i feel like i am this (above) picture.
Monday, March 28, 2011
NEW SAN FRAN.
I just got this compilation and it's rubbing me in all the right ways. Some old favourites and some newbies. Here's a tantalising taste.
J Mascis has released his first solo album. It's acoustic (weird! cool!) and it's really quite good...He sounds a bit Neil Young-y. The best thing is that you feel as if you've gained the right to actually hear him sing, honestly and unguarded by the usual wall of fuzz that he wallows behind (and perfectly so) in Dinosaur Jr. Kurt Vile, Kevin Drew and some guy from Band o' Horses feature also. This song is lovely and this clip is some
far-out-mystic-texta-art-jam-shit. Very cool.
far-out-mystic-texta-art-jam-shit. Very cool.
J Mascis - "Not Enough" from stereogum on Vimeo.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
razzle mondays. (kittens mondays)
just got back from the strippers on a balmy, sleepy monday evening. thought: could stripping a direct derivative of meditation/buddhism? the disconnection, the abolishment of ego, the "everything means nothing" mentality. sure, it all revolves around money which certainly tears all of it down in one fell swoop but for the individual, for the mentality of the stripper, surely she is in a blissful place of nothingness at most points? plus they're super flexible... and can reach enlightenment despite the banging bass and distractions surrounding her. just a thought. either way, heck, that was fun.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
TOP TEN ALBUMS OF 2010.
10. Eddy Current Suppression Ring - Rush to Relax
Maybe I'm way off, but is Brendan Suppression a modern beat poet with less colloquialisms? The frenetic ramblings of this boy genius are more present than ever in this brilliant release. This was a driving album for ex-boyfriend and I. A great one for me, with songs such as "Gentleman" and "I Can Be a Jerk" (unfortunately it didn't penetrate the former as much as I hoped.) The best bits of this album however would have to be where Eddy Current's brawn has always lay, and that is the jam-factor. Those guitar riffs over basic tinny drums are irresistible and make me seat-dance all jerky, like my friend Leah. Other highlights include "Burn" which sees Brendan consoling a friend with manic-depression... it's fierce and to the point. The closer is the 24 minute title track (which my dear friend Joey filmed the film clip for. See below.) This is what I mean when I say that Brendan is a modern beat poet. If "you're going on a holiday and your never coming back... slow down before you fall down" is not a coined phrase of the highest order, I don't know what is. You could think about these words for a good 20 minutes straight, perhaps at the beach, with sea birds singing all around you. Or you could just keep listening to the album because that is exactly what you'll get.
Eddy Current Suppression Ring RUSH TO RELAX from Johann Rashid on Vimeo.
9. Wild Nothing - Gemini
Ok so I've been obsessed this year, with finding the genre name for anything that includes 80's bands such as The Smiths, Echo and the Bunnymen, Magazine, The Cure, Tears for Fears, Depeche Mode, Simple Minds, etc, etc. It's NOT New Romantic. It's all in a feeling, not a time. Anyway, anyone who can help me out here, please do oblige.
Anyway, this band and album doesn't fit into whatever that genre might be (that awful segway was just an excuse to get to the bottom of it.) It is very reminiscent of the 80's however, except that there is emotion in lead singer Jack Tatum's haze. On first listen it reminded me a lot (2009's 5th place getter) The Pains of Being Pure at Heart but it's more committed and less showy. It feels as if Wild Nothing are being completely honest in their expression rather than just flexing their highly influenced, feigned indie-pop muscles (oxymoron?) "Live in Dreams" has been a personal constant throughout the year and is still my favourite. Don't stop there though, the entire album moves like life, in peaks and troughs and is really very good at each point.
8. Beach Fossils - Beach Fossils
If you were to put all my recent listening into a pie chart this beachy, lo-fi slice would be one of the largest, and it would be highlighted in aquamarine, just because. Wild Nothing would be in there as would Real Estate, Girls, Best Coast, etc. I played this a lot at my cafe and often got the complaint that the song was on repeat... FOOLS. This is the perfect soundtrack to just kick back to. Isn't that the point of "beachy" and "lo-fi?" After a few listens, if you allow it, you can pick up the tiny details and nuances that really make this album what it is. It's also a fantastic break-up album. One that transports you but doesn't distract or force you to be happy (thank you Daphne Shum. x)
7. The Black Keys - Brothers
Let me simply dot point why this album rules.
