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Gordon Dahlquist's second entry in the trilogy Glass Books of the Dream Eaters is out? almost out? in England, but not in the US for quite a spell, because I think we spoiled it, on a national level, by not being able to, you know, handle the girth. I'm ashamed. Nonetheless, he stopped by Neighborhood Public Radio to discuss, truly at my insistence, the role of allegory in his work, but it really was an excuse to play PiL (and others). |
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This moribund blog pressed into service coincidentally has the perfect entry from May 2004, a reflection on Neighborhood Public Radio. On my way to NYC to their installation at the Whitney Biennial I edited House of Zoka's 2004 NPR appearance into a one-minute (and change) snapshot o, clearly an improvement, except you don't hear the performance of The Public Toe Problem by Daniel Popsicle. You don't need to. Just say it out loud and you can pretty much guess what it sounds like. |
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- the sound of the mysterious michael z softly respirating in that ocean that will not admit me
A CD from Neighborhood Public Radio arrived with the air check of House of Zoka speaking extemporaneously about documentation of the Bay Area's creative new music scene.
We listened to it while enjoying fresh pieces of rockfish baked veracruz-style in a chipotle salsa, which, as I ate, seemed to be slightly more sophisticated in flavor than I really deserved, yet, there it was, or wasn't, because I was inhaling it.
Listening to you and your partner talk while you and your partner sit in silence, eating randomly exquisite food, is odd. Then, as you might expect, as we listened to ourselves begin to disagree on some subject, and begin to talk over eachother, we took up the issue from the radio program and began to have the very same disagreement, talking over the talking over. It was like putting the stereo between two mirrors and watching the sound stretch into infinity.
I pulled a bone from my mouth and set it gingerly on the side of the plate.
We're always careful with the tiny things that could take us out. |
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- TOO MUCH COINCIDENCE
I am updating zoka.com, which is normally mysterious and counter-intuitive, with a gesture toward, as opposed to a meaningful summary of, the various House of Zoka music projects.- This after planning all morning to paint the front door of my building with a homage to Magritte's Treachery of Images: Ceci n'est pas une porte cassée. The door glass was broken over a week ago and was boarded up, but no repair seems forthcoming. It's just a piece of plywood, so it deserves a treatment. Perhaps tonight.
- This after putting a nearly-forgotten cover of Mission of Burma's That's When I Reach For My Revolver by She Mob out for consideration to, get this, a compilation of women's punk rock that features women punk rockers covering songs written by men. The editor is not getting many bites. I think it has something to do with women punk rockers having other creative priorities.
- This after wondering if there was any audio documentation for Daniel Popsicle on the web and so while a-googling
- I find this blog entry that not only describes the Daniel Popsicle experience (as a player or as a listener) perfectly, but had a Mission of Burma previ-link that included an eloquent and insightful reference to Magritte.
- And. Plus. A link to Radio Free Blogistan, which is how I got started here.
- I must know this person.
- Or do I?
- Oh. The sun just came out.
- Gnomesayin.
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- back to that fucking jim o'rourke song
ASK. ME. IF. I. CARE.
- deerhoof
6 MARCH FROM THE LIMINAL GALLERY
The Mysterious MZ decided to record this and miscalculated what part of the warehouse they would set up in: the low stage in front of us or the big stage we were perched on. The latter. So he jumped down and crossed over to where the, what?, german? french? spanish? drunk? young men were tumbling over eachother in basically dangerous, but polite, abandon. MMZ tells me to stand in front of the mic stand and protect it.
The whole show with my arms folded over my chest and my jaw set in enforcer position. What a happy way to enjoy Deerhoof!
The next night at Bottom of the Hill was apparently identical but for a few. The Shan Franshiskans stood expressionless through the entire thing.
I stayed home and listened to Milk Man, which may be a breakthrough, or the end, I cannot tell:
3-29 - Glasgow, Scotland - TBA
3-30 - London, England - Spitz
3-31 - London, England - XFM session
4-1 - London, England - Peel session
4-2 - All Tomorrow's Parties
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| » 2004.03.08 ears |
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- I Can See The Mormon Temple From Here
I CAN'T NOT HEAR IT | IT'S IN MY HEAD ALL THE TIME | WHY SONG WHY?
