I crushed you one time, between thumb and forefinger.
Wonder surrounds the meaning of flowering bruises...
growth in broken blood vessels, wounded flesh,
bringing forth the fruit of fleeting pain.
your face disappeared for a short while,
but it has returned with a vengeance.
I wonder where it went,
if photographs were taken in impression of itself,
contorting interestingly alone amidst a sea of bodies and blank heads.
Arranging the words just so means very little in the presence of bewildered kindness,
ensconced in love, I guess,
and the business of perpetual forgetting.
If I were an Einstein-Rosen bridge,
I'd make sure you were ever transported backward to stay just as you are(n't).
worthless/priceless.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Cry
somedays I stray and say I want to be just like you
how filtered can expression be,
with sights I didn't want to see,
to see to see to see to see right through
inside, behind, we walk straight lines
convinced that they're our own
too free with my body sometimes,
telling people who never should have known
and glaring aching symmetry,
is limiting,
it limits me;
from beds I've wanted to be free
from heads I've wanted to be free
but built into this precious thing,
nestling, cuddling, festering
cleaning, dreaming westward wings
could clear out notes from how I sing
with swollen wrapped presents to bring
I shake beneath a billowed cloud
of love so cavernous and kinged
it seems the dreams took on a life that murdered everything...
the songs they sing themselves
and I see you coming out
of houses in your wombs
that strangely rhyme with tombs
acoustics echo proud
of loudly distilled speech
encased in violent crowds,
the sweetness of a peach
the sourheartanthem child
the brittlempowered teen
cracked in impure thought
disposed to impure dream
fallacious as they come
convinced of the obscene
drowned in ancient books
that exist within the scheme
caressed by codgers,
lost and crossed by vivid vast regimes
and screams of gentle villagers
inventing future scenes,
supported by your poetry,
reinforced with knives
visions creeping through the walls,
the buildings of our lives
the planes, they shimmer poisonous
and thin beneath our eyes
and closure and composure form
elaborate disguise
constructed from your brilliance
the unpublished B-sides
the purple stamp inside my wrist
the purple bruising eyes
to take a punch while sitting down
to breathe drunken defeat
to tell the friends who aren't around
of everything you need
criminal submerged untruth
has faces coining terms
worth billions and billions
of lessons we don't learn
shattered fragments of asteroids
bewelded iron flasks
filling cannot fill the void
a Vaudeville gag in tact
words just matter for their sounds
they resonate with hate profound
they leave us manifest and bound
the Euro, dollar and the pound
my overdrawn chequing account
the fossils in the underground
and trains they vainly go around
sacred soil and burial grounds
were left untouched and noone found out why.
skip double dutch in spaces in the sky.
walk with a crutch even if it's a lie.
because when you let your pride into it,
the answers will just bleed right through it,
Cry.
how filtered can expression be,
with sights I didn't want to see,
to see to see to see to see right through
inside, behind, we walk straight lines
convinced that they're our own
too free with my body sometimes,
telling people who never should have known
and glaring aching symmetry,
is limiting,
it limits me;
from beds I've wanted to be free
from heads I've wanted to be free
but built into this precious thing,
nestling, cuddling, festering
cleaning, dreaming westward wings
could clear out notes from how I sing
with swollen wrapped presents to bring
I shake beneath a billowed cloud
of love so cavernous and kinged
it seems the dreams took on a life that murdered everything...
the songs they sing themselves
and I see you coming out
of houses in your wombs
that strangely rhyme with tombs
acoustics echo proud
of loudly distilled speech
encased in violent crowds,
the sweetness of a peach
the sourheartanthem child
the brittlempowered teen
cracked in impure thought
disposed to impure dream
fallacious as they come
convinced of the obscene
drowned in ancient books
that exist within the scheme
caressed by codgers,
lost and crossed by vivid vast regimes
and screams of gentle villagers
inventing future scenes,
supported by your poetry,
reinforced with knives
visions creeping through the walls,
the buildings of our lives
the planes, they shimmer poisonous
and thin beneath our eyes
and closure and composure form
elaborate disguise
constructed from your brilliance
the unpublished B-sides
the purple stamp inside my wrist
the purple bruising eyes
to take a punch while sitting down
to breathe drunken defeat
to tell the friends who aren't around
of everything you need
criminal submerged untruth
has faces coining terms
worth billions and billions
of lessons we don't learn
shattered fragments of asteroids
bewelded iron flasks
filling cannot fill the void
a Vaudeville gag in tact
words just matter for their sounds
they resonate with hate profound
they leave us manifest and bound
the Euro, dollar and the pound
my overdrawn chequing account
the fossils in the underground
and trains they vainly go around
sacred soil and burial grounds
were left untouched and noone found out why.
skip double dutch in spaces in the sky.
walk with a crutch even if it's a lie.
because when you let your pride into it,
the answers will just bleed right through it,
Cry.