- Max Turner's Dance Room Party to "Everlasting Light" (and the "Everlasting Light" back up vocals.)
- "Next Girl" ("Oh, my next girl
, she'll be nothing like my ex girl.
It was a painful death.
Now, I got a second chance. Oh, her beautiful face and her, and her wicked ways.
And I'm praying for
, her beautiful face everyday.
All that work, over, over so much time
. If I, if I think too hard,
I might lose my mind.
Oh, my next girl, yeah,
will be nothing like my ex girl
. I made mistakes back then
, I'll never do it again")
- "Tighten Up"
- Dan Auerbach's falsetto
- The Black Keys are back in my life for the first time since 2004.
6. Joanna Newsom - Have One On Me
Giney sounds like Joni Mitchell! It's true. Listen to "In California." It's uncanny. That should be enough, but that's not all. This album is a true progression of a whimsical harp playing angel turned into a knowing, wiser woman. There's a change in her voice, more force perhaps. There's also a shift in the arrangements. They're simpler. It's as if Giney no longer needs to prove herself. You also feel closer to the music/magic than ever before... perhaps that's all part of it. She ready to let us in. She's conversing with us rather than showing us. This album is 18 tracks of heaven. She's seminal. Not only does she sound like Joni Mitchell, she IS the Joni Mitchell of our generation. Okay so that might be enough... not much more can be said really, can it.
5. Antony and the Johnsons - Swanlights
This was a late contender as I only heard it about two months ago. It was on vinyl, in a lounge room, by candlelight and I was lying on a big, cushy white couch, stoned. I became utterly lost in it. If you've heard anything by Antony and the Johnson's you can half imagine. Plus, look at those odds!
I've listened to it over and over, and in less blissful surroundings...still works. This may not be his best album, for reasons that are beyond my musical comprehension. All I know is that this album does feel like the maestro is slightly unsettled in his direction. Each track differs greatly from one another. Not a bad thing necessarily, I personally love a little unpredictability. It is a strange concept though considering he has always been so settled in his individual style. What this agitation makes room for, however is something really quite stunning. From that very first time I heard it, I was taken with the concept of redemption. Death or dying which leads toward a better place. Perhaps Antony is looking for some redemption himself. Redemption from the (beautiful) despair he has always stood for. "The Spirit Was Gone" is what struck this chord initially but on further listens it's riddled throughout. "Thank You for your Love" is a powerful and genuine appreciation for something that has died. "Ghost" frees snakes from their hosts. The highlight is his duet with Bjork on Icelandic sung "Fletta."
Do listen to this on vinyl. Also, read the cover story about "Swanlights the Polar Bear." A masterpiece in itself.
4. Best Coast - Crazy For You
This album reminds me of Issy Beech. First tick. It's also part of the big aquamarine slice on that pie chart graph. Second tick. It's also a banger break-up album. Don't know if that's a tick... let's chuck it in for good measure. The honesty of Beth Cosentino's lyrics are so damn endearing. Simple, sometimes a little naff but raw without a hint of irony. I like that. It's rare in lyrics these days. Not only is it the honesty that grabs you but her delivery and pitch is flawless. "I just wanna tell you that I have always loved you/miss you." "And there's something about the sum-mer." (Could almost sound like "There's something about Sun-ni." Almost.)
Best Coast couldn't be a more fitting name for this band as it screams loud and proud California. Great stuff. That's it really.
3. Gorillaz - Plastic Beach
DAH.
