Friday, June 30, 2006

Sometimes You're Far Away and You Know It

Stevealbinibigblack
Big Black is playing a few songs at the Touch and Go Records 25th Anniversary/Hideout Block Party. That is, they are playing among many, er, shall we say highly fucking notable acts. My friend Steve emailed me last night in conniptions, speculating on the identity of the as-yet-unannounced 25th band. Who else could possibly reunite and play at this thing? If one fantasy is fulfilled, why not two? "Is it The Jesus Lizard?" He asked me. Is it Slint?
Such amazing and abiding anger holds warm in the flat soil in the middle. The kids in Chicago, home of haymarket riots and incendiary Vietnam pop political window smashing, Democratic conventions communist in the even and unweighted distribution of walking papers from this mortal coil, the kids in chicago dress like cops to be cool in black leather cop jackets with the city police flag on the arm. The fertile soil across the middle of this land sprouts small things that are forgetful in their too temporary genesis, the ears of corn go brown and leave a dry husk in lieu of calling card or memory, the beans and the grains live but once and do not spring forth again when their green flames turned autumnal are cut from their toeholds in the black and giving earth. But the heat lapping in humid waves at the eyes to the horizon is an old grudge that surges in time to the cold, industrial beefs we carry in our music, in our industrial beats, and the kids in Chicago are flinging magnetic curses like Carl wrote.
Sometimes I feel old and far away from the shitting river city I was born in, her air thick with the dregs and factory farts of corn squeezings hanging humid over the Illiniois, far from that row of tall wigwams "fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness" on Lake Michigan.
Jesus, to wreck the whole world with a scream caught on tape.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Getting Lost in Astoria



The exclamation point is roughly where the Astoria Boulevard stop is. The little flag at the end of the loopy blue line is where the bar I was trying to get to was located. It took about an hour and we had to pee when we got there. Hell, this is probably still not where these things were located. I seem to remember Astoria Blvd being closer to the park...
Ok, I make no claims to accuracy. The bar was supposed to be on 14th and Astoria. I did not draw a blue line or plant a flag at that point. However, it does sum up basically how we felt getting to the bar, so I will leave this post and map as is to reflect a perceptual accuracy of events.

So Functional, Boredom- Cop-Out/Way of Life

Boredom.
I know you and I love you so well, so dysfunctionally, so intimately. I can sense the petulance in the way you crack the middle knuckles of your middle fingers when you are petulant and I can sense the upward rush of happiness when you crack the middle knuckles of your middle fingers so arthritic with happiness not yet discouraged. Boredom, I feel like I was born conjoined orally to your teat- my every languid year passes with your graffito in the footnote of every long, monochromatic yearbook.
Boredom, I have to tell you, I know what I will be for Halloween this year. I will be Giorgio Moroder. Take me to your patch bay.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Just a couple days and i feel as sloppy and free again as though It's been years since i last worked.

Jury duty is awesome. That is, it inspires a perverse awe to see how the whole thing seems to be aimed at exhausting the juror who got no coffee

Sunday, June 25, 2006

How about another one from Vitalic?

Took a field trip to queens last night and wound up in a japanese salon style soiree.

Friday, June 23, 2006

Jury Duty is Just My Job, Ma'am- I am Just Doing My Job



Sweet. I have jury duty again today.

I will be upholding justice, don't expect any special favors. I have a job to do. George Washington had the skeleton of a bald eagle and wooden teeth. Kris Kristofferson wrote "Me and Bobby McGee" and has the skeleton of a monster truck, but that is still not as Ameri-fuckin'-Can as George Washington's Bald Eagle skeleton. I'm doing this for George Washington's badass skeleton.

Something to do.

Xlr8R-3

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Coffee- The Necessity that Works for Good and Evil/Today I Read a New Yorker Book Review

Every night I need a cup of coffee or two to pull me out of my funk/fumbling stultified malaise of sweating languid heart palpitations and get me functional enough to, at the very least, not waste the rest of my early evening almost dozing but not quite. I don't know if it's my diet or if it's the other cups of coffee that I chose to drink throughout the day that are themselves punching the clock and going the fuck home that make me this way every night. Maybe it's the sitting at a desk looking at a computer screen- that job we all seem to have- that makes me the poster boy for zero energy on a given night.
So I have a few strong cups of coffee. I'm right as rain, excepting the slightly grainy quality my alertness takes on for the rest of the night- but then giddy till well after bedtime. What's the point of this description of my banal passage through dusk toward dawn? Nothing, really, but self-reference- as this pointless little blog entry is itself an exhibit submitted as evidence of the aforementioned sipping and side effects.

Alright, I will attempt to add content.