"Please don't defend a silver lining/ around the halo of what is already shining."
Earlier this summer, the Dirty Projectors played the first full set I watched at Bonnaroo. It was Friday afternoon at 1:30 and I was completely blown away. David Byrne joined them on stage for "Knotty Pine."
Upon my re-arrival a Toronto, I discovered that they were playing a show! At Lee's Palace! For $13.50!! I became excited. Overjoyed, even. DP are getting quite a lot of hype, so it was unlikely that they would ever play a venue as small as Lee's upon subsequent visits to Toronto. I was relieved to have ticket in hand.
And then the unthinkable happened: they got in a car accident, presumably on the way to Toronto. The show was immediately cancelled. Despite my disappointment, I was relieved to hear that noone was seriously hurt in the accident.
So I returned my tickets and spent the 13.50 (which was more like 15 after service charge) on some tall cans of Old Milwaukee to drown my sorrows. I went home and listened to Bitte Orca endlessly.
But Joy! The show was rescheduled! For the same price! at the same venue! Viciously cool move on the band's part. They could easily have filled somewhere bigger, like the Phoenix or even Danforth Music Hall. And charged more. In the wake of that glowing Pitchfork review, it seemed as if tickets were going to be in high demand. Oh, and they weren't on Ticketmaster, which is wicked, because Ticketmaster is the motherfucking devil.
Interestingly enough, most of the tickets were sold at the door. The place was fucking rammed, too. The only time I've seen Lee's so packed was for Deerhunter last year. (i.e. another band that got tons of buzz because of favourable Pitchfork reviews).
The Dirty Projectors are one of, if not the, tightest and most technically proficient bands in indie rock right now. (note: I hate the label indie rock. As if absence of big business financial support implies something about the music itself. In philosophy, it matters; aesthetically, it shouldn't.) The Talking Heads comparison was made early and often because of their "world" music influences (a band listens to music that isn't from North American or Europe? HOLY SHIT. STOP THE PRESSES!) and because of Dave Longstreth's position therein as "Musical Director." While David Byrne never listed himself under this title within his band, he clearly masterminded a similar position. As such, I'm interested to see if Longstreth moves in similar directions onstage; designing huge multimedia performance art pieces to accompany his music, for example. While it's not the most environmentally friendly thing to be doing, I feel like our society ceases to give a crap about the environment when it comes to the presentation of art. (Radiohead's LED light show should be the accepted norm, not some radical off-the-wall artfuck idea. )
In any case, they absolutely slayed the show. One of the largest details that I missed at their Bonnaroo set was how incredible Amber Coffman and Angel Deradoorian are at their instruments as well as with their voices. Longstreth might be the one composing the mindboggling glitched out Ali Farka Toure styled guitar lines, but Coffman plays many of them in unison with him or creates chords and harmonies through complex interplay. For a good portion of the set (actually, for all of the non-Bitte Orca songs) Deradoorian was rocking the bass like an absolute champion. She also switched between guitar and keys throughout the set (and some of her keyboard work is INTENSE! In many cases it's masked by the fact that she plays in unison with Longstreth as well, but the result is a crazily rounded out synthy multi-instrumental tone of an already crazy riff, or lick, if you will.)
And can we talk about the drumming for a second? Do we have to? Brian McComber absolutely comes to life in a live setting. On record, the drums seem very melded around the guitar and vocal melodies (with the exception of Stillness is the Move and a few others) but live it's quite the opposite. His drumming really colours in and accents the songs in a way that more functional, less artistic and adventurous drummers fall short of.
I love that they open with 'Two Doves."
Before the encore, Longstreth turned to his band and said, "This is the last show of the tour. It's been a long tour, and it wasn't always easy. I just wanted to say thank you, you guys are the best ever. I love you." What can you say about something like that? Dave Longstreth seems a very genuine character, and all I can say is that I'm glad he's making music. Then they played "Flourescent Half Dome" and "Knotty Pine." The audience kept cheering after they finished the encore, but Amber Coffman came out and sheepishly explained that they didn't have any more songs to play.
