Madame Alice's Cornrows or Unwarranted Reverence

I remember the first time I heard John Coltrane's Meditations. It was in a car on a hot Texas afternoon and I had just recieved the album in the mail. I was aware that this was anything but driving music. Music you drive to should sync or syncopate to the rhythm of the road, not utterly bludgeon it. With the bonafide gods of thunder Elvin Jones and Rasheid Ali laying the terra firma for a new planet, 'Trane's virtuosic whine, and Pharoah Sanders purposely breaking the range of his instrument, this was something new and wonderful for a young man still busting out of his Metal phase.

Other musicians would be inspired by this music. The end of The Stooges Funhouse blatantly paid tribute to it. And while it would crop up in the raw energy of early punk, "free jazz" met it's nominal peak during those late sixties.

The fallability of musical categorization becomes painfully evident in yet another journalist coined genre - "noise music". We could go into the philisophical ramifications of the assumption that noise can be music or in fact is music. Who am I kidding, we have to. Eventually. But in the meantime let's assume that what is called noise music today was initially shaped by Masami Akita a.k.a. Merzbow. Some of you will decry this and shout, "No! Throbbing Gristle!" Well, guess what. You're absolutely right. Feel better now? Because I'm going to write about a Merzbow record. You can go and write something about 20 Jazz Funk Greats.

1930 is not Merzbow's first record. Merzbow has released many, many, many records. Most of which I'll never get to hear. But, 1930 is Merzbow's first record on John Zorn's venerable Tzadik label, making it something of an event during it's 1998 release. The New York experimental patriarch had no doubt been aware of Mr. Akita's music long ago and was more than happy to release his newest material (In my world, everyone wears big, broad smiles.)

The opening subjects the listener to a seemingly happenstance parade of low end buzz, occasional synth sweep and what seems like the fluctuating din of a bad engine. Merzbow's implements are being introduced one by one onto the operating table and those paying close attention soon realize this is not happenstance. It is quite organized. An undermixed sample from some ancient and seminal IDM recording (Autechre owes a large debt to this man) gives way to the title track.

Subtlety is shoved aside as the pulsing whip-crack of some old, tortured Moog becomes the record's first dying breath. The sound is modulated by a filter and becomes what can only be described as the sound of something spitting and sucking at the same time. In the backdrop of this enveloping beast is the high pitched pulse of a relatively clean monotonal synth, it's screeching sixteenths desperately reaching to escape this swallowing abyss. The aural effect is absolutely stunning.

The phrase becomes studdered and then comes to a gradual halt, the dense pounding dispersed and slightly ambient. And as much as this music seems to be the antithesis of any calm and relaxing Tangerine Dream album, it's broad scope and singular vision resembles many of those epic seventies albums. These sounds become compounded, layer by layer over the next copule minutes, as we're introduced to one of Merzbow's signature sounds. A distorted synthesizer put on a long duration and infinite repeat, spet up, and then oscillated. A friend of mine described it as the sound of a vacuum cleaner being put to an overdriven microphone. As a familiar presence on Merzbow records, it's a polite hello to fans and pundits alike to let them know who exactly is tearing their heads off.

This sound scales the rumble, climbing to reach yet another plateau of the piece. We are then blindsided by something resembling a beat. A hook, more appropriately. And yes, this record does have hooks. A two-count high pitched chirp repeats every measure or so followed immediately by a synth "crash", like a large vase being dashed to pieces. That sound is accompanied by a glissando synth that goes down and then up in tone to seemingly throw this barrage at the listener. Layers of clamor are then gradually taken away, leaving a disturbed silence that lies in wait for the next assault.

This is synthesized music. Most detractors of "electronica" have a problem with the cold, lifeless, machine driven stigma that seems the bane of most of it's acts. And Merzbow's music is machine driven. But 1930 is proof positive that electronic music can be wild, erratic, and living. My long, lauding descriptions still cannot explain just how immediate and energetc this music really is. It must be experienced firsthand. And at extremely high volume.