- I Will Kill You Fucker
LIVE AT THE STARRY PLOUGH | FEB 13, 2004
In a recent meeting with the executive and development directors, we contemplated a constellation of about thirty pastel color-coded post-it notes I had left on the wall. What were they? What did they mean? What were our next steps?
We turned our eyes to this... lil cave of altamira and immediately, three-o'clock high style, I saw that somehow, three of my non-pastel color coded post-it notes had made it into the mix. They referred to things that I really had to do right away, but since they were adhered to this wall, and not the wall in my office, I had really very seriously not attended to those things, or had I?
Yes, I had, certainly, because I had subconsciously felt comfortable leaving them here.
No, I hadn't, panic setting in, because there was nothing to remind me that it all needed to be done.
Then that convenient calm descended, just like it descended around my unmailed bill payment, discovered between the seat and the emergency brake of my friend's car. This is overdue by several months, yet I have yet to receive any consequences, I thought, holding the coffee-smelling document and looking at the water from our postion on the flyover. This calls into question all kinds of things. Things like Time. Consequences. Efficiency of Systems.
Because of all this (I do believe that), the executive director went to these notes immediately and asked for a full report.
Suggestions for epitaphs.
Mar. 8th, 2004 @ 12:01 pm
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| » 2004.03.02 ears |
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- if it weren't for my brother falling off of a horse
MICHAEL Z'S LATEST INSTALLMENT IN THE LANDLORD'S AVOIDANCE OF REPAIRING OUR BROKEN WINDOW
- mouse-clicks as bloody valentine is transferred to the 8600 and tracked
- david thomas in my head singing "and every day will be a holiday" over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over
pushin
Mar. 2nd, 2004 @ 10:22 pm
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| » 2004.02.29 ears |
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- long to zero
- terry riley's rainbow in curved space
- sting with a hurdy gurdy around his neck
The rule is to bring in the big choir at the end (of the universe).
Feb. 29th, 2004 @ 06:42 pm
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| » 2004.01.05 ears |
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- crankenstein
- don't worry
- 15,000 pounds
Alana actually fled the studio with his fingers in his ears as we played! His body was tilted forward like Adam's upon being expelled from Eden. And as I watched him run, I encountered a feeling equal parts astonishment, triumph and uncertainty. Yes, sure we rock, but...
but...
is he OK?
You decide.
Jan. 5th, 2004 @ 10:59 pm
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| » 2004.01.01 ears |
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Jan. 1st, 2004 @ 09:11 pm
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| » ask another question |
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Last night someone started reading from one of those little books of questions you can pick up as you wait a few days in the barnes and noble check out line. These books, and books quite like them only representing answers, or parallels, or ironies, seem to always be available there, like bags of chips, only in wee form, calendar form, day-runner form, pop-up form, water-cooler form --
Here's the thing: last night's readers scanned the pages without speaking aloud, little looks of disgust growing broader on their faces until they would wordlessly throw the book. Somebody would pick it up and we'd say
OK.
*You* read another question.
There may have been no suitable questions in the book of questions. I made up my own:
How did I get here? The room is filled with talk, food, drink, music, laughter and I'm being drawn up into the corner by the ceiling by some Dream Supervisor, moonlighting in the wrong area of human consciousness. It's New Year's Eve so everyone is moving in a soft light with vaselined edges, but the provenance is missing. I try to get the Dream Supervisor's attention, but she's furiously scribbling on her clipboard.
What was the Austrian medical researcher thinking when he opposed the establishment of a neonatal clinic in Lhasa? Let them die, he said. I was hearing this third hand and I imagined his eugenic-al accent. Still, I did not shriek. I turned my head and opened my mouth, then closed my mouth, my mental picture Koyaanisqatsi-style fast forwarding through the industrialization of Tibet (left side of the screen) and the return of my industrialized neighborhood in East Oakland to wetlands after we are removed by a fast-acting hemorrhagic virus (right side of screen).
and then, in a rush to re-anchor:
Where can I find that hack to permit dubbing new audio tracks onto DVDs? plus the follow-up Does the phase "permit dubbing" always sound like a euphemism of "unlawful tampering?" I need to know, so I can take the work from 2003 and repackage it in 2004.
