the things i really couldn't see.
thru the blue.
but probably some sharks.
with timely tentacles.
to pull me down perhaps.
of all the trust i gave the sea.
to my own chagrin.
i jumped myself in.
head first dive.
and drink the fishy salt.
and not see beyond the bluest whale song.
or wave crash.
of all the trust i gave in the sea
my head stayed up.
and bobbed around.
with the brightest stars
in the night.
and the blackest air.
all up and down.
and nibbled i was.
my pinkest flesh.
of all the trust i am the sea.
we swim to shore.
and taste the beach.
a driftwood me.
and there you are.
to carve me west.
while fiddlin with squirrelly spoons i fell into a hole
of puddin with flavor of nothing, just void in my nose, on my tongue.
the joy of joyness came from here where the love of being in love trickled from.
and the put finger of on it was a crushing stone that left the pointee dust.
changing the hue of something we make is hard with only one crayon.
so the only other color i have is spit, and blood, and my eyes.
always never lasts and hunger rarely stops
the bitter font of letters if i must.
want desperately to blog something poetic.
but just cant do it now.
all thats gonna come out is some tidal wave of hellos and goodbys.
every green hillside might enjoy their own angle. rocks slide and roll. they also might enjoy the green hillside and its upside down upness.
when going down for such a stretch, we inanimate objects close our eyes and forget the direction we were. lost in mind, waking to remembering wrong in our travel. expecting to crest and fall faster, the bottom of the hill suprises our sense of which ever way we thought we were going.
black cats spill white milk.
something dons the boombox from under its lapel. what a large something. what a magnificent tailor. what do you expect from the end of the sea. which is land, cant you see.
and driving off of cliffs as the new olympic sport...not the driving and flying and screaming and burning. but, the spectators laughing and slapping of their knees and every other body part that rhymes with knees. and the judges knowing the diaphramatic utterances and slappable body parts like the tit of their mothers. and the medals are made of gold, gold, and gold. but, everybody does not win. just the top three giggly.
willow when will you wear to work fine silk from the noodle lands. the finest of things that escaped the grubby nails of the pirate ship, lusting not for things you have. but, for the things you will never have. load the ship with the look on your face. x marks the spot where your dissapointment is bury'd...har har har.
speaking of stealing booty...
soon i'll write of the cary show and what it meant to me.
but now, fear creeps in slowly thru tiny winding valleys made by too many tears. if only the tears would harden and stack and resonate resistance along its towering wall.
3 birds joining another 3 birds. they meld with 2 other bird blobs of its kind. while fire tornados do what they will and i leap over the world dissasembling, outer shell of burnt bird becomes a protective cocoon for the inner survivors. all the animal species are doin this pattern. while the people around shout 666 as they fall into the chasm or whisk around the convention of the hot funnel. maybe the number of the beast is a good thing. whats wrong with our perception. whats the difference between every thing is one thing/one moment and all of our walls that are "supposed to" protect us.
are we going towards the light or is it coming to us.
squint your eyes to the thinnest of a light sliver.
travel yourself to one end of the light sliver.
look into the tube that was the light sliver.
you'll see yourself looking at your other eye with the universe between you.
oh, i'm tired.
i sound down.
opera is finished
i go home and sleep now.
so, this year is smooth sailing so far (except the nerve damage that the last years surgerys caused), and i'm really looking forward to april 5th.
whats happening april 5th you say?
the cary winscott (starfuckerstarfucker) tribute concert and film festival.
the bosses of his posse asked me to organize a band of all his musician buddies, and its a monster band. top notch. allstar. MVP's. band from heaven.
heres the roster for the 1 hour set:
johnny (wolfe) falstaff,Alan (dogman) miller, Eric dane, toby blunt, aaron loesch, ken jones, matt kelly, micheal danburg, ben collis, randy woodard, geoffrey muller, Scott daniels, eddie hawkins, giancarlo caffareena, jo bird, mo perce, lindsay hardin, christi gutowski, hillary reagin, kevin reagin, cary winscott via satelite from heaven, carolyn wonderland via satelite from austin, tony barilla via satelite from kosovo.
also on the bill are the speeding motorcycle orchestra from austin.
then the catastrophic theater orchestra.
then when the sun goes down, the film debut of speeding motorcycle.
speeding motorcycle was a play/musical written from songs of daniel johnston. featuring our buddy cary winscott as one of daniel johnstons' psyche(s).....
its a sunday at discovery green in downtown houston.
should be very nice.
as in gluteus maximus.
as in ass muscle.
i fear my singing may sound like ass.
most days nowadays i frankly dont give damn.
especially with studio tricks.
but, jason nodler sez we wants to do a tribute show for my late buddy cary winscott. ask me to put some music together. i want to sing some songs and play. to show that i can do it.
the singers spotlight weighs heavy for the doubtful.
i have much to be joyful about.
i have much to be fearful of.
i have much to be concerned about.
are fearful and concerned doubling up on joy.
yes. at times.
breath. dont forget to breath.
we are what we eat.
its soooo polluted here.
i need a new super furry animals cd.
i hope they release one this year.
i'm going under the knife again next monday.
i dont like the idea. because this time i know what to expect.
