’t help but feel like the sweaty eyeballs of brett were watching my interactions with Andy so he could gossip to someone else.

THE STORY OF ANDY:

As mentioned above, Andy was my high school sweetheart and the person to whom I owe the single most amount of gratitude for shaping my musical horizon. He and I were a couple from the first month’s of sophomore year until January of senior year (with a lot of ups and downs inbetween). Shortly after I returned from Christmas break in Alaska our senior year, Andy approached me with a plan. It involved he and I going to cityhall on my 18th birthday and getting married so that he wouldn’t “have to date anyone” while he was away at college. I wasn’t too sure what I was going to do with my life at that juncture but I was sure it wasn’t going to be getting married to the only boy I had ever slept with, so I countered with a plan of my own called “kick the cuckoo to the curb”. We spent the rest of the year in a melodrama-highschool style, that involved getting together again, dating other people to piss the other off and general mean word exchanges. This actually continued well into his freshman year at college. He couldn’t come near me with out getting sentimental and I took advantage when the mood struck. I was a jerk. I admit it. So since about 1993, he has hated me. Now, Andy is always cordial but he’s got a long history of trashing me behind my back. I broke his heart, so the fuck what?! He’s met and married the girl of his dreams, can’t sleeping dogs lie? And maybe those dogs are in bed, I just don’t trust him.

At the instore with Brett keeping tabs, Andy approaches me with open arms and a shit eating grin and so begins the farce that is our face-to-face friendship. He talks about his hotel, I talk about my cab ride over, we discuss the shins schedule for the evening when thankfully the house music is cut off and the Shins greet the waiting crowd…

The in-store performance began with James Mercer excusing is poor vocal stylings on a sore throat, apparently he had been making out with Tim prior to this engagement. His vocals weren’t bad as much as the sound was but then that’s what I’ve come to expect at store shows. They, of course, opened with “New Slang” and played all your/my favorite songs (6 total) from the new record. I, personally, enjoyed watching all the indie kids gathered, bobbing in unison. That never ceases to make me giggle. So many sensitive boys with their carefully carelessly tousled locks, striped shirts and cords. The girl’s fashion was a little less uniform but most of us wore plastic glasses; so alter native you can’t tell us apart.

The one mental note I made about the band’s performance was they didn’t seem to have the confidence to pull off rock stardom. They seemed equally awed by the crowd as the crowd was by them but I figured it was James dreaming about Tim that made him seem so sheepishly dreamy. That was just the in-store, I still had to go home, change, let the dog out and come back to town for the show….


UP NEXT:

Review of Busy Signals and Shins actual show to follow complete with discussion of how many amendments our constitution has, conversation with a girl with my EXACT glasses who was on the losing end of my spit-when-I-talk-because-I’m-drunk fest, and me getting schoolgirl gitty infront of my ex highschool sweetie…aw yes, the best is yet to come, kids.

Review


hstencil
Insta-review: Noah Howard Quartet, "Live at Unity Temple"
Mon Aug 27 19:59:29 2001


Taking a break from the usual audio-delivery system (i.e. my stereo), I'm sitting at the computer tonight listening to Noah Howard's Live at Unity Temple through slightly-more-than-adequate computer speakers. They're a step up from a clock radio, and somewhat better than the old one-speaker transistor radio I keep in the kitchen to listen to Cubs games while doing the dishes. The humidity is tapering off a bit, and I can see brilliant flashes of lightning outside the window (not to mention the large Morton's Salt billboard overlooking the ever-noisy Dan Ryan Expressway), but still no thunder.

Why am I listening to a live recording of a jazz quartet on computer speakers? Well, for variety's sake. I have a pretty okay stereo system, finagled through used stores, discount giveaways from friends long since moved away, and a few items on "permanent loan" from the ladyfriend. No problem, right? Well, in the summertime, the front windows are open, the industrial-strength fan is on, and noise from the aforementioned Dan Ryan constantly intrudes far into the morning hours. In the wintertime, it's not much better, as the heater has an obnoxiously loud fan that kicks on every 5 minutes or so. And I hate headphones, so here I am, staring into a screen while listening to Bobby Few's piano glissandi.