("Sweepstakes"/"To Binge"/"Pirate Jet"/"Some Kind of Nature")
2. Beach House - Teen Dream
Beach House has the ability to stop me in my tracks so that I can take a big, deep breath. It's intensely, intensely personal. It doesn't make me think about break-ups or make-ups or friends or anything external. It hits a chord deep within my soul. It's raw, sad, swirling emotion carried predominately through the haze of that mid-70's organ sound and of course, Victoria Legrand's fucking incredible, amazing, soul-filled (not soulful) voice of honey and heaven. Zebra is such a well formed album. The imagery it creates is golden. I'm even writing more whimsically and that's because I'm listening to it right now. "It is happening again" are the repeated lyrics from the second track "Silver Soul." I think I've had entire days with these four words dancing around my head. No complaints. Third track "Norway" opens with a light "ahh-ahh-ahh" that builds into a boat ride of a song. The best boat ride I've ever had. The entire album is so well put together and undeniable that it does make you wonder how a band with such a distinctive sound can keep releasing new music that people want to hear. Why not just turn to Devotion or their self-titled... I'm not really sure, but whatever it is, I can't turn away from Zebra.
I can not wait to see these babes play at Laneway. Oh geez, oh heck.
1. Ariel Pink - Before Today
Being a fan of Ariel Pink's for some time now, it was hard to know what to expect from this, there first studio recorded album. It had me from hello. It is no doubt my most played album of the year. Every track! Every. Single. Track. There's no loss of Pink's true essence either. I guess that what comes with being the king of d.i.y lo-fi home recordings... you tell them how it's supposed to sound even if they're the one's with the expensive equipment and years of recording experience under their headphones. Despite this power over sound, Pink has utilised the opportunity to play around with the big toys and he has done it exceptionally well. You can't help be pleasantly surprised as each track comes to play. I think that's a good word for it. Surprising. "Beverly Kills" shows us this in it's heavy 80's power-riff opening which catches me off guard every time. There are a few favourable influences thrown in also which definitely gets me on-side. One that I can't resist is the Alan Parson's Project, heard loud and clear in "Can't Hear my Eyes" and "Remininscences." "Fright Night (Nevermore)" could just be the song of the year.
This is probably the least emotionally involved I've been with my number 1 album of the year. I'm happy with that. Before Today reminds me of Pushka and it's family and the carefree times of a tumultuous but all round (and round -see what I did there?) important year. It's ultimately just a very cool album. Maybe this means that I might finally be cool...
Doubt it.
Happy New Year everybody. X
Monday, January 3, 2011
Vladimir Mayakovsky.
"the first rock and roll star"
-Patti Smith
Past one o’clock. You're probably in bed.
The Milky Way is like Oka of silver
No need for me to rush. I have no reasons left
to stir you with the lightnings of my cable ferver.
And so they say, the incident dissolved.
The Love Boat smashed up on the dreary routine.
We’re even. There’s no use in keeping the score
of mutual hurts, affliction and spleen.
Look here, the world exudes an eerie calm.
The sky bequeathed to us its constellations.
In periods like this I’d like to be the one
with ages, history and the creation.
No need for me to rush. I have no reasons left
to stir you with the lightnings of my cable ferver.
And so they say, the incident dissolved.
The Love Boat smashed up on the dreary routine.
We’re even. There’s no use in keeping the score
of mutual hurts, affliction and spleen.
Look here, the world exudes an eerie calm.
The sky bequeathed to us its constellations.
In periods like this I’d like to be the one
with ages, history and the creation.
1930.
______________________________
You must take to the pen only
when there is no other way to
speak except through poetry.
How to Make Poetry (1926.)
Monday, December 20, 2010
in response to "the voice of the heart"
This is a reply I got from Noah, in regards to my last written post. It's really very beautiful. It implies that my thoughts and feelings of a quiet, peaceful heart is in fact hogwash and the heart has no centre, no constraints and perhaps, if physically possible it would burst outside of one's ribcage and explode all over this side of the earth's face. It's a much more violent (in the best way possible) and ardent view. I have no intention of proving anyone wrong on their take on the heart or spirituality or lack their of, etc. I think that Noah must be highly tolerant and personally, if I possessed this view I may very well go insane. Forgive me Noah... and thank-you.
Noah said...but i don't mind if you prove me wrong, i don't mind at all.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
the voice of the heart.
Why is the voice of the heart a mere whisper while the voice of your head is shouting; constantly, insistently. Your head is forever jumping all over your heart (and always on behalf of your ego.) I think that the heart's voice is so quiet because it is calm and still. It has no reason to make a scene. It's more than content to keep doing what it's doing and it's up to you to shut your head up and listen. It's like the Leonard Cohen concert I saw recently at Hanging Rock. My first reaction was to turn up the volume up ten-fold but as he continued to play I began to appreciate the subtlety. It forced the 12,000 spectators to shut up and listen. To be still.