Lon Chaney

You'd figure that obscurity would be enough to kill someone who seeks attention as much as I do. It makes me wonder what would happen if I were actually a gregarious person. This isolation from the rest of what I know would undoubtedly do me in.

Oh, yeah, the picture. That's taken from a large estate/garden that I found in the Houston area known as the Inner Loop. This property is known as Bayou Bend.

Now, Houston is known as the 'Bayou City', so I'm guessing that is partially where this place gets it's name from. "But there is no bayou in Houston," I've said aloud to myself in the voice of Dr. Strangelove. Well, this is the same place where tow trucks queue behind a fresh auto accident and put their names in a hat to see who gets the 'unfortunate' business. So, go figure.

A bridge crosses a large stream in order to reach the premises of the 'Bayou Bend'. A flowered tree anchors it, lending a compelling perfume as it coerces you to enter. A classic iron gazebo is the ticket booth. Opposite that is a small visitor station done up like the most quaint brick home. Beyond these lie pristinely trimmed rows of waist-level bushes arranged in a square. In it's clasp is a circular arrangement of the shrubs, all lauding a Greek-style statue of a woman. I thought the opening was underwhelming with all it's monotone greens and the one cold white. But as I moved on, it seemed an apertif to the stronger.....ok, I'm gonna stop this now.

I guess writing about a place full of flowers makes your writing very 'flowery'. Ha,ha.

Ha.

Anyway, the gardens were very beautiful. The house that is the landmark of the grounds has an open veranda where visitors can sit in oversized rocking chairs and overlook a descending knoll. The grass is punctuated by bunches of seasonal blooms all radiating their various colors. At the bottom of the hill is a fountain whose waters form parallel arcs resembling the famous St. Louis monument. That was nothing special, really.

Sprouting from this was a network of bush bordered paths, some concrete and others ground stone. They often led to welcoming courtyards and other highlighted arrangements of flowers. In all reality, this cannot be described. A place of such intensely preconcieved yet appropriate natural beauty must be witnessed in person. It is God's creation after all.

I don't know why I bother.

By the way, happiness can officially be found in a song called "Blue Arrangements" by Silver Jews. Stephen Malkmus' lazy, melodic guitar work should conjure a smile from anyone's face.

"I want my vehicle, my saucer shaped coffin. I'm Mighty Pro-Jet, I'm Baron Von Richtofen."

Ever wondered how to make creme brulee? No? Well, listen anyway. I'm in a really bad mood. Preheat your oven to 350.

This will serve 1 selfish person:

1 egg yolk
1 tablespoon plus 1/2 teaspoon of sugar

Beat them together in a bowl.

4 tablespoons of heavy cream
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon of milk

Scold this. That means bring it to a calm boil.

Now, temper the egg mixture. Mix almost a teaspoon of the cream mixture in the egg mixture so you can then put the rest in the bowl without curdling it too much. Keep mixing, Turd Captain.

Get a ramekin. A tiny round bowl, basically. Put your major-fun-time-egg-cream-thingy in there. Get a larger baking dish and put your ramekin inside of it. Fill the baking dish with water until it's a bit more than halfway up the ramekin. Put that in your oven.

20-30 mintures will pass depending on how funny your oven is (Yes, ovens do have a sense of humor). By then the 'thing' should be just a little jiggly. Go ahead. Shake and make sure. Shake!

Now put it in the 'fridge. You know what, nevermind. Get some brown sugar and sprinkle it over. Turn on your broiler and put it under. Watch it until it bubbles and get it out of there.

Know what you have now? Your mother's malformed face. Goodnight.

"What About My Embryos?"

I seem to have a strange attachment to places. Am I that bored? Yes. Would I rather not write about myself? Yes, again. But I inevitably will anyway. So, let's move along.

