I live in an old house where nothing
screams victory
reads history
where nothing
plants flowers
sometimes my clock falls
someitmes my sun is like a tank on fire
I do not ask
your armies
or
your kisses
or
your death
I have my
own
my hands have arms
my arms have shoulders
my shoulders have me
I have me
you have me when you can see me
but I don't like you
to see me
I do not like you to see that
I have eyes in my head
and can walk
and I do not want to
answer your questions
I do not want to
amuse you
I do not want you to
amuse me
or sicken me
or talk about
anything
I do not want to
love you
I do not want to
save you
I do not want your arms
I do not want your shoulders
I have me
you have you
let that
be.
Friday, February 8, 2008
the screw-game by charles bukowski
one of the terrible things is
really
being in bed
night after night
with a woman you no longer
want to screw.
they get old, they don't look very good
anymore - they even tend to
snore, lose
spirit.
so, in bed, you turn sometimes,
your foot touches hers -
god, awful! -
and the night is out there
beyond the curtains
sealing you together
in the
tomb.
and in the morning you go to the
bathroom, pass in the hall, talk,
say odd things; eggs fry, motors
start.
but sitting across
you have 2 strangers
jamming toast into mouths
burning the sullen haed and gut with
coffee.
in 10 million places in America
it is the same -
stale lives propped against each
other
and no place to
go.
you get in the car
and you drive to work
and there are more strangers there, most of them
wives and husbands of somebody
else, and besides the guillotine of work, they
flirt and joke and pinch, somethings tend to
work off a quick screw somewhere -
they can't do it at home -
and then
the drive back home
waiting for Christmas or Labor Day or
Sunday or
something.
really
being in bed
night after night
with a woman you no longer
want to screw.
they get old, they don't look very good
anymore - they even tend to
snore, lose
spirit.
so, in bed, you turn sometimes,
your foot touches hers -
god, awful! -
and the night is out there
beyond the curtains
sealing you together
in the
tomb.
and in the morning you go to the
bathroom, pass in the hall, talk,
say odd things; eggs fry, motors
start.
but sitting across
you have 2 strangers
jamming toast into mouths
burning the sullen haed and gut with
coffee.
in 10 million places in America
it is the same -
stale lives propped against each
other
and no place to
go.
you get in the car
and you drive to work
and there are more strangers there, most of them
wives and husbands of somebody
else, and besides the guillotine of work, they
flirt and joke and pinch, somethings tend to
work off a quick screw somewhere -
they can't do it at home -
and then
the drive back home
waiting for Christmas or Labor Day or
Sunday or
something.
down by the wings - charles bukowski
they speak of angels or she
speaks of angels
from a plateglass window overlooking the
Sunset Strip
(she has these visions)
(I don't have these visions)
but maybe angels prefer people with
money
daughters of rich farmers who are dying of
throat cancer in Brazil.
myself - I keep seeing these
wingless creatures of mean story and dismal
intent
and she says
when I defame her
dream:
you are trying to
pull me down
by the wings.
she's going to Europe in the summer -
Greece, Italy, most probably
Paris and she's
taking some of her angels with
her.
not all
but some.
now there's this half-Chinese boy who used to
sleep on fire escapes
the Negro homosexual who plays chess and
recited Shelley at the Sensualist
then there's the one who has real talent with the
brush (Nickey) but who simply can't get
started
somehow and
there's also Sieberling who cries because he
love his mother (actually).
many of these
angels
will leave town and
flow around the
Arch of Triump
to be photographed or
to chase beetles at
9 rue Git-le-Coeur, and
it's going to be a hot and
lonesome summer
for many of us when
the devil walks in and retakes Hollywood
once more.
speaks of angels
from a plateglass window overlooking the
Sunset Strip
(she has these visions)
(I don't have these visions)
but maybe angels prefer people with
money
daughters of rich farmers who are dying of
throat cancer in Brazil.
myself - I keep seeing these
wingless creatures of mean story and dismal
intent
and she says
when I defame her
dream:
you are trying to
pull me down
by the wings.
she's going to Europe in the summer -
Greece, Italy, most probably
Paris and she's
taking some of her angels with
her.
not all
but some.
now there's this half-Chinese boy who used to
sleep on fire escapes
the Negro homosexual who plays chess and
recited Shelley at the Sensualist
then there's the one who has real talent with the
brush (Nickey) but who simply can't get
started
somehow and
there's also Sieberling who cries because he
love his mother (actually).
many of these
angels
will leave town and
flow around the
Arch of Triump
to be photographed or
to chase beetles at
9 rue Git-le-Coeur, and
it's going to be a hot and
lonesome summer
for many of us when
the devil walks in and retakes Hollywood
once more.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Overheard conversation...