3 months of recovery and misery.
viodin addiction looming in the horizon.
not being able to use my right arm. and i write with my right arm.
that stupid waver that i had to sign. which reminds me that dr. noland is not responsible for any screw ups including death!
i'm always nervous going under.
this time i know what to expect.
if lady luck values the idea of speedy recovery, then when the dr goes in for my bone spurs and torn meniscus problem, maybe he wont find that i need rotator cuff fixing. which would be great, because then i only heal for 2 weeks.
oh please! all the gods including the one that claims he's the only one (which is all of them i'm sure), even though i believe in none of you.
maybe we should worship the gods that we dont believe in. then, maybe, they cant see us to act their retributions upon us. kinda like when your on acid and the cops cant see you because you dont believe in them. dammit! nevermind.
today was my nieces birthday. she's 2. they had it at the lake woodlands park that we sprinkled my moms ashes in. we were right next to a christian band. eewwwww! i had fun telling them that they were too loud during their mic check.
i'd like to say that we've come along way from chanting around a fire with painted faces. but, by cultural measurement of this band, we've done the impossible. we have de-evolved the concept of open public worship though music. its amazing to me how much christian bands eschew concepts of theology and geometry. now if jesus was in a band....hmmm.
too many tasty humans, not enough hungry aliens. well, we got 12/21/12 to look forward to. hope i make it to witness the demise of all that are an offense to taste and decency.
and some ascii characters i wish i typed today. but, i didn't.*
find a creek, boy, wet your finger, and send your paper boat.
roads are long when trucks with blindspots, crumple up your bike.
carried water from the house to ease the sickly bush.
neck is longer, theres a brake light, wonder what he took.
staring back from brown doe eyes, collide us in the ditch.
whisper ivy, draw a picture, or show me with your hand.
wear your pants tight then youll see just how broke you are.
reams of data on the shelf wisp away like sand.
move your feet boy while you jump up, try to fly away.
speaking of heavy things you do hear the things you dont.
dont you worry 'bout the sound, your song was magnetized.
books are burning feel the heat from your tv set.
pair of brothers sibling mothers share a simple tent.
time to rise, where to raise, bring another shirt.
leap of faith when fish are flying try we couldnt now.
scenes of whether or not things ever might have been this good.
*because i typed them on the date above.
not on the day that you "the reader" are reading.
wishing that i heard these phrases (but didn't) makes me believe that what i actually heard today or yourday, might could be yawnable/drowzyble.
i want to invent a car that could warrant the name "drowzyble" in a positive/utilitarian light.
i'm shopping for a utilitarian mattress/trebuchet.
we attached to the trebuchet, those snowboarding boot anchors and we are offering $4 to whoever/whatever.
i've got enough music ideas whittled down now to complete my first solo album. something i feared in the past. but, now i feel it is necessary. necessary for multiple reasons.
throughout my youth of learning music, my dad would continuously remark that i could never finish a song. song!? what the hell is song!? i'm just trying to learn my instrument. who cares about songs. go listen to radio. it's full of song. well, eventually i learned my instrument and found that the one thing i forgot to learn is...well, songs.
so, for the past 20 years i've been learning the art of song. key people in showing me the art of song are in order: ken jones, greg wood, cary winscott. thanks guys. i love you dearly for it.
song needs a voice, lyrically and stylistically. so, whats my voice? whats my style? well, lets start from my intentions. which come from my philosophy.
basically a schm-oist taoist way. go with the flow. dont look directly at what your looking for. by doing nothing your doing something. allow things to happen. all is one, one is all. the most important things are unexplainable. the 'way' is whatever. wherever you go, there you are.
you know, wishy washyness.
its not really tao, but its close. its not really zen, but its the same understanding. i have no desire to push my thoughts onto people. yet, i do feel a tendancy to let my thoughts wash peoples minds and ears.
i know i said this was going to be brief. oh, well.
so the things i am. and the things i have to say are nothingness and how it relates to our wellbeing. these are my hopes for the album:
- i hope different people hear different meaning in the lyrics.
- i hope people hear different meaning in each time they listen.
- i hope dogs react to certain parts of the songs.
- i hope children like singing some of the songs.
- i hope listeners understand that it is important to un-understand things.
- i hope people distribute the album amongst themselves.