Behind a parking lot and a few trees in the Montrose area of Houston lies a curiously beautiful art gallery. The outside stands in stark contrast to the classic American architecture that embraces the premises. Strikingly clean and modern, the Menil Gallery is too geometric and copasetic to have been built at the same time that the University of St. Thomas was founded. However, the shroud of foliage that outlines the grounds seems to make them perfect bedfellows. (Wow, I'm trying really hard to live up to Ruby's comment)

When I finally found this place, I was pleasantly surprised by the omission of an admission fee. A novel concept, n'est pas? But more than likely instated to cater to the campus crowd. My feet were greeted with dark hardwood floors whereas the walls stretched wide, high and white toward the ceilings. My curiousity geared me toward the right when I spotted large letters reading 'Surrealism'. Alright, I thought. Familiar Terrain. And familiar it was. The impressive collection held an abnormal number of Magritte paintings, the odd Dali, and at least a couple of works by Yves Tanguy, which I was very happy to find.

Perhaps more wonderful was my discovery of a small selection of paintings by the famous Chilean artist, Roberto Matta. Those of you already familiar with him may be the same who have seen his work around New York City, where a great deal of it resides. I, on the other hand, had only beheld him once through one of his characterisically massive paintings in the Modern Art section of the MET. I remember it's imagery, an autumnal palette whose cloudy patches were penetrated by straight lines that connected vaguely human figures. Each scrawny and frightening figure seemed caught in some self-inflicted torture while still trying to make sense of the suffering of their friends. By the way, I have no idea what I'm talking about. I just found it aesthetically arresting.

Being reunited with his work in this hellish place seemed almost a payoff for the traffic I had to deal with to get there. The tortured figures had reappeared but the picture possessed less mass, perhaps making it less daunting.

I eventually tripped over to another room in the same exhibit hall. This held an oppressive array of strange artifacts that I believe the curator was trying to highlight as inspirations for many surrealist paintings. A man made of straw, a number of tribal masks, and a mask with long spikes jutting from it's face were among them. The combination of these and the darker walls served to scare me out of that particular room.

I wish my memory was still here, but apparently it awaits me at a second visit to this place.

I Miss the Cold

Nostalgia is a plague. It seems to be triggered with minimal stimuli and can only bring about feelings of despair and sadness. That said, this picture hardly does justice to one of the most beautiful highways in the United States. An extension of the Hutchinson River Parkway, the Merritt Parkway runs through Connecticut like a concrete river, passing vibrant forests and beautiful brick bridges from a different time.
Memories of riding down this hilly and winding parkway only seem to spark happiness, though. It reminds me of going to a three dollar concert at Fairfield University to witness Aloha for the first time. Them and another brilliant band by the name of Shortpants Romance.
It reminds me of meeting Zach Ebel at a families home to play really weird guitar-drum improv, only to scare some, but delight and entertain a large Japanese 'clientele'.
It reminds me of finding a large Connecticut park that had on it's premises a large home surrounded by a gorgeous garden. I lost myself there for about an hour or so, eventually sitting down in a secluded alcove to read in perhaps the most serene setting I've ever encountered.
The Merritt signaled good things to come. Maybe there are a few places like that for you, too. These are the tangible, yet insubstantial insurances for the future that I as a weak human being cling to. These also remind me that it's far more effective to cling to Jehovah.

In other words, Texas sucks.

"Perfect Ears are waiting for us in Paradise."

Such clarity and poetry could only come from the mouth of a child. I am not a spiritual man.

The Boredoms

Something fairly amusing happened at work today.

I was packing up boxes to be shipped as part of a company move. The day had gone pretty quick and the tech I was working with on this occasion had a nice disposition.

Another team of people came into the office to start removing the telecommunications equipment. One of them was a small Mexican man (I'm not being stereotypical here. I actually know he was Mexican). As he made his rounds, I noticed a melody that was humming through his nostrils. I thought in a split second:
It's from the late 80s.
A vague Teen Beat quality.
Oh, crap. It's a Rick Astley song.