To the point, though: Noah Howard is one of the most overlooked, most forgotten, most forlorn and yet most incredible saxophonists of the past 30 years. Of course, that might not be saying much, considering how most people in America probably think John Coltrane is an old-timey Americana legend, akin to John Henry or Paul Bunyan. Even those who know the Trane's name probably learned it from fucking Ken Burns, which is to say these simps know nothing, either. Regardless, Howard (still alive and living in Paris, I think) is one of the most amazingly soulful players to emerge from the oft-maligned milieu known variously as "free jazz," "the new thing" (at least, until 1967), "out jazz," "ecstatic music" and the ever-nebulous (and politically-incorrect) term "avant-garde." Probably the only major leader recordings known to most jazz aficianados by Howard are Patterns (recently reissued on Eremite with a later unrelased session as Patterns/Message to South Africa) and Black Ark, both incredibly tough to find in their original vinyl format.

The former, Patterns from 1971, is a remarkable achievement. Howard, a soulful alto and tenor player very much in the vein of late-period Coltrane, merges his American style with that of his European collaborators (including the Dutchmen Han Bennink, Misha Mengelberg and Jaap Schoonhoven). The European improv scene, never known for its sense of soul, gets a major shot in the arm from the impassioned playing of Howard and other fellow American ex-pats in on the session (including Earl Freeman and Steve Boston).

Live at Unity Temple, recorded in the summer of 1997, is a different, but no less soulful affair, than Howard's radical 1970s work. Where a number of free jazz musicians succumbed to the pressures of the commercial jazz world, family life, the tragedy of poverty, or sometimes all three, Howard, while not going as far out as thirty years previous, still sounds pretty vital. The excellent players on the session -- Bobby Few on piano, Wilber Morris on bass, and the excellent Calyer Duncan on drums (note: I'd never heard this guy before hearing this CD) -- push Howard to focused, intense heights.

The disc starts with the meditative number "The Blessing," working very much in a late Coltrane modal-meditation vein (actually, it starts with the end of the concert promoter's introduction and a smattering of applause, but you didn't really need to know that). The driving rhythms of this track, and the earlier numbers on the disc, with the addition of Few's piano chords, are the sole nods to "traditional" bop-oriented jazz here. Yet Howard plays with an unmistakable melodicism, combining with Few on really beautiful phrases and lines.

However, by the last two pieces on the disc (the aptly named "Lightning Rod," parts 1 and 2), Howard and company return to the spiritual ecstasies of the 1970s. This is no mean feat: one portion of the 22-minute-plus part one of "Lightning Rod" is some of the most intense free jazz I've heard in quite some time (for those scoring at home, that's a pretty bold statement). The sounds conjured by Howard and his group are more focused, more mature than most of 1970s free jazz, yet hit really fucking hard, with a visceral force rarely mustered outside of the genre of death metal. When you consider that Howard is generating his over-the-top sounds via his lungs, and not through electrical amplification, you should realize that he's no Norweigian ninny sporting a Marshall stack and black leather pants, but a bonafide master of breath, endurance and spontaneity. I wasn't able to attend the concert where this recording was made, at Frank Lloyd Wright's beautiful Unity Temple