I've always been told that I follow my heart too much... That I let my emotions get the best of me. I can't argue with this. I have been known to let my emotions engulf any rumour of rationality that I may possess at any one time. People would say, "you're not called Sunni Hart for nothing," when they really meant, "you're a fucking crazy bitch." Today I've come to realise that it isn't my heart that causes this at all. It's easy to mistake "feelings" as characteristics of the heart but it is in fact your head that tells you that you're losing, whether it's an argument or your grasp on life. It's your head that is seduced by the exterior "things" that effect your ego and make you mad or sad or disappointed or whatever. To listen to your heart is to be still and in control. To keep your perspective on it all and to remember that something good has happened to you at a point before this bad one, and will again in the very near future. Your heart is your metronome. Keep in time, don't loose control, listen to the beat. Remember the essence of you and of life. Nobody and no thing should knock that beat out of time.
More on that later...
4th January 2011.
I realise now that this perspective is a very small part of what the heart is. In the time of writing it I was trying to embrace these raw emotions of hurt and also try to understand somebody else's behaviour. In that vain, it makes sense to put it down to ego...the head, but it is also self-seeking. It does not encapsulate the entire arena of the hearts abilities, however. The heart can rage and scream and be euphoric. It can be overwhelmingly loud. We've all experienced this. Perhaps it happens when you aren't competing with the white noise of the world. When you're away from the traffic and the buildings and the other players in the game. When the world is quiet, your head has no reason to yell and your heart can sing.
I've always been told that I follow my heart too much... That I let my emotions get the best of me. I can't argue with this. I have been known to let my emotions engulf any rumour of rationality that I may possess at any one time. People would say, "you're not called Sunni Hart for nothing," when they really meant, "you're a fucking crazy bitch." Today I've come to realise that it isn't my heart that causes this at all. It's easy to mistake "feelings" as characteristics of the heart but it is in fact your head that tells you that you're losing, whether it's an argument or your grasp on life. It's your head that is seduced by the exterior "things" that effect your ego and make you mad or sad or disappointed or whatever. To listen to your heart is to be still and in control. To keep your perspective on it all and to remember that something good has happened to you at a point before this bad one, and will again in the very near future. Your heart is your metronome. Keep in time, don't loose control, listen to the beat. Remember the essence of you and of life. Nobody and no thing should knock that beat out of time.
More on that later...
4th January 2011.
I realise now that this perspective is a very small part of what the heart is. In the time of writing it I was trying to embrace these raw emotions of hurt and also try to understand somebody else's behaviour. In that vain, it makes sense to put it down to ego...the head, but it is also self-seeking. It does not encapsulate the entire arena of the hearts abilities, however. The heart can rage and scream and be euphoric. It can be overwhelmingly loud. We've all experienced this. Perhaps it happens when you aren't competing with the white noise of the world. When you're away from the traffic and the buildings and the other players in the game. When the world is quiet, your head has no reason to yell and your heart can sing.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
I just want to tell you, that I've always loved you
I just want to tell you, that I've always loved you
I just want to tell you, that I've always missed you
I just want to tell you, that I've always missed you
When the sun don't shine, you aren't mine
When the sun don't shine, you aren't mine, mine, mine
Monday, November 29, 2010
jukebox cruci-fix
by patti smith
[from CREEM, June 1975]
I was at this party but nothing was happening at all, a lot of chicks were leaning over a pale neon wurlitzer jukebox. the way dead voice boxes rolled up it came on like a coffin. it was the kind of party to leave behind. 8 millimeter footage of Jimi Hendrix jacking his strat. girls sobbing and measuring the spaces between his fingers. I went out in the hallway and stood there drinking a glass of tea. "riders on the storm" was rolling from a local transistor. the boy slipped on some soap and the radio fell in the bathtub. I gulped my tea too fast and some of it went up my nose it made me choke and stammer and my lungs started pumping like erratic water wings . . .