Not ringing a bell? Let me refresh your memory.
"Together Forever and never to part.
Together Forever we two
And don't you know I would move heaven and earth
To be Together Forever with you."

Still not? Maybe this is more familiar.
"Never gonna give you up
Never gonna let you down
Never gonna run around and desert you
Never gonna make you cry
Never gonna say goodbye
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you"

If that didn't give it away, I don't know what will. But if you are familiar with these songs, you may have realized what I did. They sound exactly the same. Same tempo, same key, instrumentation, the works. And despite what "Rick Astley's Greatest Hits" would lead you to believe, this man's soulful bellow has only generated these two well known songs.

Am I comdemning him? No. Because you know what? I love these songs. They're trite and ridiculous but I adore them. They remind me of being a seven year old kid, riding in an '87 Mercury Sable with my mother. They stir memories of driving to Dublin, sometimes to my grandmother's on the Northeast side of Columbus. All the while, the radio station turned to 97.9 WNCI. "Not too hard, not too lite." Though I would describe Rick Astley as very "lite".

Why did I write this down? Because I'm in Texas. *Sigh*

On a completely unrelated note, if you're in Ohio, do yourself a big favor. Go see The Boredoms. They may change your life, or provide a curious bump in the road. And I won't be able to see them. Because Texas is hell. Here are some other dates.

Sat 06/24/06 Intonation Music Festival Chicago IL
Sun 06/25/06 Turf Club St. Paul MN
Tue 06/27/06 Wexner Center Columbus OH
Wed 06/28/06 Grog Shop Cleveland Heights OH
Fri 06/30/06 Starlite Philadelphia PA w/ Lighting Bolt
07/07/06 Deitch Projects New York NY

Can't make Tuesday? Go to Cleveland. Please.

And I quote...

"He may be a wonderful watchdog and loving companion. He may be great with the kids, bring in the morning newspapaer, even fetch your slippers-but if he's prone to barking and disturbs neighbors, he may also be a public nusiance. Reports of barking dogs are among the most frequent complaints we receive from residents. It can be mighty frustrating to have the peace disturbed and worse yet to have sleep interrupted. So if your pet indulges in frequent yaps, howls, or barks, bring him indoors. When you do, you'll be demonstrating consideration for others by showing you're a good neighbor. Which, come to think of it, everyone probably knew all along."

So says The Woodlands Village News in The Woodlands Community Magazine. What kind of unholy place do I live in?

Awww, peas...

Least favorite songs by your favorite bands.

"Takin' It to the Streets"

Don't wince. Don't go on to the next blog. You know this man. The suave disposition. The encroaching chest hair ready to attack his already heavily populated face. It's Michael McDonald. To know him is to...well, this picture is far too homosexual to use the word "love".

The smoky-as-hungarian-paprika voice (welcome back, hyphens) that crooned such inimitable Doobie Brothers classics as "What a Fool Believes", "Minute by Minute", and "Jesus is Just Alright with Me" (I think), often sounded like a polar bear being smothered by lace-stitched pillows. And we only found it endearing.

He would go on to a solo career, gracing us with "I Keep Forgettin' (Every Time You're Near)", and...who am I kidding, that's the only song of his I can recall. Except for that one with Kenny Loggins. A match made in middle of the road heaven. Wait..."This Is It". That's it. Don't feel bad if you don't remember.

He's recently released a slew of old Motown covers, proving once again that he's always wanted to sound as negro as possible. He also released a Christmas album through Target. You may remember the T.V. advert of Michael's soulfully gravelled baritone, "Deck the halls with boughs of holly....fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la". 'Tis the season for rampant pagan references from men who look like chinchilla coats.

I think we all hope that Michael McDonald's career will last forever. But it won't. I'll make sure of that.

Decades

The pop album has long been an interesting medium. The Beatles showed what could be done with it and it's rendered various results over the past almost 40 years. The albums from which everyones closers were taken on the previous post all have their own ebb and flow from one song to another. Those last songs capped off their respective albums in a moving or provocative manner. This is why I picked the songs I did, and may well have been why you did also.