- i hope noone ever pays for my music.
impressionist do it visually.
abstract artist leave you feeling someway or another.
saying something without saying it.
forcing the mind to read between the lines.
unlearning while we learn.
well, thats the brief explanation. here goes an example with words.
probably thought she said to beg. when once again we eyed her.
leaving wind away, she came to cover tracks she left in snow.
well, not snow but sand. but, not even that...behind her.
every yellow blue were told to wait before their egress.
something about the height to where the floor was barely brushed.
as gentle as stone tumbling. as loud as colonels boot.
well the well wishers. signs of their mothers.
looking glass and reading lips.
terror besides and fear forgotten.
spinning her grin attached to the dress.
to where the floor was barely brushed.
ok. so what does this mean to you?
i know what it means to me.
but definately an impression.
of a girl dancing to forget her harsh family life?
this one was stream of conciousness with no edits. finished in about 2 minutes. the flow and sound of the words were my guide. and i had to trust meaning or lack of. i like it. now, if i could speak like that all the time, i would be in heaven. unfortunately, people demand meaning and understanding. its a problem with the world i feel. oh well.
so. my album making problem is that i have music and melody first as the impression and the words have to fit into that mold. well, thats where i have to whittle words. editing again and again. then, theres the couple of songs in spansh. my mothers tongue. that i dont speak. try translating ambiguous concepts into another language! ugh.
maybe i should try making words first. then ornament with music. but, conceptually, i will require the opposite.
heres five albums i need to complete;
cary winscotts songs.
my solo album.
my doowop surround sound dvd.
my latin album.
an album of cover songs.
boy, with my schedule (or lack of one) i better get to work.
ps. oh and cary died and i'm truly at a loss of a good friend. deeply struck with grief. truly inspired by his life and its end. cant wait to hear my new catharsis. in mourning till then. yeah, the hurricane was a bitch (or bastard). but, nothing compared to my yearning for my friend. carys musical taste will be the standard which every album i make will be with. now more than ever, it seems, that if cary likes it...then god likes it.
ps. ps. on a religious note:
i was reading that sharks are birthing pups thru asexual means. there is no male dna in them. as though sharks are having immaculate conception.
maybe christ is back for the second coming as a shark.
and he's pissed!
i havent really been into checking friends blogs all summer.
so, i checkedout joe matheletes blogs. i totally love this dude. and not just because he turned me onto the super furry animals.
i checkedout eyeouts' blog. he hasnt touched his in years now. i wish he would keep it up. still the most talented writer ever (unless he's hopped up on prozac or some other stupid drug that robs one of creative furvor)
starfucker hasnt posted since he went to do the danial johnston show in austin. i wish he'd blog about his current life. it might make his medical dilemas more tolerable.
then i stroll over to catch up with what gerti is doing.
gerti writes zen like affirmations about her goings on. i'm a bit jealous, because living in beautiful upstate new york, how could one NOT write zen like affirmations about their goings on.
well, it made me think that my blog says nothing about my state of being. and state of being i'm full of. pun intended.
my intention is to make it seem funner in writer than it actually is.
the summer of surgery and vicodin addiction.
2001 in whistler. i took 3 days of snow boarding lessons.
i skipped out on the 3rd day because i felt like 'i got it!'
i sorta had it enough to fall down in fluffy snow on the upper part of the mountain. which was a blast and barely hurt.
i had no idea what i was doing when i took a wrong turn (because my cheap ass academy goggles kept foggin up) went down a small dangerous trail that took me to the wrong side of the mountain. ice. for what seemed like a mile.
stand up fall on my butt. again. again. again....
till my butt hurt. then stand up backwords fall on my hands, again, again, again,.....
till that hurt. back to the butt. back to the hands. back to the butt. owwwwwww!
i'm getting no where too slow. i'm going for it! even though i'm exhausted. within 3 seconds i was going what had to be 50 miles an hour. try to slow down. tumble head first many times. try to twist to not make a ball shape. cartwheel many times. slide. try to recover. to tired. upper part of my body is cartwheeling lower part is summersaulting. you cant break out of a snowboard like you can skis. at the bottom of the mountain, i slide a long time to a stop.
my ski suit, a one piece, is ripped completely. exposing my skin and underwear to the weather. cold! but, i worked up quite a sweat. so now the REAL COLD!
somehow i was near the condo. hobbled there real slow.
ever since then i was able to tell the upcoming weather with my knees. and when houston winter would change to spring. ow.....Ow! for the past eight years it has gotten worse. so much that i decided to do surgery this summer.
plus in april of 2007 i laid the motorcycle down and messed up both shoulders.
that incident is a 'over a year' long drawn out piece of crud in its own right. but i dont digress.
so, in may i got an mri on both knees and both shoulders.
torn meniscus and bone spurs showed up on all four joints. plus signs of arthiritis.
late may. left knee orthoscopic surgery. healed well. quick.
late june. right knee orthoscope'd also. healed faster.
aug. 1st. mom and jerry gs' bday, left shoulder. ugh. while doc was in the hole with a scope, he saw that my rotator cuff was torn almost completely away from what it is supposed to be attached to. he sez its the shoulder of a 90 year old. WHAT! maybe so. maybe so.