...waiting to get into an artist talk. Three girls, in designer clothes and designed faces, sat discussing their upcoming dilution of responsibility upon some poor unsuspecting bloke. For this story we'll call them the Three Stupid Boyfriends. Two parts intrigued me enough to write them for later.
"My bridesmaid is the most odd shaped one. I said that if the dress looks decent on you, it will look good on everyone. Some are flat chested and others are pear shaped but she is the oddest by far."
"I told my boyfriend that if I started to look like [my step sister] he was allowed to beat me."
"My bridesmaid is the most odd shaped one. I said that if the dress looks decent on you, it will look good on everyone. Some are flat chested and others are pear shaped but she is the oddest by far."
"I told my boyfriend that if I started to look like [my step sister] he was allowed to beat me."
Monday, November 5, 2007
Juju B Solomon - s/t
I've been listening to this record for a few months now. I finally got a copy for WUAG, and this is the review I wrote for the station. First part is my entire history with Juju B, the second part is his past, and the third is a review for the station that is designed to get all those blahcore lovers to play this album.
History of Juju and Myself
I first heard of Juju B when I was at WREK radio in Atlanta. Having a rotation show, I always played what no one else would. I fell in love with "On the Lam" immediately. He had a show for later in the month, so my friend and I gathered courage and went. Courage isn't usually needed for going to shows, except this venue was called "The Banana Hammock." After a weird halal meal of goat bones in chile oil with a side of onions, we spent the better part of an hour driving through a neighborhood looking for the address, but what we found was a nondescript house in a nondescript neighborhood. More courage was needed than we thought. Outside, a scrawny kid was struggling with his equipment. I brought in the amp. Inside was a bizarre dozen of musicians, dropped awkwardly throughout a traditional open air parlor/kitchen area. Three bands later, we were still seated in the parlor, on an earth toned overstuffed love seat, which was only separated from the stage/living room by a mirror and faux African end table. Besides the owners of the house, we were the only ones left. We watched as the scrawny kid quietly plugged in, adjusted the mic, and began to sing about cock blocking with no introduction. It was a religious experience. His delivery was shy, reserved. He never moved more than what was needed to make the notes and his eyes were constantly focused inches above the ground. He thanked us after every song. From then on, I've vowed to get his music out into the ether however possible. He wasn't going to do it himself, and neither was his label.
History of Juju B
Juju B Solomon is actually Benjamin Solomon. A self professed hippie, he moved to India awhile back and attempted to write a novel. Instead, he worked in a textile factory, where he was told to increase production. With pigtails and a purple aura, he constantly had problems communicating with the workers. He never fit in - religiously, culturally, any -ly. He was a dog in a bright red dress. A freak alone. A friend then gave him a Givson guitar. Not Gibson, Givson - the Indian "version" of a Gibson. After cutting his hair and growing out his finger nails, he wandered around Delhi writing these narratives and moping. He came back to the States, came to Atlanta, and is now completely ignored by the critics and fans alike.
The Review
Many of you might be repulsed by the fact that this album has a guy and a guitar and not much more. But don't! Genuinely funny words, genuinely charming vocal inflections, this album is not folk, singer-song writer, local, any of that. It's a collection of stories about a genuinely confused and horny American boy in India with guitar accompaniment. I keep saying genuine, because that's its greatest strength. Released on a label so indie that their head quarters is a run down brick and mortar converted shack in the seedy underbelly of Atlanta, Juju sing talks his way through things you typically don't hear addressed on plastic. The constant feeling is that he never thought any one would hear his songs, so they're savagely honest and, well, genuine. Play all the time.