The pop single, however, has become increasingly necessary in this fast-paced world. Just as the album, this idiom has been explored in both banal and engaging ways. The Smiths built an empire on singles, just to mention one example. In the age of the mp3 and the IPOD, bands are getting huge off singles. Bands who would have never been heard of otherwise. I can't say I enjoy most of them, but it's interesting to contemplate.

I still love albums, and many of you despite your busy schedules still make time to listen to them. Thanks for your lists. Feel free to put more on here if you think of any.

Closer

Everybody - give me your favorite album closers. Invite your friends. No order required. Go.

It's fun. It's easy. I am a product of the Food Network.

It's making fresh pasta. Some of you may be saying "I've been making fresh pasta for years." Well I just started doing this. So be happy for me. Be happy! Please! (I sulk in a corner for an hour.)

Ok, here's the ratio:

Serves two, if i'm not mistaken, which i probably am. I'm not gonna cry.
1 1/2 cups of unbleached all-purpose flour
2 large eggs
A pinch (Don't believe the novelty measuring spoons. This isn't an actual unit.) of salt

Throw the flour in a bowl. If you want to be like an old italian woman from Genoa, pile it on a clean counter surface. Make a hole in the center. Crack the eggs right in there. Throw that salt in with them. Take a fork and beat the eggs. Gradually incorporate the flour in to the eggs, until they form a somewhat crumby mass. Bring It together with your hands and knead for a few mintues. Stick your thumb in the dough to check if its dry. If it is, enclose it in plastic wrap, and let it rest for 30 minutes. No more, no less. Then lob it at a homicidal rabbit. Oh yeah. There's more Monty Python references where that came from.

Take that well-rested dough and roll it out with your trusty pin. If you have a pasta machine, I envy you because I always do it the hard way. An ode to that Genoese woman. Toss flour everywhere, but especially on the dough to keep it from sticking. Roll it into a rectangular shape until it's reasonably thin. You don't want it to tear. Keep throwing around that flour. It's really frickin' fun.

And that's it. Cut it wide, cut it narrow. You can now make many different varities of fresh pasta. "I already knew that." Just...give me this moment. Cook it like you would dried pasta, but for only 2-3 minutes. I'll use any excuse to put things in bold type. It makes the otherwise mundane...bold.

Put a little squid ink in the eggs as you're making it and you can have black pasta. The coolest thing in the world.

Artist as Narcissist

The subject has been retread many, many times. The aloof artist remains such, not out of some noble obligation, not necessarily because he can't relate to others, but because he's too self centered to care.

Or is that really the case?

Is this an incurable affliction? One psychologically ingrained due to family and social circumstance? Or is it something far more shallow? This is given poignant consideration in the scene of Ingmar Bergman's Autumn Sonata from where this frame is taken. The mother's hands have taken the keys, their stance betraying a lifetime of devotion to a single craft.

The mother Charlotte, played by Ingrid Bergman, had begun the scene by coercing her daughter Eva, played by Liv Ullmann, to play the piano for her. Eva reluctantly began to play Chopin's 2nd prelude in A minor, punctuating the appropriate lack of a soundtrack in this picture. She begins hesitantly, eventually digging her fingers into the piece. She drops the heavy chords in a steady order, pulling off an adequate interpretation and bringing the prelude to a pensive close. Charlotte sits stunned. But what we think would turn to an expression of maternal pride instead becomes a subtle patronization. When Eva asks her "Did you like it?" the mother beguiles her with an affectionate "I liked you."

Eva senses this subtlety and becomes cross. She insists her mother show her the proper interpretation. Charlotte at first hesitates and then jumps at the chance. She first dictates the few things that Eva could have executed better. She explains the mood that surrounds Chopin's brooding prelude and with a confident "like this" begins her playing of the same piece. Charlotte pulls the previously steady recital taut, flawlessly wresting each phrase and change into place.