I woke up and the room was gone the radio was playing "riders on the storm" and the dj cut in and said that Jim Morrison was dead. I reached over for my air rifle and took shaky aim. ducks with musical notes etched in their little wax skulls were revolving on the ceiling. Camus said that it's death which give gambling and heroism their true meaning. but me I prefer another french saying -- better a live scoundrel than a dead miracle. I kicked the shit outa the radio and when looking for a heavy handed game of chance. local bingo -- fascination -- or when the chips are down handle some poker . . .
Johnny Ace was cool he came east from texas to knock "just a dream" off the charts with "pledging my love." "dream" was tender but who could imagine humping it up to Jimmy Clanton? all the girls would oil their nylons when Johnny came to town. white girls. there were no black girls in the fifties. flashes of pony tail hair. girls with chiffon triangles tied tight around their hot soft throats. girls with flesh like wonder bread. and Johnny Ace sang for them. a hero with no R & B no spanish blood no sweat. ballads tender as boston lettuce, more soft spots than a baby's head. until he pushed his own finger in. one christmas eve the black velvet Sinatra was a little long backstage. Ace was playing solitaire. he took a 45 calibre outa his tux rolled the barrel like his own hit record and blew his brains out.
some say Vladimir Mayakovski was the first rock n roll star. russian poet adolescent anarchist handsome 22 years old rushing the streets howling blue face. a guy with huge piano teeth and a marshall amp installed in his chest. he was always crashing church meets bars parties pool halls. were there pool halls in russia? who knows. but if there were he hit them all. he was the seven feet tall poet bully with the amazing megaphone mouth. did god know about revolution rhythm of the painful promise of a poem? well Mayakovski knew and thousands of kids rocked in russian behind him.
until one mornin while the crowds were waiting our hero was penning his last booming aria; "me and life are quits" he write. and like our own Johnny Ace he held the wild card. he put on a clean shirt swaggered to the window maybe glanced in the mirror russia's Marlon Brando cocked the lever pulled the trigger and blew his heart out. russian lit was in the red. the funeral was like after the pop festival. you know -- those last shots of monterey -- no sound -- minds blown. all the women wore black cloaks. russia was a rainy nunnery. cause Mayakovski -- a god unto himself to say nothing of his fans -- had pulled the rug from his own life.
you take a chance when you put your stakes on somebody else. like a horse race it often pays but sooner or later you're gonna be left standing in the rain. genius is meant to peak and pull out or be wiped out permanently. we is a fickle lot. the champ ain't champ unless he keeps on winning. the minute some flash knocks him outa the ring or outa the charts he's thru. like pabst beer says "ya don't get the blue ribbon for being second."
see it's like this. first let me move outa metaphor. there was no poker game I'm lousy at cards. there was the dream though and I got splattered. we been creamed up the ass since Buddy Holly Kennedy. platinum porches miniature airplanes switchblades poisons saturday night specials motorcycles hypodermics pills thrills old fords. ever see Jackson Pollock in motion. that bull ballet and dipping blue poles. premeditation was his action he didn't believe in accidents. his blood spattered like his own pain cause like most heroes he was a crazy driver. it's okay though it was the rules of an old game. and me I got to admit I like the photographs. the twisted steel the outstretched hand the broken neck of a fender. the instant replay of Lee Harvey Oswald getting dead live on television. they were the assassinating rhythms of our generation.
but rhythms like rules shift. something new is coming down and we got to be alert to feel it happening. something new and totally ecstatic. the politics of ecstasy move all around me. I refuse to believe Hendrix had the last possessed hand that Joplin had the last drunken throat that Morrison had the last enlightened mind. they didn't slip their skins and split forever for us to hibernate in posthumous jukeboxes.
they are gone and we're still moving. I went to Jim Morrison's grave and there was nothing. a dirt site in section 6. I sat like some jack ass sobbing in the mud all alone in paris when there is so much work to do so much flesh to consume. there is nothing there -- not headstone no vibration no flowers no feeling. just a little plastic plaque with the word AMI friend the only thing Jim Morrison ever wanted.
I went to paris to exorcise some demons. some kind of dread I harbored of moving forward. I went with this poetic conceit that we would meet in some melody hovering over his grave. but there was nothing. it was pouring rain and I sat there trying to conjure up some kind of grief or madness. I remembered this dream I had. I came in a clearing and saw a man on a marble slab. it was Morrison and he was human. but his wings were merging with the marble. he was struggling to get free but like Prometheus freedom was beyond him.