6 weeks for the muscle to grow back to the bone. WHAT!
the 6 weeks of getting the muscle up being able to lift. WHAT! ugh.
gotta go back to the work at the opera oct. 1 so i gotta put off the right shoulder till ....
the thanksgiving/christmas holidays.........boooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!
so, chalk another up to experience.
i thought there were fleas in the house for a week till i realized that vicodin is an opiate and taking 3 for bedtime was:
taking the pain away. yes.
bringing on the heroin addict itchys real bad. yes.
i plan to stick to my physical therapy till i get buff.
next summer i will be cut. or at least healthy again.
yes i will!
well, after a couple of seasons of the same thing. beautiful bird decides to throw the nut, not onto the forest floor like before, but onto squirrels head. it hurt his head alot. but, he didnt seem to mind. as long as got his fresh nut. 10 years of getting hit on the head with a fresh nut. 10 years of pleading to beautiful bird to let the fresh nut drop onto the forest ground. 10 years a lump on the head. yet, the nut is so fresh.
squirrel comes again and again to the same tree. with the same bird. the same love. the same torture. each time in preparation for the drop. squirrel would look up on hind legs, head back, eyes closed. breathing in thru his little squirrel nose. out his mouth, passing thru the storage cheeks giving breath of not so fresh nuts. eyes rolling back in calm kneeling position. arms apart extended toward the sky. embracing the anticipation. sure squirrel has other things to do. but waiting, and patience, and tolerance become the love.
knock. another on the head. another plea. other things to do.
then, there is the washing machine...old style. a large bucket of castille soap water with a wash board for agitation. and the vertical stacked pinch rollers. that pinch the water out of cloth...then hang them out to dry. the clothes. to dry in the mid day sun and breezes. down wind blows the smell of castille smelling like a particularly delicious salad dressing for a good nut.
when the lady drains the dirty laundry water. then saves the freshest water and soap for the most delicate of night gowns. sir squirrel lick his lips, but inavertantly, his toungue gets caught in the pinch roller. which squeezes the sqirrel tongue thru creating an engorged yet flat and 2 dimensional beginning of a nutty digestive track.
squirrel would look up on hind legs, head back, eyes closed. breathing in thru his little squirrel nose. out his mouth, passing thru the storage cheeks giving breath of not so fresh nuts. eyes rolling back in calm kneeling position. arms apart extended toward the sky. embracing the anticipation. sure squirrel has other things to do. but waiting, and patience, and tolerance become the love.
knock. another on the head. another plea. other things to do.
during the annual migration over the gulf of mexico, beautiful bird lands on a ship. with cult like precision, the cast of the ship are making a reenactment of a ship of slave rowing huge oars, and being whipped by one huge hooded brute. its hard for beautiful bird to see who is enjoying their roles more. one big whipper or many wimpy whippees. beautiful bird landed on the big whippers shoulder and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. then the other ear. then the whiney wimpey whippees. in both ears. now, beautiful bird knows who is enjoying their roles more.
beautiful bird and the entire ship of wierdos, would look up with chest out, head back, eyes closed. breathing in thru his little bird nose. out his beak, passing thru the beak giving breath of not so fresh seeds. eyes rolling back in calm kneeling position. wings apart extended toward the sky. embracing the anticipation. sure the ship mates and bird have other things to do. but waiting, and patience, and tolerance become the love.
he was hugging a woman's baby in front of me. he spiked the baby on the ground and whispered to himself, "hell yeah i'll sign that hairy melon!." he rushed over to see IF my exposure towards him was for what he was thinking. it was.
i offered a sharpie. he parryed and countered with his own. can you believe i had a mock sharpie sword fight with the president of the united states!? he then groped me for perfect stillness while he painted my chest with his john han....
wait a minute.
this is ridiculous.
why would you read something that seems detestable from the get go of the title.
this may turn into a rant about sensasionalism.
it seems that at one time i did like jam bands. at one time, i may have thought that the music that i like 'now' sucks. and everybody that wasn't following the grateful dead is a dumbass.
it seems that i have a graduate degree in the school of "my music is better than yours".
remember when rock and rollers burned beegee albums and wore shirts that stated 'disco sucks'
apparently, now that i think of it, that was the beginning of my 'music bigotry'.
not that i thought that 'disco sucks', shoot i even had my parents mail order for me the album 'disco duck'...ahem...i know, shut up. at the time i was torn. i liked dressing up in polyester slacks and silk shirts. going down to the nearest 'Quinceañera' and showing off my long rehearsed john travolta moves. i also at the time discovered rock and roll like kiss, foghat, queen, styx.
i was really torn.
why did i have to choose a side.
well, i did. i chose to rock out. 1977. corpus christi texas.
i cant remember exactly who i was trying to fit in with. but, they rocked. so i should too.
what is this phenomenon. this music bigotry. this 'us vs. them' thing.
in the early 80's it was country music sucks. rock still prevailed for me, but, it was that rush and yes ruled and all other rock was for pussys.
in the late 80's it was art rock like talking heads and brian eno were so cool that they eclipsed the entire rest of the history of music.
in the 90's pyschedelic music. or at least music on pyschedelics.