I find this both an admirable and peculiar end to the show. DP are certainly a band with enough technical ability to get on stage, jam for a few minutes and blow most bands out of the water. But that kind of idea, just to play for the sake of playing without careful crafting behind the ideas seems contrary to the band's aesthetic. I would have even been interested to see Longstreth play a song solo, but that seems out of place too. Because while the whole collective (if that's what indeed it is) started off as his project, his brainchild, the band has such a communal energy with a centre fixed firmly in their insanely elaborate pop songs that improvisation and "taking the spotlight," so to speak, falls by the wayside. The selflessness of the performance is emphasized when Coffman and Deradoorian sing "Stillness..." and "Two Doves," respectively. Despite the fact that they take the lead vocals by themselves, the placement of these songs alongside their post-choral vocal work based songs serves to highlight the strength of the band as a whole by focusing on individual members. But they never play by themselves.
It's really quite a beautiful thing to behold.
Upon my re-arrival a Toronto, I discovered that they were playing a show! At Lee's Palace! For $13.50!! I became excited. Overjoyed, even. DP are getting quite a lot of hype, so it was unlikely that they would ever play a venue as small as Lee's upon subsequent visits to Toronto. I was relieved to have ticket in hand.
And then the unthinkable happened: they got in a car accident, presumably on the way to Toronto. The show was immediately cancelled. Despite my disappointment, I was relieved to hear that noone was seriously hurt in the accident.
So I returned my tickets and spent the 13.50 (which was more like 15 after service charge) on some tall cans of Old Milwaukee to drown my sorrows. I went home and listened to Bitte Orca endlessly.
But Joy! The show was rescheduled! For the same price! at the same venue! Viciously cool move on the band's part. They could easily have filled somewhere bigger, like the Phoenix or even Danforth Music Hall. And charged more. In the wake of that glowing Pitchfork review, it seemed as if tickets were going to be in high demand. Oh, and they weren't on Ticketmaster, which is wicked, because Ticketmaster is the motherfucking devil.
Interestingly enough, most of the tickets were sold at the door. The place was fucking rammed, too. The only time I've seen Lee's so packed was for Deerhunter last year. (i.e. another band that got tons of buzz because of favourable Pitchfork reviews).
The Dirty Projectors are one of, if not the, tightest and most technically proficient bands in indie rock right now. (note: I hate the label indie rock. As if absence of big business financial support implies something about the music itself. In philosophy, it matters; aesthetically, it shouldn't.) The Talking Heads comparison was made early and often because of their "world" music influences (a band listens to music that isn't from North American or Europe? HOLY SHIT. STOP THE PRESSES!) and because of Dave Longstreth's position therein as "Musical Director." While David Byrne never listed himself under this title within his band, he clearly masterminded a similar position. As such, I'm interested to see if Longstreth moves in similar directions onstage; designing huge multimedia performance art pieces to accompany his music, for example. While it's not the most environmentally friendly thing to be doing, I feel like our society ceases to give a crap about the environment when it comes to the presentation of art. (Radiohead's LED light show should be the accepted norm, not some radical off-the-wall artfuck idea. )
In any case, they absolutely slayed the show. One of the largest details that I missed at their Bonnaroo set was how incredible Amber Coffman and Angel Deradoorian are at their instruments as well as with their voices. Longstreth might be the one composing the mindboggling glitched out Ali Farka Toure styled guitar lines, but Coffman plays many of them in unison with him or creates chords and harmonies through complex interplay. For a good portion of the set (actually, for all of the non-Bitte Orca songs) Deradoorian was rocking the bass like an absolute champion. She also switched between guitar and keys throughout the set (and some of her keyboard work is INTENSE! In many cases it's masked by the fact that she plays in unison with Longstreth as well, but the result is a crazily rounded out synthy multi-instrumental tone of an already crazy riff, or lick, if you will.)
And can we talk about the drumming for a second? Do we have to? Brian McComber absolutely comes to life in a live setting. On record, the drums seem very melded around the guitar and vocal melodies (with the exception of Stillness is the Move and a few others) but live it's quite the opposite. His drumming really colours in and accents the songs in a way that more functional, less artistic and adventurous drummers fall short of.
I love that they open with 'Two Doves."
