huddled addled in the suburban caul

the solstice has past and the world has made it through the ringer. i have some good stuff on the waY, i promise; including sabu martinez afro-temple, terry bozzio in trio form, some interesting herbie stuff and others. I would really like to find Fictitious Sports by Dave Mason.
Camille Yarborough is killing me, the original "take yo' praise" blows that fatboy slim bullshit off the map.

Snow Global

Read a long Bukowski poem to my lady last night at bedtime. Stuck on the description of the young kid as "like looking out on a vast sea of milk that has not even a ripple from a thrown pebble." Drove home a little affected through a light snowstorm at 3am the other night, not to mention the night before, similar story, without the snow. Needless to say my confidence in karma/raw abilities is quite high. Want to thank MyJazzWorld, El Goog, Soundological Investimigations, Ile Oxumare and a bunch of others in the syndicate that I've been digging lately.
I was checking the Fela thread on Sound Opinions recently, reminded me that there are some Tony Allen (Africa 70's drummer) LP's that carry that banner in a fucking funked up fashion. Like these two - Jealousy/Progress.
In the 'Twin Cities' - sports, fireplaces, bros, big sky, long distances between things and souls. back in the city tomorrow. Met a girl named Tawny who works at the Filmore the other night, a nice splash of local color in a whitewashed plane.
also listening:
Eric Dolphy- Out to Lunch
Mingus-Live @ Cornell 1964 (w/Eric Dolphy)
El Mexicano- Move up Starsky (nice collection of recognizable reggae mish-mash with some dancehall flows nicely grooving on top-especially dig the title track)
I'm looking for a good acid jazz comp. if anyone has any ideers/if anybody reads this thing.
That is all.

slow

Been digging some very chill but very far out things. The pictured album here being the culmination of this hunt. Also part of the musical inundation to quell my Saturday and annihilate the accelerating momentum of time was "Song of Soil" by drummer Masahiko Togahashi with Don Cherry and Charlie Hayden, which is very smooth and spaced out.

Hay maze extravaganza last night leading right up to the doorstep of morning.

let's get serious

whew! So, I am back. It's a lot musty in here. And so:
here's a little doozie i've been prizing in 2008. Masabumi Kikuchi w/Elvin J. and G. Perla, Hollow Out.
I lifted this from the awesome O.I.R. blog, which features a nice and frequent jazz smattering. This is a very obscure, strange, quiet-tense, intense piece of music.



What else? Keith whining going "eeeee" and playing blues with G. Peacock and a drummer named 'Motian' (Motion) at a place called the Deer's Head Inn is a really nice piece, another quiet star.
Along with Ralph Trowner (g) and G. Peacock playing deconstructed flamenco duets, goes by the name 'Oracle'.
And... Marion Brown's "sweet earth flying" with paul bley on keys, keeping in the obscure/quiet/out 'n free genre. Indie band His Name is Alive did a nice Marion Brown tribute album "sweet earth flower: a tribute to Marion Brown", that jives with the overall vibe of the albums in this post so far, and starts spanning into 'Kind of Blue' electric piano wash and/or post-metal drone that the kids are listening to these days. Eric Kloss' "Consciousness" to shakes things loose-w/Chic, Jack DeJ, and Dave Holland. "The Creator has a Master Plan" by Pharaoh Sanders with Leon Thomas coming in on vocals about 8 minutes in. At about 20 minutes in this gets fantastically, deeply far out, dissonant and unhinged. I have yet to stick it out, but I'd love for you to try. Kind of a musical 50 lb. hamburger contest like from that John Candy movie about the great outdoors. However, if you get through the music is its own hamburger reward b/c I haven't got any t shirts or shwag to distribute.
P. Sanders has a daughter about my age that I met one night-she was in an underground theater performance with a friend. She seemed normal, or at least normalized-but then she is an actress. I'd love to meet her again.
Another recent discovery: I've got my outside and inside mixed up all over again.

Update: I made it through "the creator has a master plan", mostly intact.
sorry the links are spotty, if anyone asks for something on here that they can't find, i'll get it on here.Another really weirdly endearing bit of music is Moondog "Elpmas". Xylophones harmonies, bird chirps, orchestral snippets, chants, a steady percussive repitition.

Books I am reading:

Foucault: Madness and Civiliazation
Zizek: The Sublime Object of Ideology
J. Berger: G (re-reading)

Books to read:

H. Miller: Sexus
S. Beckett: Molloy
R. Rucker: Postsingular
Habermas: Reader
Physics Textbook about Circuits
GRE study guide

B2B

what's worse for the public's property?

hundreds of drunkards pissing on or in every feasible plant or shadow in the park over the course of an afternoon, or scores steadily pissing discreetly?

this is what periodically urban white people do when you take away their tribal codes of conduct.

approaching launch in t minus

Mars!

If only they'd have thought to equip the mars rover with some speakers and a little Caruso on loop.

Thank you to the BBC for broadcasting this freaky message in the most innocuous way possible. As I deftly avoid my mundane tasks this morning, I am visited with a strange terror upon digesting the contents of this article :
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/7358863.stm
I'm immune now, from several years of close contact, to the stories about the DARPA research into remote controlled mice and such, but this is a new twist.
A helmet that can be attached to an unskilled laborer that will read his brain-waves and give him a jolt the moment his thought patterns murk up. Efficiency! Progress! Robotics!