except for grunge. grunge sucks.
then the later 90's alt country.
then classic country.
then... i hated all music.
except the stuff that i had liked from the past.
no new music was tolerable. none.
i was always a closet jazzer. and classical was an academic hobby for me.
and i could never get enough of whatever music i happened to be playing/producing.
then i discovered the flaming lips were doing things i had tried to do at one point.
then i discovered the super furry animals were doing things i always dreamed of doing but was incapable of doing.
then the impossibilities of hella!
now. here i am not liking music that i dont love!
preposterous. how stupid to say that i hate anything.
how stupid for anyone to say that this sucks and that dont.
but it happens. what is this music bigotry.
its as though its a natural state of human beings to bigot against something.
maybe its not so much bigoting against something, as it is rallying for something.
its what i hate about sports enthusiest. which i'm not one at all, sports fans suck!
but, why does hate happen. is it for the same reason that love happens. for every action theres a reaction. in order to have a world of love, is it that we have to have equal amounts of hate?~!
there is a point here. i'm just not clear on it yet.
next blog. maybe about music likings connected to positive associations.
the "hunny, their playing our song" theory.
the "this song is about me" theory.
the wheels started turning to what they reprehensibly represent in my minds association of facts and figures, line and form, word and intent, body and soul, status quo and the brilliance of human spirit.
whew! this one will be a doozy. make some room. step back now, i'm on a soap box.
note: these words are unnecessary. all musical efforts are beautiful. the efforts are. not necessarily the content.
that being my disclaimer, here now is my nutshell. or nuts hell.
jambands suck because they dont have a creative bone in their body. its all rehashed thisandthat. they cant write a song. because they dont know how to sculpt a sound or turn a lyrical phrase. its masturbation. its the difference between a musician (oh, i could do that) and an artist (oh, how do they do that?!).
these jamband "musicians" see a gravy train. i call them jam sheep. these are the audience of jambands. unable to think for themselves, like musical lemmings careening over a booty shaking precipice. its even a rehash of the cultural element of the disco fad. "it looks like they are having fun, so i'm having fun" theory.
what kenny g did to jazz. so goes the jamband to rock and roll. ouch! that was offensive!
i was a fan of the grateful dead. i saw over 10 show. dance'd, smile'd, hugged, and cry'd on the way, during, and reminiscing about shows. they were a jamband. they rehashed. they noodled aimlessly. they broke free of cultural atrocities. i ask myself, what was different about them? continue that thought forward. what was different about me.
i was a lemming.why was i a lemming? oh! its the good ole', "they're playing our song" theory. positive associations with even a brief encounter with not just the music, but also the culture. the scene was groovy. so much so, it didn't matter if jerry forgot the lyrics. or if he fell asleep (heroin induced) while playing a guitar solo. or if they cant sing for mud. or. or...
it was fun. thats why i liked them. and thats why people like what they do. i shouldn't have a problem with people enjoying themselves. and ultimately i dont.
but, i do remember being at grateful dead shows and thinking to myself that 'deadheads' are stupid for caring so much about every setlist, and every show, and every tape traded for maximum quality (its a cassette! jeez) and everything collected in jambase. i'm a fan of music, but, these people seemed ridiculous to me. they were just trying to one up each other to be the best deadhead.
there's other music people. come on. what i enjoyed about the dead was the music education that it took to become the dead. those musicians had to study MUSIC in order to do what they did. and lots of it. many different genres. many different bands. their music was an amalgam of what they had learned.
well, these new so called jambands. are only an amalgam of what they studied, it seems. the dead. or the other jamband with a huge audience. ie: dave mathews or phish. yuk! why cover that crap!!!!! oh, because there are millions of jamsheep with lots of money. thats why.
well, it looks like i fell off my soap box onto a high horse.
well, of course, i never really believe what i say. but!
maybe i'm jealous of these bands. playing music that seems very easy to me. they are getting paid beaucoup cash for playing music i would be embarrased to play.
i've always had a problem with what non-musicians like. eric clapton. sux. allman brothers. boring. steve vai. dumb. string cheese incident. psh.
my musical gods are people who do divinely guided and tasteful musical or composition techniques: jimi hendrix, brian wilson, chick corea, paco delucia, super furry animals, neil young, rush, yes, classical indian music, j.s. bach, conjunto accordian players, herbie hancock, gypsy violinist, kate bush, adrian belew, frank zappa, john coltrane, bernie worrell, hella, syd barrett, art tatum, stevie wonder, dj qbert, john cage, etc.... music that pushes the boundary. or music that pushes the listeners ear forward. well, my ear anyway. i dont know whats wrong with your ears!
i'm noticing that there isnt much dance music in that list. maybe i dont like dance music. thats not true. i loved the beegees saturday night fever era. and wait, conjunto and gypsy music is magically danceable. why exactly dont i like jambands?
jambands suck for me maybe because they rehashed once too many times. they are not the source of their musical inspiration. they are not breaking new ground in the history of music. they are keeping alive a 'tradition' of a particular era of music. maybe thats what i hate. tradition. tradition rehashed. like religion.