I sat there for a couple hours. I was covering with mud and afraid to move. then it was all over. it just didn't matter anymore. racing thru my skull were new plans new dreams voyages symphonies colors. I just wanted to get the hell outa there and go home and do my own work. to focus my floodlight on the rhythm within. I straightened my skirt and said good-bye to him. an old woman in black spoke to me in broken english. look at this grave how sad! why do you americans not honor your poets?
my mind moved before my mouth. I finished the dream. the stone dissolved and he flew away. I brushed the feathers off my raincoat and answered:
because we don't look back.
Copyright © Patti Smith 1975
[from CREEM, June 1975]
I was at this party but nothing was happening at all, a lot of chicks were leaning over a pale neon wurlitzer jukebox. the way dead voice boxes rolled up it came on like a coffin. it was the kind of party to leave behind. 8 millimeter footage of Jimi Hendrix jacking his strat. girls sobbing and measuring the spaces between his fingers. I went out in the hallway and stood there drinking a glass of tea. "riders on the storm" was rolling from a local transistor. the boy slipped on some soap and the radio fell in the bathtub. I gulped my tea too fast and some of it went up my nose it made me choke and stammer and my lungs started pumping like erratic water wings . . .
I woke up and the room was gone the radio was playing "riders on the storm" and the dj cut in and said that Jim Morrison was dead. I reached over for my air rifle and took shaky aim. ducks with musical notes etched in their little wax skulls were revolving on the ceiling. Camus said that it's death which give gambling and heroism their true meaning. but me I prefer another french saying -- better a live scoundrel than a dead miracle. I kicked the shit outa the radio and when looking for a heavy handed game of chance. local bingo -- fascination -- or when the chips are down handle some poker . . .
Johnny Ace was cool he came east from texas to knock "just a dream" off the charts with "pledging my love." "dream" was tender but who could imagine humping it up to Jimmy Clanton? all the girls would oil their nylons when Johnny came to town. white girls. there were no black girls in the fifties. flashes of pony tail hair. girls with chiffon triangles tied tight around their hot soft throats. girls with flesh like wonder bread. and Johnny Ace sang for them. a hero with no R & B no spanish blood no sweat. ballads tender as boston lettuce, more soft spots than a baby's head. until he pushed his own finger in. one christmas eve the black velvet Sinatra was a little long backstage. Ace was playing solitaire. he took a 45 calibre outa his tux rolled the barrel like his own hit record and blew his brains out.
some say Vladimir Mayakovski was the first rock n roll star. russian poet adolescent anarchist handsome 22 years old rushing the streets howling blue face. a guy with huge piano teeth and a marshall amp installed in his chest. he was always crashing church meets bars parties pool halls. were there pool halls in russia? who knows. but if there were he hit them all. he was the seven feet tall poet bully with the amazing megaphone mouth. did god know about revolution rhythm of the painful promise of a poem? well Mayakovski knew and thousands of kids rocked in russian behind him.
until one mornin while the crowds were waiting our hero was penning his last booming aria; "me and life are quits" he write. and like our own Johnny Ace he held the wild card. he put on a clean shirt swaggered to the window maybe glanced in the mirror russia's Marlon Brando cocked the lever pulled the trigger and blew his heart out. russian lit was in the red. the funeral was like after the pop festival. you know -- those last shots of monterey -- no sound -- minds blown. all the women wore black cloaks. russia was a rainy nunnery. cause Mayakovski -- a god unto himself to say nothing of his fans -- had pulled the rug from his own life.
you take a chance when you put your stakes on somebody else. like a horse race it often pays but sooner or later you're gonna be left standing in the rain. genius is meant to peak and pull out or be wiped out permanently. we is a fickle lot. the champ ain't champ unless he keeps on winning. the minute some flash knocks him outa the ring or outa the charts he's thru. like pabst beer says "ya don't get the blue ribbon for being second."