Sven Nykvist's brilliant shot work comes into definite play in this sequence. We see the mother facing left, buried in the piece and narcissisticly absorbed in reflecting Chopin's glory. The daughter sitting next to her slowly turns a baleful expression toward her mother. A lack of communication is painfully apparent as both of them face opposite directions, Eva's face showing the sadness of knowing this is how it's always been. Charlotte, a concert pianist, had often abandoned her for the sake of her art. Now, here in this same room with the mother that she hadn't seen in seven years, she commits the same crime right in front of her eyes.

As someone who enjoys art and the creation of it, I can't help but notice my own parallel to Charlotte. I rarely if ever share anything of an artistic bent with my family. So many of us seem content to keep to ourselves. Does our art hinder us from being engaging people? We may get by being quiet, even amiable. But is this the way to live?

Some of us may be afraid to open up because we're afraid people won't understand, that they won't 'get it'. What if we show them there is nothing to get? Let them know what we do artistically is merely an expression and nothing to be put off or intimidated by. That way we won't be locked into our own rooms, our own worlds. A place that can be heady and beautiful at times, but often predatory and satanic as focus intensifies on oneself. I know that I can work to escape it, and maybe most of us can in one way or another. "One isolating himself will seek his own selfish longing." - Proverbs 18:1

That's what makes group musicing the greatest form of art. In my humble opinion.

I am a poser (You see, I just used the term 'poser'. How out of touch can one man be?)

I live in The Woodlands, Texas. I know, I know, you're reading 'Hell, Texas' in my profile. Well, that's a relative equivalent. This is a place encased in a shroud of imported evergreens, marked by Disney World-like signs that indicate how much it costs to live in a certain subdivision. Our main attraction is the frigging mall, a suburban church often flooded by Hollister-clad children with a leash of money dragging their parents behind them.

Now, what is a self-centered, faux-intellectual with a crippling reliance on hyphens to do in this sort of environment? Read books at the local Barnes and Noble? Write pages of banal thoughts at a Starbucks competitor? Yes, of course! I'll look down on the affluent! I'll curse the overprivileged!

I'll wear a jacket on a seventy degree day.

I'm so sorry. Self-deprecation is an act of vanity in itself, so, I'm sorry. Athos, Peter, Leftclawnorth a.k.a. Black Medusa, you guys are true friends. If you guys ever want to talk about your troubles, please, please call me. I am a willing and ready sounding board. I hope to see all of you in the near future. It's very lonely down here, as you can tell.

Jim James has a really great voice

I was watching Austin City Limits this past weekend. Wilco was on, along with Conor Oberst, who had M. Ward and our title hero each do a song. Does anyone else think Conor Oberst bears a striking resemblence to Tobey Maguire? Just thought I'd let you guys stew on that.

M. Ward has a great voice, too. And so does Jeff Tweedy. "1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9....once in Germany someone said nein..."

Within, Without the Jazz Age

I hate Jackson Pollock. A young, wire rim faced Jewess pointed her eyes deep into her Village Voice issue. O if only Albert Ayler and Ornette Coleman would corroborate on paper their mutual affection for Jackson Frigging Pollock. Then all would be right with the world. These people would byline the man if it got them more credit.

It's a fall day in 1952. Or is it 2002? Does it really matter?
A doctors office on the Upper West Side, she sat waiting ever so impatiently. She fingered past the delinquent pages, still engaged in the paper. She threw it aside like tatters to the floor. I am not worthy. Roaches are worthy.

She looked to the receptionist desk. As chance would have it, that was the exact moment the woman's phone conversation had gathered to a voluminous head.

"She didn't! No! At the Dougan's?! Backwards?! With the broccoli rabe?! Shut up! Shut up!"
The Jewess feigned disinterest while deducing. A kegger? She wishes to be known as the Jewess.

"And the children, too? That Kathy!"
Hmm.