History of Juju and Myself
I first heard of Juju B when I was at WREK radio in Atlanta. Having a rotation show, I always played what no one else would. I fell in love with "On the Lam" immediately. He had a show for later in the month, so my friend and I gathered courage and went. Courage isn't usually needed for going to shows, except this venue was called "The Banana Hammock." After a weird halal meal of goat bones in chile oil with a side of onions, we spent the better part of an hour driving through a neighborhood looking for the address, but what we found was a nondescript house in a nondescript neighborhood. More courage was needed than we thought. Outside, a scrawny kid was struggling with his equipment. I brought in the amp. Inside was a bizarre dozen of musicians, dropped awkwardly throughout a traditional open air parlor/kitchen area. Three bands later, we were still seated in the parlor, on an earth toned overstuffed love seat, which was only separated from the stage/living room by a mirror and faux African end table. Besides the owners of the house, we were the only ones left. We watched as the scrawny kid quietly plugged in, adjusted the mic, and began to sing about cock blocking with no introduction. It was a religious experience. His delivery was shy, reserved. He never moved more than what was needed to make the notes and his eyes were constantly focused inches above the ground. He thanked us after every song. From then on, I've vowed to get his music out into the ether however possible. He wasn't going to do it himself, and neither was his label.
History of Juju B
Juju B Solomon is actually Benjamin Solomon. A self professed hippie, he moved to India awhile back and attempted to write a novel. Instead, he worked in a textile factory, where he was told to increase production. With pigtails and a purple aura, he constantly had problems communicating with the workers. He never fit in - religiously, culturally, any -ly. He was a dog in a bright red dress. A freak alone. A friend then gave him a Givson guitar. Not Gibson, Givson - the Indian "version" of a Gibson. After cutting his hair and growing out his finger nails, he wandered around Delhi writing these narratives and moping. He came back to the States, came to Atlanta, and is now completely ignored by the critics and fans alike.
The Review
Many of you might be repulsed by the fact that this album has a guy and a guitar and not much more. But don't! Genuinely funny words, genuinely charming vocal inflections, this album is not folk, singer-song writer, local, any of that. It's a collection of stories about a genuinely confused and horny American boy in India with guitar accompaniment. I keep saying genuine, because that's its greatest strength. Released on a label so indie that their head quarters is a run down brick and mortar converted shack in the seedy underbelly of Atlanta, Juju sing talks his way through things you typically don't hear addressed on plastic. The constant feeling is that he never thought any one would hear his songs, so they're savagely honest and, well, genuine. Play all the time.
Jumbling Towers
Over the past couple o' years, a few unwritten rules have been written for indie pop/rock. It's unspeakable, but unmistakable. We expect our underground artists to sound either professionally unprofessional (think Steve Albani), like it's been recorded on a 4 track, or to have a totally clean and polished sheen. Jumbling Towers isn't any of this, it sounds truly unprofessional. It's refreshing. It's four midwestern dudes with four different ideas about music. The vocals are a tongue and cheek British dandy impersonation, with hints of the David Byrne. Drums sound like cheap ass drums, riffs sound like riffs, the bass does some good nearly Joy Division stuff. There's a lot of DIY layering. There's that insufferable Rhodes keyboard and the droning organ. And it all works, together, passingly well. I know nobody knows of this band, but it sounds uncannily like Grape Digging Sharon Fruits. It's not one of the best albums of 2007. It's not one of the greatest albums of all time. It's unassuming, quirky in the most genuine way, indie tunes. Awesomely self released, some real promise in the future. Indie. That's it.
Oh, yea, this was the first draft. Later on I included a bit on the drumming. The drumming is really terrible sounding, cheap and tinny. It keeps this album from greatness. I've been in touch with the band, and they mentioned that it was the only part they didn't record themselves. They hated the sound as well. In other words, in the future, if they get that worked out, they will have an amazing album. Keep Jumbling Towers in mind for the future.
Oh, yea, this was the first draft. Later on I included a bit on the drumming. The drumming is really terrible sounding, cheap and tinny. It keeps this album from greatness. I've been in touch with the band, and they mentioned that it was the only part they didn't record themselves. They hated the sound as well. In other words, in the future, if they get that worked out, they will have an amazing album. Keep Jumbling Towers in mind for the future.
Jose Gonzales - In Our Nature
Rock began from the musings of the poor on the acoustic guitar. Anymore, it seems rock is ending in the same fashion, crawling back towards its roots. A classic story of a rags to riches king dying in exile. Folk, singer song writer, whatever you want to call it, has been descending, slowly, on our station for decades. A smog of crisp quarter and half notes bellow from the smoke stack fingers of the folk guitarist, suffocating the shelves and drowning the DJs.This is no fault of Jose Gonzalez, an Argentinian Swede. These are all expertly crafted, folk inspired, acoustic, singer-song writer tunes with average lyrics. I'm simply tired of expertly crafted, folk inspired, singer-song writer tunes. On any instrument.
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