i know for a fact that i love hearing things for the first time. no matter what it is. and that is what i base my opinion on. "it's been done before. it sux." i do find myself saying that. "wow! what was that!? i've never heard that before!" i do find myself saying that too. but, the super furry animals, who happen to be my new fav's along with the flaming lips. they are rehashers. all be it, rehashing obscure musical stylings of the past. whats different about their rehashing?.... a creative way of reference. not a re-do. a refering to, to get a point across. thats why i dont think of them as rehashers.
have i made a point here? do i even understand what my problem is?!!!
it seems i'm a conceded musician. yes. it's a personal problem.
a couple of blurbs of what i hate about jambands.
its been done before.
jam sheep dont like music. they like what their friends like.
audience is too high on drugs to know any better.
jambands "hump the corpse of the grateful dead" (not my words, but, i loved the quote).
if your not a classical indian tabla player. dont perform tabla. that goes to say with any traditional instruments.
try doing something musically that your unfamiliar with. stop using your bag of licks.
let a poet write your lyrics.
masturbate musically by yourself. its called woodshedding.
play something good.
ps. it bugs me that medeski martin and wood are lumped into the jamband catagories. those guys are very capable of stretching the limits. a real fusion of true jazz and groove.
8 microphones setup for 8 singers. 4 on the left. 4 on the right.
each mic has its own pa system in the audience. 4 on the left. 4 on the right.
there is enough room for the singers to move around the mic stands.
creating live motion effects in the audience area.
at times singers will move about the mics on mic stands.
other times singers will hold the mics and deliver the motion to the voice.
be it, 8 mics on one singer. 8 mics on some singers. 8 mics on all singers.
along with some mics on one singer. some mics on some singers. some mics on all singers.
along with 1 mic on one singer. 1 mic on some singers. 1 mic on all singers.
the singers holding and moving/dancing the mics from voice place to voice place.
might sound really neat.
i got a set list.
i got the gear.
i got the arrangements in my head.
i dont have the voices.
i dont have time.
look up in the sky, its some welsh guys.
with really good taste in delivering high quality hope wrapped in the most pleasant sonic explosion this side of the 60's.
meeting up with ken, laura, james, and marva. gretchen and i spent our 12th (or third leap year) anniversay in san francisco. a trip wrapped around seeing the super furrys play at the Great American Music Hall.
thank you sfa for giving me the best show i've ever seen.
it wasnt about the light show (or lack of one), or the video screens (or lack of them), or massive american fanbase (or lack of one of those too).
i'll tell you exactly what made this my all time favorite music concert.
it was the music.
it was also the killer PA system in which to deliver the bands ultimo-sonics.
a perfect evening of excellent song writing (the best i've experienced this side of lennon/mccartney and brian wilson smeared together.)
perfect sonic execution.
everybody in the band lending their part flawlessly. kian on keys doing all the psychedelic tinking that makes me smile. guto on bass with the most round bottom and precision patience. dafyd on drums, oh so solidly, playing real kit in and around the programming. bunf with his great gibson gods bringing sonic gifts to us mortals. and gruffs sweet upside down rythmn guitar finesse. of course gruffs voice of all voices, and the tasty bax of bunf and kian.
the room itself sounding like the inside of a finely tuned stradivarius. ornate at every glance. and the line array pa system, with its absolute sonic perfection. l'acoustics V DOSC line array was and still is the best of the industry. everyone has their version of line array now. but, the v dosc is the best. loud and pure. no ear fatigue. able to carry on a conversation without the pain. yet, able to rock your nuts, band permitting. and oh were they ever rocked!
i saw the band a week before at emos in austin. the pa there was challenged, but, it was a great show never the less. but, it was no great american music hall!
its the bands whimsey that really gets me. even their serious songs are tongue in cheek. you gotta look beyond surface to find the meaning in the song. and just beyond that, the joke. sometimes a humorous joke, sometimes a satirical joke, sometimes downright a sad joke.
i'm gonna find a setlist online somewhere so i can comment on everysong...
kliph from flaming lips played scissors and scissors solo on 'torra fy ngwallt yn hir' (which gruff said the closest american pronunciation is 'terrible mountaineer').
some women sang duet with gruff on 'hello sunshine'. edit: the woman was wendy flowers of...
wendy and bonnies' song 'by the sea' is borrowed for the mello intro of 'hello sunshine'. they were sisters (13 yrs. and 17 yrs. old) from san francisco who put out one album in 1969. cool! i didnt know that!
gruff chewed giant carrot on 'recepticle for the respectable'. paul mccartney chew'd the carrot on the album. he also chew'd carrot on the beach boys smily smile.
what does the german sign mean at the ende? bleich euch ...??
kian back to audience when he plays guitar? huh?
red power ranger represents the leader of the fighters of corporate evils and monsters.
grateful deads 'one from the vault' is from gamh.
go here for this guys great photos from the LA show.
sfa on flickr here
and this guy keeps up with the furrys and all of their sideshows, more than the furrys website does here
added feb. 16
Emos : Austin, TX : Feb. 03, 2008
Rings Around the World
Gateway SongRun Away
Do or Die
She Got Spies
The Gift that Keeps Giving
Receptacle for the Respectable
Into the Night
Baby Ate My 8ball
If You Don't Want Me To Destroy You
Man Don't Give a Fuck
Great American Music Hall : San Francisco, CA : Feb. 09, 2008
Slow Life - gruff sings through eyehole of red power rangers helmet.