Today I read Louis Menand's New Yorker book review of Robert Greenfield's new bio Timothy Leary. His approach to the subject and the book itself was very pointedly and subtly critical without any superfluous, unsupported outpouring of opinion. I really enjoyed the way he approached the subject in a very apparently studied manner.
I did happen to agree with his summation of the sixties counterculture- that "...personal radicalism, revolution in the head and in the bed, was the safer radicalism." I also will make no effort to hide the fact that I am appalled by society-at-large's reluctance to kill thr idols and society's subsequent willful movement at nearly all times towards figureheads only pseudo-representative of the problems characterising or the solutions called for by a day and age and away from real politics. Because of this, I enjoyed his treatment of the Leary character described in this new biography as a trumped-up phony of sorts, all smiles, magnetism, and bravado and very little longevity outside the momentary appeal of any era's very dated "sexy thought." This appears to be the picture Greenfield attempts to paint as well, judging from Menand's description.

There seems to be an analog between moral panics that provoke consternation, condemnation, and sensation in the news media and these "moral manias" that epitomize mass exodus from established norms. Stanley Cohen, on the first page of the first chapter of Folk Devils and Moral Panics writes that a moral panic occurs when "A condition, episode, person or group of persons emerges to become defined as a threat to societal values and interests; its nature is presented in a stylized and stereotypical fashion by the mass media."

Moral panics are based on reactions to social deviance, and are therefore also causative and not consequent. He writes "The on-the-spot reaction determines whether it is classified as deviant at all, and the way in which the act is reported and labeled also determines the form of subsequent deviation..."

Working forward from the work of Cohen, Goode and Ben-Yehuda laid out their formulation of the exact components that must be present to identify a moral panic in their book, Moral Panics: The Social Construction of Deviance. These indicators are 1) Concern, 2) Hostility, 3) Concensus, 4) Disproportionality, 5) Volatility. That is, people are worked up about something and they are hostile toward the folk-devil personification of evil types they all agree unanimously are responsible for the concern. Both that concern and their reaction to it is wholly disproportionate to the threat a particular social problem poses, and society's reaction to this perceived threat is just as likely to be distracted five minutes from now as it is to intensify and wane for centuries. Moral panics are at least metaphorically true though not usually actually true as determined by the damning factions' values, perceptions, and fears regarding their own plights.

Cohen, Goode, and Ben-Yehuda give us one angle with which to approach the iconism that encourages conversion to the side of a particular social group or the act of siding with a particular new and deviant leader- if deviance is causative, then deviant behavior can be amplified, reified as the norm to which a deviant can adhere to achieve a certain social value.

This does not entirely explain the phenomenon of figures who spontaneously arise to figurehead deviant movements, nor does it entirely explain the rise of their allure. It must be possible for movements to also be generated from the deviant side in response to existing social conditions. These "moral manias" would be based on a similar set of indicators- most immediately notable being the metaphorical need for a drastic change. It is possible that a person or group is able on some level to identify a lack, but instead of dealing directly with that lack they will grasp at metaphorical solutions, leadership, or alliance while leaving the original problem untreated and largely unchanged.

What I'm describing has already been widely exploited in political communication and propaganda, in the push of one group to influence another by appealing to their known moral standards. When moral standards are spontaneously generated or unexpectedly and popularly produce their opposites, however, it would not be possible to follow the general rules governing propaganda- especially that stating that you cannot encourage behavior that is contrary to the popular undercurrents of society- to influence the actual generation of new deviant mores as they are not yet identifiable in a working form.

Without case studies to apply the indices of moral panic to moral manias, however, the term cannot be proven viable.

I knew I was late on Vitalic

This is great. Video for Vitalic's Poney pt. 1.





And, while I'm at it, I saw this on another blog awhile back- unfortunately I can't remember which- and this just popped up on Pitchfork the other day.

Bastards of Young by the Replacements.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Empowering Substances to Know When They are Abused- And Giving Them a Safe Place to Stay and The Tools to Be Strong

In the heat it might become easy to remember things. That's the way it will seem. But the reality is that it is the solitude- the heat is a red herring.
Nothing but record reviews and the stuff of unrecorded and unmemorable transgressions rattle about in the dark or in the shower or at the desk. It may become possible to list outside possibilities ad infinitum, but there will be no scientific evidence to back the claim.

Everything these days has a feel of osmosis, the penetration and the rearrangement of borders/lines between things the more less happens.