Before the encore, Longstreth turned to his band and said, "This is the last show of the tour. It's been a long tour, and it wasn't always easy. I just wanted to say thank you, you guys are the best ever. I love you." What can you say about something like that? Dave Longstreth seems a very genuine character, and all I can say is that I'm glad he's making music. Then they played "Flourescent Half Dome" and "Knotty Pine." The audience kept cheering after they finished the encore, but Amber Coffman came out and sheepishly explained that they didn't have any more songs to play.
I find this both an admirable and peculiar end to the show. DP are certainly a band with enough technical ability to get on stage, jam for a few minutes and blow most bands out of the water. But that kind of idea, just to play for the sake of playing without careful crafting behind the ideas seems contrary to the band's aesthetic. I would have even been interested to see Longstreth play a song solo, but that seems out of place too. Because while the whole collective (if that's what indeed it is) started off as his project, his brainchild, the band has such a communal energy with a centre fixed firmly in their insanely elaborate pop songs that improvisation and "taking the spotlight," so to speak, falls by the wayside. The selflessness of the performance is emphasized when Coffman and Deradoorian sing "Stillness..." and "Two Doves," respectively. Despite the fact that they take the lead vocals by themselves, the placement of these songs alongside their post-choral vocal work based songs serves to highlight the strength of the band as a whole by focusing on individual members. But they never play by themselves.
It's really quite a beautiful thing to behold.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
"…that’s what Einstein said, if it has a flaw and its irreparable turn it into a feature. If you’re always burning the pancakes, put it on the marquee. Burnt Pancakes, 99 Cents. People who can fix anything with string are disappearing. I think most things can be fixed with string, but we need to be reminded of that. Except if you pour a fresca into your computer, I don’t think that will work. Or if you pour a coke in the back of your television the string won’t work. It’ll turn into a coffee table immediately."
Tom Waits. from the "irrelevant topics" interview on the Beck site.
Tom Waits. from the "irrelevant topics" interview on the Beck site.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Bonnaroo-m Service
Hey Hey Hey!
Steel Bananas///Issue 9, July 2009! Huzzah!
Check out my Bonnaroo article (as well as the rest of the content, because it's all pretty fucking rock n'roll) here.
Right on, brothers and sisters of the blogospheric void.
Steel Bananas///Issue 9, July 2009! Huzzah!
Check out my Bonnaroo article (as well as the rest of the content, because it's all pretty fucking rock n'roll) here.
Right on, brothers and sisters of the blogospheric void.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
lysosomes.
analysis.
loosening, breaking, death--
decomposition.
"...make love to elizabeth taylor!
catch hell from richard burton!" -Dylan
brunette brunette brunetee,
how much stronger can you get
until the dye comes from your hair
we're surrounded everywhere
by dead sunsets-- in repair,
hoping once again to float in wild abandon.
analysis.
loosening, breaking, death--
decomposition.
"...make love to elizabeth taylor!
catch hell from richard burton!" -Dylan
brunette brunette brunetee,
how much stronger can you get
until the dye comes from your hair
we're surrounded everywhere
by dead sunsets-- in repair,
hoping once again to float in wild abandon.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Close (to the edit)
I have this involuntary fetish for my own name. Or perhaps history is catching up with me and playing little linguistic jokes with my tastes.
In the past year I've encountered two novels I've thoroughly enjoyed (or rather, I'm enjoying one of them right now) in which the main character is named Patrick.
I almost typed "the name character is mained Patrick."
In any case, the first was In the Skin of a Lion by Ondaatje and the one I'm reading now is A Splinter in the Heart by Al Purdy. I was delighted to discover the latter at that weird little huge cash only bookstore in the Eglinton subway station. It's Purdy's only work of prose; he's one of my favourite poets and I didn't know it existed. $7. It's really innocent (well, dementedly so, but still) and the dialogue leaves something to be desired, but his historiographic reimagining of Trenton, Ontario is really astounding. And his descriptions are wonderful...the everyday behaves insanely in the most mundane ways. It's quirky as fuck and I love it (although I dislike the word quirky. Well, not the word itself. Just the way people use it to describe things that evade easy description. But alas, I am guilty.)