I asked that last one aloud, and wrote the answers on a piece of paper I can't find now.
Outside on the deck we assembled in a circle, each holding a candle. While lighting the first candle and each in turn, we were invited to speak of the expiring year, offer a wish for the oncoming one, or not, but, like so many chain letters, do not bust the flow. We didn't. The neighborhood crackled with explosions, all very, very benign.
Jan. 1st, 2004 @ 04:55 pm
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| » peter gabriel is inside a ball |
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so ends one of my favorite arguments with The Mysterious MZ.
In 1992, or 3, Peter Gabriel had just crested the top of his game, and was about to make that thrilling descent. Cast yer mind back, because we may have all been cresting the top of our game at that time. It's hazy for me but I think we were all collecting musics of the world as they were presented to us by western artists (or, alternatively, we were watching the original incarnation of Korn in Bakersfield, or nearly throwing out the pj harvey album because it reminded us of patti smith [THANK JEEBUS I DINT]).
Anyhoo.
I was trying to have breakfast with MZ at The Diggery (which I cannot recommend) and he kept gettting up to use a payphone to call to get tickets to the Peter Gabriel show. It was clear he was doing this for our mutual benefit, but the transaction was bringing me down, the the way Laurie Anderson's Hansel does to Gretel.
So I was a little needy, yes, what of it?
I feel as prepared today to fight with MZ about this as I was the day it occurred: a classic man-woman war of intention and expectation and assumption and desire. Go. Fill in the blanks.
He got tickets, exquisite fourth-row ones, for which I was dutifully charged my portion. Then the tour was cancelled due to someone important in the band overdosing, I mean, coming down with the flu. The rescheduled show date conflicted with one of our pilgrimages to New York, which I had not lairnt to tolerate as well as I do now. I was happy to cancel the New York trip.
But MZ insisted on giving up the tickets he had annoyed me with on so many many levels, and completing our lil visit to fucking hell.
The guy who bought the tickets went with us to see Peter Gabriel tonight, where I spent the whole evening thinking about
- what a difference a decade makes, and
- peter gabriel is dressed like a jedi, and
- he's making someone pretend she's rowing in a stationary boat, and
- it's over for this man, solsbury hill or no solsbury hill
- the diehard fans did bring a tear to me one good eye, because
- there weren't enough of them to open the upper decks in the arena
SAME SAME FOR DEBORAH HARRY OPENING FOR TEARS FOR FEARS AT ARCO ARENA | NICE COAT DEBORAH!
I think I'm going to learn to write like steve.</b>
Dec. 15th, 2002 @ 01:51 am
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| » and i wished it would never end |
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For about two weeks now I've been considering not going to see a live music show in 2003. Instantaneously I realized that in so doing
- I would turn into just about Everyone Else
except Everyone Else
- actually goes to the show and talks through the whole fucking thing while I impotently glare at the backs of their heads
But you know what I mean.
I Said No to plenty of shows in 2002, about half of the one's The Mysterious MZ attended (or was paid to attend). I regret it, now that I'm looking at the list. But had I gone, I would have doubled my aggravation.
Especially as I squished in the aisles for the Tenacious D instore at Amoeba. I hovered over my answer when MZ axed me to go, moving quickly, requiem for a dream stylee over the progression of from innocent pleasure-seeker to eviscerated vacant pawn of addiction. Instead of heroin, my Tenacious D Instore At Amoeba Drug is a cocktail of
- bridge traffic
- the inadequacy of parking in shan franshisky
- the very real (and no less disturbing) fact that I identify with a band that yet again only appeals to men I really don't want to get to know
- the transaction, the transaction, the transaction, the transaction, the transaction
I don't really know what I mean by the transaction except to say that we're creating and consuming culture according to restricted norms. They rise, admittedly, from practicalities, but the whole stupid business chafes.
So if I stop going, and turn my ear to all the things that I've collected, documented, alphabetized, and not listened to since, or, in some cases, ever, I may sidestep that feeling of falling endlessly into a
Pool of Almost Understood What You Meant By That Sound But For All These Distractions Which Admit It You're Suffering From Too
In other parts of my day, this desire to retreat is characterized by the wish to contract a terminal illness (one more terminal than life itself) and become a Buddhist nun.