Review


jack cole
review: Quasi
Sat Aug 25 12:14:05 2001


Quasi
The Sword Of God
Touch And Go

By this time Quasi, for me, has become like watching a sick friend dwindle away in the hospital over a long stretch of time. You attempt to remember the good times, but gradually they are eclipsed by sickness’ growing presence. For me, at least, I’ve always believed that Sam Coomes has been when of the best, underrated song writers in the past fifteen years. His first band, The Donner Party ((especially their second self titled album) was superlative in its morbid goofiness, Coomes creating teetering, shadow covered circus settings. Then, after moving to Portland, came Motorgoat, which were fine but nothing exceptional. But Motorgoat imploded with Coomes divorce from the drummer, Janet Weiss -- who knows what that formation could have accomplished since they were still struggling to define themselves. Of course, this was followed by Coomes and Weiss deciding to continue playing together as Quasi and the hype surrounding this divorced couple crafting songs together. That moment was golden, too, though who knows what price Coomes paid by tapping into his demons with the springboard to his torment right behind him playing the skins. Still, Coomes’ turmoil reopened the vault to his songcraft, raw roxichord suicide notes released. The first 2 and half albums are amazing (to me, at least), with the second record, R&B Transmogrification, the apex. Then Quasi lost their way -- the reasons probably obvious. Who could expect Sam Coomes to keep slicing himself up? Yet without the source of inspiration, it became difficult for Coomes to recapture that intensity. Moreover, Coomes seemed to tire of the toil, polishing his sound to make it more user friendly -- and the kids loved it, Featuring “Birds” winning them over with the smoother sound and Janet Weiss’ celebrity as Sleater-Kinney’s drummer. Unfortunately, that album was a hodgepodge, sewn together from songs leftover from the R&B Transmogrification period and Coome’s new “Elliot Smith” influenced direction. The next album, Field Studies, ceded everything over to the smooth pop and indecision of direction. In addition, Quasi had almost been reduced to being that band with Janet Weiss, a ridiculous proposition. Though he may not admit it, Quasi is Sam Coomes, the heart and center -- Janet Weiss is the weak link, an pedestrian drummer and nothing more who always gets to have one crappy song on every album (a Ringo Starr for the new millenium). Parallel to their studio records, as a live unit Quasi became more and more anemic. Their performances became dull and listless. The quirky things that made them delightful vanished. They stopped doing their annual Valentine’s Day Kinks covers show. Sleater-Kinney seemed to more often than not reduce Quasi to inactivity due to Janet Weiss. As far as I could assertain from my observations, Quasi was irretrievably a lost cause . . .

. . . but even a patient in a coma can come back to consciousness, the straight line once again revealling peaks and valleys as it bleeps across the green monitor. Perhaps buying Quasi records no longer has to be a morbid fascination with watchings Sam Coomes’ abilities deteriorate. Perhaps the “sick friend” is recovering, the color coming back to his cheeks. Their new album, The Sword Of God, reclaims much of what they lost over Featuring “Birds” and Field Studies. Mr. Coomes seems to have found his voice again, the revelation first appearing at the end of the first song, “Fuck Hollywood.” If one were to read between the lines, one might interpret this song as condemation of the corrosive effects of celebrity (i.e. Coomes’ less talented and more popular friend Elliot Smith, a Beatlesque melody in which the instrumentation cedes control at the end to Stanley Zappa’s wailing, atonal sax solo. From then on, Sam Coomes seems more confident, his songs regaining their intensity and edge. Perhaps he has finally found away to recapture his voice, his focus resharped on the day to day horrors of living as opposed to his former compostions of lonely romantic woe. Moreover, every song takes more chances, experimenting with the pop structures, drones and sample creeping their way in and then asserting themselves. Once again Quasi has become “against the grain, a stray from the herd” (“The Sword Of God”). As if to affirm Quasi’s rebirth, the album ends with the almost throwaway, “Rock & Roll Can Never Die,” a tip of the hat to 70’s arena rock eviserated by various samples, including an almost subliminal slice of bagpipe skronk. (For the record, once again Janet Weiss’ one song, “The Curse Of Having It All”, is terrible). Now that Coomes is back on track, I hope he can keep charging ahead. It’s good to have him back.

REVIEW


Tim
Received DL Bucket today
Sat Aug 25 00:00:54 2001


Sorry just woke up. Took a nap again. Need anti-biotics that work the werl out of my wooz.