Do or Die
Terrible mountaineer (Torra Fy Ngwallt Yn Hir) - starring kliph scurlock (drummer flaming lips) on scissors. something about "will you cut my hair long?"
Gift That Keeps Giving
Receptacle - it was a big carrot!
Juxtapose - gruff did the 2 mike boom. one side vocoder (oh so nice) and clean voice.
Into The Night
Hello Sunshine - duet with wendy flowers. a repeat of the fillmore 2002, 2004, 2005 sfa shows.
Man Don't Give
From the book 'The Real Frank Zappa Book'
The following section is excerpted from the keynote address I delivered at the 1984 convention of the American Society of University Composers (ASUC).
I do not belong to your organization. I know nothing about it. I'm not even interested in it - and yet, a request has been made for me to give what purports to be a keynote speech. Before I go on, let me warn you that I talk dirty, and that I will say things you will neither enjoy nor agree with. You shouldn't feel threatened, though, because I am a mere buffoon, and you are all Serious American Composers. For those of you who don't know, I am also a composer. I taught myself how to do it by going to the library and listening to records. I started when I was fourteen and I've been doing it for thirty years. I don't like schools. I don't like teachers. I don't like most of the things that you believe in-and if that weren't bad enough, I earn a living by playing the electric guitar. For convenience, without wishing to offend your membership, I will use the word "WE" when discussing matters pertaining to composers. Some of the "WE" references
will apply generally, some will not. And now: The Speech....
The most baffling aspect of the industrial-American-relevance question is: "Why
do people continue to compose music, and even pretend to teach others how
to do it, when they already know the answer? Nobody gives a fuck." Is it really worth the trouble to write a new piece of music for an audience that doesn't care? The general consensus seems to be that music by living composers is not only irrelevant but also genuinely obnoxious to a society which concerns itself primarily with the consumption of disposable merchandise. Surely "WE" must be punished for wasting everyone's precious time with an art form so unrequired and trivial in the general scheme of things. Ask your banker-ask your loan officer at the bank, he'll tell you: "WE" are scum. "WE" are the scum of the earth. "WE" are bad people. "WE" are useless bums. No matter how much tenure "WE" manage to weasel out of the universities where "WE" manufacture our baffling, insipid packages of inconsequential poot, "WE" know deep down that "WE" are worthless. Some of us smoke a pipe. Others have tweed sports coats with leather patches on the elbows. Some of us have mad scientists' eyebrows. Some of us engage in the shameless display of incredibly dramatic mufflers, dangling in the vicinity of a turtleneck sweater. These are only a few of the reasons why "WE" must be punished.
Today, just as in the glorious past, the composer has to accommodate the specific taste (
matter how bad) of THE KING-reincarnated as a movie or TV producer, the head of the opera company, the lady with the feightening hair on the 'special committee' or her niece, Debbie.
Some of you don't know about Debbie, since you don't have to deal with radio stations and record companies the way the people from The Real World do, but you ought to find out about her, just in case you decide to visit later. Debbie is thirteen years old. Her parents like to think of themselves as average, God-Fearing American White Folk. Her Dad belongs to a corrupt union of some sort and is, as we might suspect, a lazy, incompetent, overpaid, ignorant son-of-a-bitch.
Her mother is a sexually maladjusted mercenary shrew who lives to spend her husband's paycheck on ridiculous clothes-to make her look 'younger.' Debbie is incredibly stupid.
She has been raised to respect the values and traditions which her parents hold sacred. Sometimes she dreams about being kissed by a lifeguard. When the people in the Secret
Office Where They Run Everything From found out about Debbie, they were thrilled. She was perfect. She was hopeless. She was their kind of girl.
She was immediately chosen to become the Archetypical Imaginary Pop Music Consumer & Ultimate Arbiter of Musical Taste for the Entire Nation - from that moment on, everything musical in this country would have to be modified to conform to what they computed to be her needs and desires.
Debbie's 'taste' determined the size, shape and color of all music broadcast and sold in the United States during the latter part of the twentieth century. Eventually she grew up to be just like her mother, and married a guy just like her Dad. She has somehow managed to reproduce herself. The people in The Secret Office have their eye on the daughter at this very moment.
Now, as a serious American composer, should Debbie really concern you? I think so.