But if I quit going to shows, my last show will be some New Year's Eve unriveting thing (three years of the Melvins -- why am I so sick?). According to the inside of the box, the game is over in a final flourish of excellence on someone's part, not in the mixed drink line at the Arena during Phil & Friends...
...or with Les Claypool attempting to ejikate his listeners
...or with the random playablahblah of Anon Salon
...or with the scene-gone-badsters at the Cow Palace
Dec. 12th, 2002 @ 03:23 am
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| » new lodge |
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13 hours equals
- three songs
- you have no idea what I have to deal with
- can't quit can't be fired
- wet kitten
- two tantrums
- regarding process
- regarding intent
- one fluxus piece that could have been so great, but turned into something so shtupid.
- try to find it
- or just pick one a day until you've done them all
</ul>
immersion composition society
Dec. 8th, 2002 @ 07:36 am
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| » The Car's On Fire And There's No One At The Wheel |
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As easily as my gear was sold to a prankster who had no intention of buying it, it was unsold. The procedure for Non-Paying Bidder is lengthy in order to distinguish Lazy Bidders Who Mean Well from Fuckhead Bidders Who Mean Ill. I actually think I'm in the former category, hence my reluctance to press the matter.
Because everything is about projection.
Yet, whoosh, my account was credited (in lieu of having my money refunded: paid in cash, refunded in monopoly money). Bidder suspended. The binary code is mightier than the sword.
Yet, I still like my Non-Paying Bidder. I think it's fun to play tricks on people. The distinguishing feature... or is it the mitgating factor? is how the tricked people are selected.
And in the blink of an eye, someone has stepped up to take the place of the Non-Paying Bidder, and in this way, after accidentally knocking the curtain, I can report:
Things sold through a place that rhymes with FeeWay have a little momentum while they are listed. If the thing doesn't sell, then the momentum truly swarms in the wake of the failed sale. This flurry of activity doesn't take place in the place that rhymes with FeeWay, but in the Alley Just Outside the place that rhymes with FeeWay.
However, no one in either place wants to pay a fair price for quality goods. They are so many people on your lawn offering you a quarter, regardless of the size and function of the object.
So I miss Non-Paying Bidder, who at least had a sense of humor and so generously accepted my reserve.
It was fun while it lasted.
Dec. 4th, 2002 @ 10:36 pm
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| » description and salesmanship are not parallel |
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You know those letters you get from the [INSERT APPARENTLY WELL-RESOURCED NONPROFIT ORGANIZATION HERE] asking you for the [INSERT POWER OF TEN HERE] time to give at the level just above where you gave before?
I notice that they always have
- margins less than a half inch around because they are sore afraid you will not turn over the page
- a serif font, which is considered legible but you and I know it is not.
- an unwillingness to italicize for emphasis. Emphatic messages are always bold and underlined, which strikes me as typographically hyperbolic
- a message that attempts to make you aware of just how desparate things are [GET USED TO IT] while attempting to inspire you to believe that giving at the slightly higher level you did last year will effect the outcome one iota.
- neglected to include a checkbox that permits one to give money and never receive another set of slightly incorrect mailing labels, gift cards, newsletters, or affinity marketing opportunities ever again. You know. So that the paltry donation I'm about to make isn't just a fraction of the production cost of the solicitation.
- made me wince.
So.
I'm bringing all my talents to bear on the creation of one of these very pieces of forgettable AND TYPOGRAPHICALLY INFURIATING direct mail solicitations.
There I said it.
Sigh.
Blame me, because I'm aiding and abetting.
Dec. 2nd, 2002 @ 08:38 pm
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| » hello freud, |
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goodbye, avenue a.
I lied to everyone about taking friday off, then climbed on a nearly empty bus this morning with the intent of getting all the work done one can get done at work...
...when no one knows one is at work.
Little retail not included:
Working on the friday after thanksgiving gives one an excellent idea of what things would be like if the lone gunmen were permitted to continue their agenda. Roomy. Quiet. Efficient.