A man barged in the room, the door banging against the wall. He was dirtied, shirtless, with only pair of briefs on. His body slumped as he stood, and he fell. A stumpy old dwarf collected him and closed the door.

Hmm. The Jewess sorted among the magazines.

"I'm gonna kill you! With a huge serrated knife, I will end your living days! I'm serious!", The receptionist laughed as she spoke with the oddest conviction.

Gateway Drugs

Easthampton, Massachusetts couldn't have been more off the beaten path. Running off highway 91, past Springfield and deep beyond what seemed like a hidden valley from a Robert Jordan novel (No, I've never read Robert Jordan...check my profile), lay a long strip of road resembling a town. My accomplice, Justin, had agreed to accompany me to this infamous Western Mass haunt on this cool, crisp pre-spring Thursday. Our destination, Flywheel Arts Center, sat on the edge of town, right across the street from a Methodist Church.

We arrived about four hours early for a seven o'clock show, so we decided to head back to highway 91 to see what Northampton was all about. A trendy student getaway, the town of Northampton is home to a myriad of boutiques, restaurants, and at least a couple of really good record stores. After some purchases and a coffee, we made our way back to Flywheel at around 5:30.

We figured the place would already be open but to our bewilderment found it locked and vacant. Confused, yet famished, we went to an Italian place literally a couple doors down. After we'd been seated for a few minutes, three modestly dressed yet definitely out of place gentlemen were seated at the bar. They were Wolf Eyes. The reason we'd made this two hour trip into the love handle of New England. I decided to leave them alone, denying my inner groupie and being honestly frightened of them. They're from Michigan. And they build barns. And they're friends with Andrew W.K. Don't pretend you've never heard of him.

Our food was sufficiently filling, leaving us prepared for the nights proceedings. We made our way back to Flywheel, finding it open, and seated ourselves in the front lounge area. We both found this humble space small yet inviting. An upright piano was flush with the postered right wall and a refreshments counter laid to the left. Elsewhere were strewn school age chairs orbiting the odd table and couch. The actual stage and audience area resembled the basement of a bi-level ranch, the surfaces black and sound setup somewhat rudimentary. This was the definition of intimacy.

Slowly, gangs of young hipsters flocked around and inside the venue. The messy haircuts, tight fitting jeans and track jackets formed a mass organism as the evening went on. A consistent collective mumble hovered throughout, as if enunciation were as outdated as the marquee in front of the church across the street.

You could cut the indifference with a Pitchfork review.

Finally, the show started, and a group of pensive young men took the incredibly tiny stage. This was X.O.4. They built a series of pieces based on layers of slowly building guitar noodlings and scratches. Each piece of the 20 minute set worked the soft to loud dynamic, each taking it's own path. Boring? No. Terribly original? Probably not. Interesting? Yes, they definitely held my attention, as well as Justin's.

Next came Grey Skulls. Sounds intimidating, doesn't it? You'd figure three sexually frustrated young men with the gaul to call themselves 'Grey Skulls' would pull something amazing out of their rectums. Nope. Instead came an energetic yet hilarious No-Wave caricature. One played a standard series of noisy pedals, the other screamed rather unimpressively, and another a played a scaled back drumkit. The noise they made wasn't bad, but the solitary din of that ratty snare just undermined the whole thing. Imagine a rendition of Cage's 4'33" broken up with the occasional squawk from a kazoo, and you may get some idea. They did make me laugh, though. I'll give them that.

The crowd had picked up even more since the onset. I'm a moderately tall person, so I easily observed a sea of people in this dark, cramped room. Three guys took the stage, three guys who were not on the original bill. They played about five minutes and were dang enjoyable. One played a keyboard, another played the saxophone, and I can't remember what the other guy was doing. Hey, the place was all a bustle, and these kids fleshed out a polymorphous piece of skronky, exciting noise that even an uninitiate could get into. If only I knew their name!