see it's like this. first let me move outa metaphor. there was no poker game I'm lousy at cards. there was the dream though and I got splattered. we been creamed up the ass since Buddy Holly Kennedy. platinum porches miniature airplanes switchblades poisons saturday night specials motorcycles hypodermics pills thrills old fords. ever see Jackson Pollock in motion. that bull ballet and dipping blue poles. premeditation was his action he didn't believe in accidents. his blood spattered like his own pain cause like most heroes he was a crazy driver. it's okay though it was the rules of an old game. and me I got to admit I like the photographs. the twisted steel the outstretched hand the broken neck of a fender. the instant replay of Lee Harvey Oswald getting dead live on television. they were the assassinating rhythms of our generation.
but rhythms like rules shift. something new is coming down and we got to be alert to feel it happening. something new and totally ecstatic. the politics of ecstasy move all around me. I refuse to believe Hendrix had the last possessed hand that Joplin had the last drunken throat that Morrison had the last enlightened mind. they didn't slip their skins and split forever for us to hibernate in posthumous jukeboxes.
they are gone and we're still moving. I went to Jim Morrison's grave and there was nothing. a dirt site in section 6. I sat like some jack ass sobbing in the mud all alone in paris when there is so much work to do so much flesh to consume. there is nothing there -- not headstone no vibration no flowers no feeling. just a little plastic plaque with the word AMI friend the only thing Jim Morrison ever wanted.
I went to paris to exorcise some demons. some kind of dread I harbored of moving forward. I went with this poetic conceit that we would meet in some melody hovering over his grave. but there was nothing. it was pouring rain and I sat there trying to conjure up some kind of grief or madness. I remembered this dream I had. I came in a clearing and saw a man on a marble slab. it was Morrison and he was human. but his wings were merging with the marble. he was struggling to get free but like Prometheus freedom was beyond him.
I sat there for a couple hours. I was covering with mud and afraid to move. then it was all over. it just didn't matter anymore. racing thru my skull were new plans new dreams voyages symphonies colors. I just wanted to get the hell outa there and go home and do my own work. to focus my floodlight on the rhythm within. I straightened my skirt and said good-bye to him. an old woman in black spoke to me in broken english. look at this grave how sad! why do you americans not honor your poets?
my mind moved before my mouth. I finished the dream. the stone dissolved and he flew away. I brushed the feathers off my raincoat and answered:
because we don't look back.
Copyright © Patti Smith 1975
Sunday, November 28, 2010
New GIRLS E.P
BROKEN DREAMS CLUB E.P.
Wowzers. So this caught me slightly off-guard! I listened to this for the first time last night on vinyl without even being aware of it's release and god damn, there's no denying, I love this band for everything that they are. This E.P, apparently released with a hand written note from (baby baby baby) Christopher Owens is a thank-you to listeners for the past year of Girls mania in which the San-Fran duo have sky-rocketed. While insisting that his band's latest isn't the sound of them "all grown up," he described the six songs enclosed as a "LETTER OF INTENT," a "SNAPSHOT OF THE HORIZON," and a "step up" from its predecessor. I'm really very impressed. The hand-made production values of Album have vanished which would usually be a let down for me, however, it has made way for the devastation and yearning in Owen's voice and the curvy, power-licks of Chet "JR" White's guitar to really shine through. My highlight is psychedelic closing track "Carolina" which is the closest they've come to sonically unveiling the many highs that they've been known to romanticise. Enjoy.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Freakin'ternet!
Alright so, by no fault of my own (imagine if I actually tried!) little shits and pieces are happening all over this world wide web that I've been lending my (slender) hand to. So, as a result, I'm going to vowel to be good at this thing. Keep it up to date! current! NOW! So that the few of you that do meander this way every now and then will not be disappointed. If I do happen to let you down (it's to be expected) you can come over this way and see if there's not something that grabs you: http://www.transfergroup.com.au/digital/sunni-hart-australia
I only have to write this so it's been said. Then at least I'll feel guilty when I'm not doing it and that's something, right?
I only have to write this so it's been said. Then at least I'll feel guilty when I'm not doing it and that's something, right?
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
PEARLS
Check out this little 3 piece made up of type a astro babes: http://www.myspace.com/pearlsgirlspearls
and while you're at it, swing by keys fiddler Cass' sweet photograpghy website: http://bookofoptics.wordpress.com/
That's all! x
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