So yes, naturally, I forgot the keys to the workplace. I stood there about to be truly disappointed at my forgetfulness... and then I went down to the courtyard and ate my bagel, chatted with the butcher guy who never truly understood what I meant when he overheard me advising a friend never to ask a man with no arms to carry boxes, climbed back on another nearly empty bus and drifted back.
With a type of drunken imprecision I tried to decide whether looking at the keys on the counter, then failing to put the keys in the pocket, then traveling to the locked place that required the keys should be seen through
- a freudian lens
BAD!
- a monkey-mind lens
YOU BUDDHISTS ARE A BUNCH OF NAGGING HALL MONITORS!
- a random lens
IN WHICH NOTHING IS TRUE AND EVERYTHING IS PERMITTED!
- a compassionate lens
I REALLY REALLY LOVE ME!
Now finally here I can list them all. On the bus ride I would get a third of the way through the list and start over. Repeatedly. I think there was a carbon monoxide leak.
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Nov. 29th, 2002 @ 09:28 am
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| » Shappiness |
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It's impossible to watch the Macy's [THANKSGIVING] Day Parade on the television anymore. It's a series of crane shots over theater people who yap and bark inane things to fabulously up-with-people tempos.
MZ wakes and takes in about 30 seconds of it before reporting that the media is extra super brittle to report today that
everything is just fine, in fact, better than fine it's
fucking great so
smile.
Regardless of the implicit metaphor of futility that the giant balloon of a football eluding the giant balloon of Charlie Brown invokes.
The Rockettes just changed the lyrics (and the destination) of the A Train so it evades Harlem.
I cannot watch.
Two years on and I finally get around to my pre-millennial tension.
It's tricky.
Nov. 28th, 2002 @ 10:10 am
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| » Big Game |
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Tightwad hill was mobbed and I had a disturbing case of xenophobia. I've been waiting a decade to write about what happens up there from my unique perspective of being an absolutely bottom ranking nobody.
It'll come. It'll come. It'll come.
MZ says this happened after I left:
- the people that took my spot eventually joined a Gang of Fifty at the bottom of the hill. The gang would crash the gate tsunami-style, not so much to see the game, but to be in a good position to be one of the many many
- people running onto the field, naturally. This is the part I've never done. Nothing that has ever happened on a field has ever made me want to run onto it right afterward. Touchdowns. DJs. Burning Men. Easter eggs. Ice storms.
- Goalposts were torn down and marched about the place in such a haphazard fashion that it was obvious no one had really thought through the whole project, or assumed a leadership role. What does one do with a big giant goalpost? It was shown on Bancroft later that night on televised news.
- Mob ruled. Everytime MZ mentions mob rule, I wonder what he means or if it invokes his desire for it or his horror or if it means every other mob is implicit, nascent in the one he's describing. In groups I galvanize instead of magnetize. Even if mob was ruling I'd be esconced in another perception of it in which I was completely other.
</ul>
This is a metaphor and I'm unwilling to deal with it.
Add to my misery the desire to stand on football terraces during matches and not have my identity detected. It's part of a package tour of the world as a man, driving mars bars from canterbury to jerusalem, showing unexpected kindness to my own kind, and ending up, well, dead from the gross misunderstanding this type of trickery tends to engender.
There you have it.
Nov. 24th, 2002 @ 08:21 pm
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| » We love show biz. And if you don't love show biz, we will destroy you. |
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Waiting for the murder ballad show to start, I started passing out fake blood capsules so that we could all be indicating signs of internal bleeding, or just give good-natured fight club grins now and again.
Praba understood how to use them: popping two, snapping them hard and kicking her head to the side to start the flow out the corner of her mouth. Sue and Lisa declined to employ the device. I waited with a few in my mouth until the gelatin started to weaken, then spit out the contents. It really was bad tasting. How can anything not bad for you taste quite that bad? It had to be bad for you and no one was telling. I popped another.
Alan had a handful and when I looked over to him to see how he was doing, a three foot thread of drool was coming out of his mouth. It wasn't even tinted pink. He was just standing on stage, playing bass, and drooling this massive drool.
So, yeah these things work perfectly.
Nov. 24th, 2002 @ 07:45 pm
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