Eyeclopse


the robotic age, of terrestrial habitation by un-living intelligent forms at function amongst those crafted from carbon, draws ever nearer and perhaps into the past already. And the collusion of the two becomes ever the more sophisticated. Citizen! Archaic Life-Form! Witness: the bionic eye!

Courtesy of the National Geographic Foundation.

Also, realizing my sperm count has most likely been decimated by years of carrying my cell phone in my pants' pocket, I am contemplating having myself cloned for posterity.

artificial eminence, artful inseminence

can't seem to carry the same old weight at work, can't seem to want to. The point of departure is approaching in fits, starts, small shocks, and inoculations against the greater change.
black moth super rainbow at bottom of the hill was the nines\: syrupy, poppy, pummel.licious. Deep candy. Although we only caught the last 45 minutes. The crowd was fairly redundant; we fit right in to be fair. surly bartender encounter at the bar, the shiney-cone-head guy with a mouth full of sharp teeth arranged in the shape of a garden hoe- shared a bag of chips off his shoulder. burrito magik faery frog fraternization with two earnest too earnest young mo's. Rattling the thin sheets of metallic cool surface, resonating honest on the tender within.
tourorrist mayhem and opening of ourselves in warm waterfront familiarity. Visitors visitors.
Rattling carts passing out the window, vibrating aluminum glass plastic tin and gummed up wheels, pause at the spigot to refresh, the night cooling fast, wind winding in from the sea.
Having reached that plateau of aesthetic hygiene where grime and fur cancel out the sunken cheeks and pursedness, eyes stretched to limits deep deep and flaming flame.

lissning:
Heliocentrics out there

Garrison Keiler Fart Jokes

ease up on the footloose dithering, child
diffuse your peripatetic pathologic peregrinating prediliction.
pathsore
leave off pandering life
don't you know you don't know what you aren't
won't find it on the face of the world

perish the polyfrenetic panzer attack on motion
assault stillness, grasp it, crush it

random selection from a box of particular old paperbacks' pages........................

"...worlds, the fulcrum which balances the stars and the light dreams and the machines lighter than and the lightweight limbs and the explosives that produced them. In that crack I would like to penetrate up to the eyes, make them waggle then will I hear again Dostoevski's words, hear them rolling on page after page, with minutest observation, with maddest introspection, with all the undertones of misery now lightly, humorously touched, now swelling like an organ note until the heart bursts and there is nothing left but a blinding, scorching light, the radiant light that carries off the fecundating seeds of the stars. the story of art whose roots lie in massacre.
When I look down itno this fucked-out cunt of a whore I feel the whole world beneath me, a world tottering and crumbling, a world used up and polished like a leper's skull. If there were a man who dared to say all that he thought of this world there would not be left him a square foot of ground to stand on. When a man appears the world bears down on him and breaks his back. There are always too many rotten pillars left standing, too much festering humanity for man to bloom. The superstructure is a lie and the foundation is a huge quaking fear. If at intervals of centuries there does appear a man with a desperate, hungry look in his eyes, a man who would turn the world upside down in order to create a new race, the love that he brings to the world is turned to bile and he becomes a scourge. If now and then we encounter pages that explode, pages that wound and sear, that wring groans and tears and curses, know that they come from a man with his back up, a man whose only defenses left are his words and his words are always stronger that the lying, crushing weight of the world, stronger than all the racks and wheels which the cowardly invent to crush out the miracle of the personality. If any man ever dared to translate all that is in his heart, to put down what is really his experience, what is truly his truth, I think then the world would go to smash, that it would be blown to..."

Tropic of Cancer, p. 224

let's get started

ahh....at long last, a quiet immaterial niche where i can lay my head on the cavestone and drink secretly from the artesianal burble.


music happenings: saw the movie "
I am Albert Ayler" last night at Red Vic. my mouth still tastes like nutritional yeast from the popcorn. the movie was very well done, very structurally inventive by which the director was able to justify a feature length film with very little source material. interviews with ayler's father and former bandmate/brother don ayler were really touching. basically all negative personality traits/actions of the musician were left out, but were nontheless present in large negative space created by noticeably piecemeal commentary from former friends, lovers, bandmates...etc. No mystery was lost, the director was there for Q&A, probably the most staunchly Swedish guy i could imagine, methodical and dry answers. The Question & Answer consisted of a series of staunch if graceful, morally imperative refusals to answer the peoples questions. I was about 77% sympathetic to these awkward rebuttals of his, the remainder seemed overly decorous to the point of evasion. But his heavily tempered enthusiasm was very endearing and in all it added to the experience of the film. Some of the crowd was visibly impatient, though he apparently didn't mind that one bit.
a requiem, an overdue, open-to-the-public retro-funeral, a love song.
Slept on the beach in bolinas the night before, the more wholesome townfolk were walking their dogs past our nylon bubble of dissipating, drunken sleep for some time. Unlike the beach squatters who'd arrived in daylight to find an out of the way nook, we'd plunked down around 5am smack dab in the finest, most stride-friendly stretch of sand right in the middle of beach.
But nobody seemed to mind us.
sat naked to the waist remembering
a drunken tumble, falling cymbals, a DJ with a thing for carpenters. the well wishes of wildcats and ritually marked natives.
enclosed please find spiritual unity, clandestine nibblers.