I also discovered the album (Who's Afraid Of) The Art of Noise by the Art of Noise. It's their second(?) full length (it actually might be their first). The musical director is Trevor Horn, of The Buggles and late period Yes and producer of Frankie Goes to Hollywood (who I will be exploring next). I was first turned on to his work by a random vinyl copy of Adventures in Modern Recording by the Buggles that was literally given to me for no reason by my ex-girlfriend's father. I can't believe he didn't want to keep it; it's a fucking masterpiece. Interestingly enough, it's out of print, along with their debut record The Age of Plastic which features their montrously huge single "Video Killed the Radio Star." I still haven't heard that song in context, for fuck's sake! But I digress. The Art of Noise are basically an instrumental hip-hop band...but they were doing this shit in 1984! I'm so surprised that I'd never encountered them before. The record is really dope...it's like a J Dilla embryo with bad British teeth. Maybe Ratatat or Kno is a better comparison. I'm not sure.
Feeling good today. Perhaps I'll clean my room. But probably not. =)
In the past year I've encountered two novels I've thoroughly enjoyed (or rather, I'm enjoying one of them right now) in which the main character is named Patrick.
I almost typed "the name character is mained Patrick."
In any case, the first was In the Skin of a Lion by Ondaatje and the one I'm reading now is A Splinter in the Heart by Al Purdy. I was delighted to discover the latter at that weird little huge cash only bookstore in the Eglinton subway station. It's Purdy's only work of prose; he's one of my favourite poets and I didn't know it existed. $7. It's really innocent (well, dementedly so, but still) and the dialogue leaves something to be desired, but his historiographic reimagining of Trenton, Ontario is really astounding. And his descriptions are wonderful...the everyday behaves insanely in the most mundane ways. It's quirky as fuck and I love it (although I dislike the word quirky. Well, not the word itself. Just the way people use it to describe things that evade easy description. But alas, I am guilty.)
I also discovered the album (Who's Afraid Of) The Art of Noise by the Art of Noise. It's their second(?) full length (it actually might be their first). The musical director is Trevor Horn, of The Buggles and late period Yes and producer of Frankie Goes to Hollywood (who I will be exploring next). I was first turned on to his work by a random vinyl copy of Adventures in Modern Recording by the Buggles that was literally given to me for no reason by my ex-girlfriend's father. I can't believe he didn't want to keep it; it's a fucking masterpiece. Interestingly enough, it's out of print, along with their debut record The Age of Plastic which features their montrously huge single "Video Killed the Radio Star." I still haven't heard that song in context, for fuck's sake! But I digress. The Art of Noise are basically an instrumental hip-hop band...but they were doing this shit in 1984! I'm so surprised that I'd never encountered them before. The record is really dope...it's like a J Dilla embryo with bad British teeth. Maybe Ratatat or Kno is a better comparison. I'm not sure.
Feeling good today. Perhaps I'll clean my room. But probably not. =)
Friday, July 10, 2009
Now with smear guard!
its quiet on the days when tiredness runs out and is replaced, no matter what.
letters betray me
ghfjdksla;sldkfjghjfdksla;slkdjg
an enjoyment of patterning!
The slow
cool
calm
fast
hot
bothered
desk has never moved or been satisfied by anything I've written atop it.
demented medical treatments.
surprising repulsive smells, inhaled willingly.
herman melville. \\\
pageantricyclical (is this a word? are you a word?), pedalling in beautiful circles.
today is a broken pencil waiting to be sharpened.
letters betray me
ghfjdksla;sldkfjghjfdksla;slkdjg
an enjoyment of patterning!
The slow
cool
calm
fast
hot
bothered
desk has never moved or been satisfied by anything I've written atop it.
demented medical treatments.
surprising repulsive smells, inhaled willingly.
herman melville. \\\
pageantricyclical (is this a word? are you a word?), pedalling in beautiful circles.
today is a broken pencil waiting to be sharpened.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
I always get throat infections. I want to get rid of my evil tonsils but I'm afraid it will radically change my voice, which I'm not okay with.
Back at work. I went to see Sonic Youth at Massey Hall. I went to see the Sea and Cake at the Supermarket. Generally a wicked way to recover from illness. Penecillin and tunes. Yum.
Virgil Cane is the name and I served on the Danville Train... 'til Stoneman's Cavalry came and tore up the tracks again.
Back at work. I went to see Sonic Youth at Massey Hall. I went to see the Sea and Cake at the Supermarket. Generally a wicked way to recover from illness. Penecillin and tunes. Yum.
Virgil Cane is the name and I served on the Danville Train... 'til Stoneman's Cavalry came and tore up the tracks again.
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