Disco-AmtDisco-EftB000F9Rhvq.01. Ss500 Sclzzzzzzz V52699659

"Puzzles Like You" is the new record by Mojave 3, whose "Excuses for Travelers" still stuns me into a sad stupor. I think these guys are champs with a sophomore slump that has its own Lazarus complex. Their 1st, 3rd, and 5th albums have been real winners, to use the vulgar parlance, but the interim, or "sophomore", efforts between these have been kind of... slumpy.

Observe the three album covers above. Each one seems to have the same sort of abstract curve-shaped thing dominating the theme of the image, a progression from a dense/large abstraction to a tapered and tinily branched end. These are also the three albums that this band has put out that have rocked the most solidly, pardon my French.

Now, examine below "Out of Tune" and "Spoon and Rafter", the second and 4th albums.

B00000I2Uw.01. Aa240 Sclzzzzzzz Disco-Spoon


Whereas the 1st, 3rd, and 5th records feature cover art that is more or less completely abstract- the closest we come to a concretely identifiable image among the art selected for that group is a sort of zen line drawing thingy- the records that stand out from the Mojave 3 catalog for undesirable reasons feature decidedly more concrete cover images. If Mojave 3 were Boards of Canada, "Out of Tune"'s dreamy distended sunset surfer photo may have signalled warm puffy beat goodness. However, while this is not a bad record per se, it does mark a sort of uncomfortable shifting between the first album's as-yet-shoegazey overtones to the wistful country rock this band now plays so well. That country rock sound on "Out of Tune" is a suit that isn't yet worn as rakishly as it would soon be on the world-weary "Excuses" record. "Spoon and Rafter" was the record they put out with their own newly-assembled/acquired studio, a studio that gave them all kinds of ways to play with toys and studio time they wouldn't necessarily have had access to when making their other records. It features some kind of a bucolic Americana/front-door bless-this-home crochet greeting doilly-style image. It is an image that is complex and vaguely trippy with all its colors and tapering lines, but it is still instantaneously recognizable as a drawing of flowers and a country scene. This is an unmistakable image. It may come as no surprise that this is also their weakest record. (I'm going to be embarrassed when someone emails to tell me I missed the thinly-veiled Uriah Heep "Demons and Wizards"-esque penis or vagina hiding in there.)
In each of their "concrete image" records the band can be heard making an audible effort to further their sound. In each of the "abstract image" records the band is at home with their mastered sound. I don't have any idea what input the band has in their selection of record artwork, but might it be plausible that when the band is most concerned with the outcomes of creative risk it is reflected in the very grounded and worldly cover imagery they choose? Similarly, when the band is at the top of their form and un-self-consciously experimenting to fantastic effect with their sound, might that happy-go-luckiness be reflected in their devil-may-care, cult-of-the-instantly-ascertainable-fact-be-damned choice of wobbly cover art?

"Puzzles Like You" is really good, and it brings me back to a band I had wrongly written off after "Spoon and Rafter." Here's to ups and downs.

Monday, June 19, 2006

The word is cheap when reached for too easily. It isn't a weapon to be drawn from a conspicuous holster, to bludgeon with the constant threat of its significance even when undrawn (a weapon once always a weapon twice, violence and desire breeding and frightening us always with such strong and looming potentials, eh?). I told her instead that a priest would have to exorcise her from my mind if she were ever to be evicted from the folds and trenches where my consideration had burnt for her crude holes and shelves where she could rest as I made my way through every day, such is her possession of me.

I lie, and I say that cooking is apprehended intuitively, that it is an activity that is completely without thought. I say that it is natural and does not carry the onus of having to be learned.

Show me one human being who is not a vain sociopath seeking the meekest and most ineffectual iota of aggrandizement at any and every shamefully inappropriate opportunity, and I will show you the end of my further vainly constructed tautology regarding human nature and the expectations one can hold for the moral performance of the bipeds who share flesh characteristic of swine.

If there is mercy, however, it will come as no surprise that that same human being will imagine the salvation of ameliorative forgiveness- excuse- glowing like the lord in his rose window high in the rafters of his seat in your parish. Prows cutting deep into the narrow and profound channel of the river we imagine our moments flowing together as part of one unifying and continuously cleansing stream of a whole, our rationale is a great ship called progress and it sails with a license to, at last, potentially relent in our constant offenses. That is what can be read on the flag it flies.

I must show mercy and stress that among human beings there are certain populations of monsters, and human beings are not these.

The ship sails with with other cargo on its manifest than excuses like progress and development, such as honesty, a longing for mutual understanding- and it is no surprise that it is armed with these that I face the ship's onboard interlocutor first.

It is true that I want to express my joy of a moment of cooking and acting unthinkingly and unreflectingly-- but the the interlocutor finds the vanity of my timing wants for further explanation.