I listened numerous listens. Songs: Confetti Gangster: has a sleep happy sound..maybe a day where the sun has come out for the first time but it is still too cold to go outside and really enjoy it. Although you are happy you still are living through a little cabin fever.

Luca: A little stammer for a start that flows into a drunk-think-tank. The liquor thoughts of missing a love in a bar where love is but it is ugly. "Heart attack and vine - blue valentine". Where did my love go? Later that night will you go home and punch your pillow? Why did it happen this way? I see other people in love...is that even possible anymore? I remeber this clearly now.

Triple Jet Lag: This is the song that I keep hearing in my head. It doesn't want to leave. "These things will freak you out, I guess?" I am not sure of that lyric. It is pretty damn cool. I play songs like this to other people and tell them I want to do something like this but it never happens. This is my favorite song on this album.

My Stupid Curse (live): Nice sixties pop chords. Like Yardbirds on codiene ...then a little Sonic guitaring blended in. This is a good song to play loud.

Robin Found Posts (demo): Well they have figured out the head and how it is stuffy and full of pleasant wierd disjointed thoughts that come out sometimes. Nice pleasant abstract song.

If You Question: This is a pataphysical song. What else can I say? Let me put it this way, I need more DL Bucket, six songs are not enough.

Thanks guys.

PS. I will review Ronno's when I get it back from someone. I messed up and left it at a buddy's house. Although someone has reviewed it already right??

Scarlet Fever


msp
yeah. .. ..
Wed Aug 22 20:26:51 2001



it was bad at first. ..but then just was annoying as hell.

first off, i had a weak strep off and on all of that fall. it never hit too bad until the end, but it always pretty much made life pretty nasty and woosey on occasion. if anything, it was good excuse to be lazy.

well, about early december it came to visit like a whole familly of bad symptoms. i had a fever. i was seeing shit. i couldn't drive. i was constantly tired. talking in my sleep and sleep walking and all kinds of weird shit. i thought i had mono, but to top it all off and make us confused was that i had a monster rash all over me. i got taken to the doc and he knew right away what it was. he did the tests and was laughing and stuff. (at least i think he was laughing, i might've imagined a small smirk to be more. ..shit was weird.) i had scarlet fever. "stay home this whole week. you might be contagious. if this was 100 years ago we'd all be running from you. ha! don't worry, you'll be fine."

news got back to my school (i was in high school at the time) and people thought i was gonna die and shit. it was crazy.

well. ..he gave me high doses of fungus on a stick (penicillin) and the freaky fever funk was gone pretty quick. what was left for the rest of the week was the nasty rash that eventually itched like hell. god, i was bored that week. nothing but itching and freakin' bad tv.

after the itching, the scabbing occured. all of the dead skin formed a little sheet on me and i basically got to spend several days scaping and peeling it off.

it was nice.

but i conquered the beast without that dude on little house on the prarie and shit, so that was cool.

yeah.

long live tim!
m.

an excursion into the wildnerness of man . . .


Cameleopard
An excursion into the wilderness of man...
Mon Aug 20 23:01:44 2001


A pataphysical detour...

I stepped outside of my door for a while and this is what happened:

Things proven on this journey:

1. The teleological destruction of the Vatican dog, “fuzzy-bastard”.

2. There can be a liaison on the turntable by the country stile.

3. Forget your nuclear hamburger and remember “h” is for “hunan”.

4. Bumping into seven gossamer threads on the subway is like devoting nine wicked witches of the winch division to a butt-burning on the pylons of whip-a-tude.