Magick Markers was up. I'm a very gullible and slightly paranoid person, so seeing the word 'Magick' (Magick equals actual Magic equals actual demons)on the bill made me a bit nervous. But my fears were unjustified. Two girls and a guy on drums proceeded to reach out and grab the crowd in the most literal sense. One girl thudded slowly and persistently on her bass, while the drummer thrashed in a totally different meter. This created a disorienting and heady backdrop to the singer's screaming, childlike vocals and her off-stage melee with many a young man. The set closed with her doing a call response rendition of that darn Mnah-Mnah Muppets song, a duet with the biped she had just pulled by the hair and wrangled a minute ago. That could have been lame. But it wasn't. It was cool. And so were they.

The energy waned a while and would continue to as the next act setup. I scanned the crowd, back and forth, finally catching a very tall man entering the room with a shorter blonde haired woman. Thurston Moore had arrived. With Kim Gordon. I immediately started gushing.

Mr. Moore finally took the stage. He opened by methodically waving his hollow-body back and forth in front of the amplifier a la Jimi Hendrix, a la Lou Reed, a la anyone who has touched a distorted guitar. This was a setup. Now, I had read on the bill 'Thruston Moore Versus Prurient'. I had yet to notice this 'Prurient' fellow and was wondering when he'd take the stage to combat the Sonic Youth frontman. A mixer, amplifier, contact mics, and what looked like shards of a broken cymbal laid just beyond Thurston's setup. About five to ten minutes into the hollow feedback a dark haired kid emerged from the crowd. Unassuming, yet strangely confident, Dominick Fernow a.k.a. Prurient turned on his equipment, and proceeded to scream unintelligibly into his contact mics for a good twenty minutes straight. He remained coiled up, almost fetus-like as he verbally scolded his amplifiers. His piercing yell was accompanied by impressively harsh fluctuating feedback, over which he'd intermittently clang the broken shards against the microphones. This created an orgy of sound I've never heard before, throwing me into pure amazement and awe. He climaxed his set by yelling determinedly into the crowd as if sermonizing them, his left hand fisted behind his back in classic hardcore fashion. He threw down his microphone and pushed his way past me, yelling "Get the #%@ out of the way!" I gladly obliged.

It was almost 10:30, kind of early for a show to be almost wrapping up. But I was content, glad that I had come all this way for an enjoyable concert. I said hi to Thurston, and was giddy with the drug of celebrity. As they finished setting up, the headliners took the stage. Our friends Wolf Eyes. Could I recognize any of the instruments? No. They build these things themselves. Instruments and barns. I wish I were from Michigan.

An intermittent series of squeals, mechanic yelps, and disturbing voice samples erupted into the room. The sound was perhaps the most clear and crisp I've heard any band have, let alone a noise band. A menacing bass reverberated through everyone, a constant "BOW-BOW-BOW" impelling everyone into a fist-pumping mantra. Nate Young hulked over the crowd in an almost pleading stance, slowly lifting his hood to reveal that dark, mottled hair. Into the distorted microphone he let fly a horrifying narrative to explain this terrible soundscape. Amidst that voice and an array of rhythmic feedback, the previously insistent bass broke it's plea to accelerate into a clear gun-like pounding crescendo. I could literally feel it, like the hot breath of some otherworldly beast come to take my life. My heart quickened and my muscles tightened. Sweat had washed my features. I was afraid. I was scared out of my mind.

I leaned over to Justin, "Let's go,"
"You sure? It's almost over."
"Yeah, let's go."
We surely and steadily moved through the crowd, going back outside to make our way to my car. A two-hour trip home lay ahead of us. The remains of the sounds were distant and I could hear the applause as I finally entered my car. We said goodbye to Easthampton for undoubtedly the last time.

I love music.

Laissez Faire

The tortured thoughts of a brilliant young man come manifest in this progressive online novel. It's his turn to show you the way. Every day.

Laissez Faire

Program of the Midwest

A madman lets fly anything that comes from his astoundingly bulbous mind. Love goes into every word Athos shells out. I guarantee you will not be disappointed.

Program of the Midwest