Since Debbie prefers only short songs with lyrics about boy-girl relationships, sung by persons of indeterminate sex, wearing S&M clothing, and because there is Large Money involved, the major record companies (which a few years ago occasionally risked investment in recording of new works) have all but shut down their classical divisions, seldom recording new music.
The small labels that do, have wretched distribution. (Some have wretched accounting procedures - they might release your recording, but you won't get paid.)
This underscores a major problem with living composers: they like to eat. (Mostly what they eat is brown and lumpy_and there is no question that this diet has had an effect on their collective output.) A composer's job involves the decoration of fragments of time. Without music to decorate it, time is just a bunch of boring production deadlines or dates by which bills must be paid. Living composers are entitled to proper compensation for the use of their works. (Dead guys don't collect - one reason their music is chosen for performance.)
There is another reason for the popularity of Dead Person Music. Conductors prefer it
because they need more than anything else to look good. By performing pieces that
the orchestra members have hacked their way through since conservatory days, the rehearsal costs are minimized - players go into jukebox mode, and spew off 'the classics' with ease-and the expensive guest conductor, unencumbered by a score with 'problems' in it, gets to thrash around in mock ecstasy for the benefit of the committee ladies (who wish he didn't have any pants on).
"Hey, buddy, when was the last time you thwarted a norm? Can't risk it, eh? Too much at stake over at the old Alma Mater? Nowhere else to go? Unqualified for 'janitorial employment'? Look out! Here they come again! It's that bunch of guys who live in the old joke: it's YOU and two billion of you closest friends standing in shit up to your chins, chanting, 'DON'T MAKE A WAVE!'"
It's the terror of a bad review from one of those tone-deaf elitists who use the premiere performance of every new work as an excuse to sharpen their word skill.
It's settling for rotten performances by musicians and conductors who prefer the sound of Death Warmed Over to anything scribbled in recent memory (making them 'assistant music critcs,' but somehow more glamorous).
It's clutching the ol' Serial Pedigree, secure in the knowledge that no one checks anymore.
Beat them to the punch, ladies and gentlemen!
Punish yourselves before they do it for you. ( If you do it as a group, the TV rights might be worth something.) Start planning now, so that everything will be ready in time for the next convention. Change the name of your organization from ASUC to "WE"-SUCK, get some cyanide and swizzle it into the punch bowl with some of that white wine 'artistic' people really go for, and Bite The Big One!
If the current level of ignorance and illiteracy persists, in about two or three hundred years a merchandising nostalgia for this era will occur-and guess what music they'll play! (They'll still play it wrong, of course, and you won't get any money for having written it, but what the hey? At least you didn't die of syphilis in a whorehouse opium stupor with a white curly wig on.)
It's all over, folks. Get smart-take out a real estate license. The least you can do is tell your students: "DON'T DO IT! STOP THIS MADNESS! DON'T WRITE ANY MORE MODERN MUSIC!" ( If you don't , the little stinker might grow up to kiss more ass than you, have a longer, more dramatic neck-scarf, write music more baffling and insipid than you own, and Bingo! there goes your tenure.)
*NOTE From the Editors of Muscience:
It pretty much sums up my thoughts on the issue.
Muscience agrees with everything FZ says and we'd like to acknowledge
basic plagurism. No one can say it any better....
Go check out FZ website.
Unfortunately, Mr. Zappa failed to see into the future correctly. The insipid little 'debbies' out there, somehow managed to brood something called myspace and blogspot. From the afterbirth of these spawn comes a feeding ground for the composers of oddness to nurture their monsters. Monsters with the capacity to destroy the music moguls of our recent history. Gives a new spin on 'using little debbies for the wrong/right reasons'
(look behind you to the left. look behind you to the right.)
4 small nits stand near a precipice. (too near if you ask me) their whatwhat dialogue going on for 2 days straight. neither of them giving in. people thought the competion would last only 5 minutes. these four were at each others throats. all equally determined with winning the trophy. (or atrophy if you ask me). i left the circus tent for air. for what? for air. whatwhat?....stop it. i can breathe steadier, it seems, if i sing it to myself. just look at the ground for awhile. the what? stop it. the sound of 3 things hitting the ground broke my attention with a gasp. could it really be?! sounds of cheering!? oh, no!? theres a winner? a what? oh, no. 3 fell. oh, no. three fell. oh, no. could it be? a what? a winner a what?
faith, reason, and imagination. three classically means to knowledge, meaning or truth.
truth, belief, and justification are notions that are similiar to knowledge.
notion can be described as a reflection in the mind of real objects and phenomena in their essential features and relations.
Loosely speaking, justification is the reason why someone holds the belief, the explanation as to why the belief is a true one, or an account of how one knows what one knows.
one is not what they believe in.
by proving this to you, i would negate this contention.
imagine, if you will, a charity collecting money for its needs. its needs are meaning. its money is intention. will it ever make its mark. do charities intend to complete their course. do they really. or are their true unspoken intentions, to collect forever. for a resolutionless cause. the later, i suppose.