5. January is when the lions attempted to eviscerate Bob Evans and his shaman-in-training.

6. January is the month the frozen mammoth-god “Alanis” will arise from the deeps of the Bolivian waterlogged estuary.

7. My eyeballs follow you like the crazy painting in a haunted house.

“Did you ever hear those cold, cold stories where the hero died of breath?” the hotel manager asked me in a mocking tone as he punted my fanny out of the door. I asked a momentary passer-by, “Excuse me please, could you tell me how to get to the fantasy-land of drear?” I met a butcher-girl on the curb of a tilted Taco Bell. I lost my hamburger and went Chinese. Slipped tongues, roofies and she’s always touching my b-o-d-y. But with her antics it was soon rings and/or cops, slip-stones on a garden of seething, all runny. In frenzy I had dream droughts for my diseased hands on a capricious faggot of wood. I couldn’t wait for her any longer. Furthermore, withered desire is like a possible hiatus for an aging professor in a dire situation concerning his finances, or lack thereof. I fell through the roof of a cardboard discotheque. GET FUNKY! G-R-O-O-V-E. I danced until I saw my fourth eleven pronged sunset, miles beyond the grain culling of a gosh-darned porn life stream. I throttled a salesman on a long strip of woodless depression. I think I was screaming, “I’m in a jungle of dripping stones, poking holes in the last man’s deadly theories.” I caught a glimpse of a haven in chemical disguise. “Hey, hey, put some butane here! Excuse, some butane for my friend.” A wrinkly bastard tied a string around my helium-leg. Rather than deflect his innate dancer, he would rather gentrify the whole of his backyard by forgetting my name, and his to boot, on a regular basis. There were pockets of weddings on his porch rocking the corpses of him and his wife, who was so saggy she was dripping through the wicker, to sleep. I stole their tv and watched it on my shoulder like a boombox. There was a cabaret of images slipping on and off my retinal screens for a slightly brain-frizzling time. I kicked the shit out of some hip gangsta wannabe and stole his slick handlebars on the way to the fresh pile of deadly seams. “Bennnnnd over and bust them!” stuttered a one-eyed unicycle rider. This circus escapee and all-around guru proved to me Israeli nicotine stains were listing to the left, and that the clip seems to slow down a bit; that they were entering a calmer area of yearly pace. After a grunt and a grab I turned into a deadly pagoda grifting for meals on the fences of a monotone farmer’s Egyptian efforts. The coach tripped on the meat and bubbling buns distracted and assuaged golfers in normal pants from a tropical crying field as I sprinted down the country road (only stopping at a country stile for some womanade). I was vacuumed into a stripped mall where I met a fuzzed-up little dog amongst the pantheon of hosts smiling so hard their faces ripped off and sprayed bits of meat and tooth at me. The little fur-thing taught me the basics of leg fucking and sent me on my metallic foiled way. An explosion from a plastic hand grenade made by scientists fragmented the fur and lodged some permanently in my forehead. A lion tried to stick a claw up my ass while on parade. I escaped only to find Bob Evans lying comatose in a pool of his own blood. A mammoth came and scratched the badness out of his butt. I noticed a fountain in a public park with squirrels placing tinsel on the trees and choking on fumes from the crosses being burned in the distance. I fell asleep after losing my energy from navigating the nefarious maze successfully. Pliers caught my eyelids in the bathtub and forgot to return the little lash-hairs. Just then burnt-up prophecies reentered the atmosphere. I collapsed my tent in haste and dissembled to a priest. Languorous nudes descended the staircase on the way back home in the back of a chicken truck; the sound of breaking glass chased me all the way on the rainy highway. Bumps in the road flung me into glimpses of a cornucopia of religious orgiastic partygoers by a natural pool on a small island off the coast of somewhere. Seven phantoms pushed me out of a subway car and into a car repair shop; therein was a torture scene being committed against the people waiting for their tune-ups and break-jobs. Nylon dancers tipped me over a humble widget’s surly underground franchise. At last, I found the forty lodgers hiding from a scone in Maui. I slipped on a tight dress, heels and a feather boa and triggered the explosion of cross-dressing anarchists. Last I heard we were taking over Congress in a boat equipped with cannonballs and rope-swinging swashbucklers in glittering, sequined array. We are everywhere; we are watching! Viva la croix-raboteuses!

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