After three decades and the opportunity to see many peers achieve outward models of success, he and I- the friend with whom I was speaking- are both working with some difficulty at sharing verbally the ardor of taking steps to become outwardly those things we are so at home being inwardly.

At least we will always be innocent in our easy victimhood to our weaknesses. As people, I mean. Perhaps, in the end, too forgiving of ourselves, of course. We happen to snag hang-nailed on nearly unrelated technicalities in the wisdom of life's experience that reassure us that, though we are not where we would like to be, this is not the same as not being capable of being where we'd like to be or being there sometime soon. Perhaps it is also too easy to speak of oneself in a palliative plural.

I lied and said that cooking brought me joy because it simply flowed from the ingredients that were available and the mood and the swing of doors and flip of hair in orphaned breezes in otherwise stiflingly hot rooms, but in that conversation I could not but spend all my attention on the task of seeing to it that the egg noodles did not burn in the frying pan, of taking care that I wasted no precious slices of meat, should they have been pushed carelessly while cooking from the other frying pan where I had seared rings of yellow onion with chicken breasts in fish sauce, pepper, oil, and Sriracha.

Cooking is not apprehended intuitively, to set the record straight, and one should not change the subject and say that it is. One should simply admit that, perhaps, one should be making the same great strides toward change in one's own life as those being discussed as being undertaken in one's friend's life, however terribly painful that revelation may prove.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Other things wrought by my hand and free time

Scouring the web at work today, I found online an archive of the magazine I occasionally write for. Brainchild of Manny Santiago, HESO can be found online by following the link in coerceyou's sidebar. For those who are fans of my writing and its accompanying want, or rather plea, for an editor, the direct link to those archived articles is here. Man, does that guy's head on the DMX Krew cover look like a penis.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Choice Choice Choice - Shake Your Counter-Force

This looks like something that would be fun to get behind and that wouldn't get behind your conscience in twenty years to poke it with the stabby-stabby.


Bfcwebfront

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Nocturnally Emanating

Quietly night timing it on the roof deck of a huge city that wasn't done with you till late makes for good google earth night photography.

Cafe, Coffee Quaffs, Coif Checking, Boyee

Sitting in my summer cold weather perch counting the brassy blondes, keeping tabs on the shakes they so let fly in spite of mistaken coiffure.

- - &

Listening to Skoda Mluvit by Schneider TM, true follow-up to o-2's zoomer. Much more lush, droningpsych. Denser. Still !freak epop&clicky!

Monday, June 05, 2006

cool itunes shortcuts

http://channels.lockergnome.com/rss/archives/rss_talk/20060602_resync_itunes_podcasts_with_rss_via_the_keyboard.phtml

wireless midi keyboards

http://www.macworld.com/news/2006/06/02/midair/index.php?lsrc=mwrss

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Things Get Realer

Spankrock Release 1

2 Live Krew Meets Prince and acne giveaway mashup professionalism. So skilled, so many hours in the studio as evidenced by the editing, the granular samples, time fucking, progress checking of the recorded words with skips, repeats, flags that no, that was a sample, that- what you thought for the first second was just a live flow. Deep bass, alternation between a sparse use of sounds that are small and good for echoing in the imaginary spaces inside effects boxes and deluges of rhythm samples. Exciting party music, wanky electronics.
Records this good function to obviate the purpose of the music critic entirely. When there is nothing to embellish or sweeten with undeserved praise, when there is no rapture not simply standing free and unafraid in the world and available to any rhythmically infatuated listening audience, what remains for the critic to do? Sometimes things are good, and then they speak for themselves.
Any fool can look on the grandest temples built by the hand of man and proclaim "they are there," but whom does this benefit? The temples are unperturbed and the time it took to speak those words to the world at large distracted new eyes from their own baptism in awareness.
I am listening to this great fucking record. There's nothing else I can tell you.
Spank Rock.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

Comes on, the way you feel, come on, come on

I am not as calm as a bottle of scotch, but a vice in hand and handy supply is a happy peace of mind you only find with a few spare minutes to go out of your way and a few rare dollars to spare.
Instead, I am relearning how to sweat, mercifully alone in my apartment as sky dumps belly on Manhattan in first few humid 24 hour tours of early summer's foreshadows. I am not as calm as a bottle of scotch, to dip in as though dancing, so Instead it is two Löwenbräu hastily and impulsively bought from the bodega on whose rafts I ride out the tumult I feel and the tumult screaming in white sheets like wrathful wraiths more than restive casting shadows at stupid hours.
I hate to be alone.
And with so much yet to do at young to adolescent late hours too early posing as evening but still fooling me who likes to sleep and forget.
Evening, but not even and really never with mornings and days spent lopsided waylaid.