Said the Gramophone

I Like It, I May Not Like It

Dan — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 21:07:54 -0500

Idiot Glee - "All Packed Up" In the glowing shade of an evening nap this song floats in the open window. Between sleep and awareness, this shapeless thing is like second-hand smoke, like practiced violin, like curry. In a closed courtyard, with rugs out of windows and soccer games playing, this song swims lazily up where the sky starts, floats up past the rooms like laundry steam, and swirls up the silence like a ribbon of colour. [MySpace] -- Elsewhere: I wrote a couple of pieces for the always-impressive Moss Bailey. My thanks to her for inviting me to join. (check out the whole site at http://sowehere.com) And:

PARDNER & PARDNER

Sean — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 10:50:22 -0500

Sean Savage - "Here She Comes!!!". On November 19th, Sean Savage was kidnapped by an unknown woman. She wore a gingham scarf over her mouth. She had black bangs and blue eyes. She strapped Mr Savage to a large red wagon and climbed onto her bicycle and proceeded east. At first Mr Savage struggled. He pulled and bucked at his bindings. He kicked the side of the wagon. His thrashings knocked the wagon onto its side, whereupon he was dragged for ten feet in the trail's hard dirt. She got off her bike, propped the kick-stand, came back and righted him. She flicked pebbles from his cheek and smoothed his hair. She got on her bicycle and they rode. They rode & rode. In time, Mr Savage fell in love. There were orange-trees everywhere and he was in love. The spokes of her bicycle were made of sterling silver. [MySpace / Sean plays in Silly Kissers / via Goldkicks] The Generationals - "When They Fight, They Fight". Rob admired his elbows. He dripped onto the linoleum, standing by the full-length mirror, nude and admiring his elbows. He had always thought his elbows were his finest feature. They were smooth, pointed, secretly strong. He jabbed once or twice, admiring the way they jabbed. He opened and closed his arm. Yes, his elbows. He mouthed the words to the mirror: Oh, these elbows. [thanks Brooks! / buy / MySpace / website] --- Update: McSweeney's has posted my new article, SING A SONG FOR SISTER SUVI. It is a tribute to a late, great Montreal band that I have written about before (featuring Patrick Gregoire, Nico Bann and Tune-Yards' Merrill Garbus). (photo source)

A Pound A Day

Dan — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 13:57:17 -0500

Alvin Band - "Tijuana" "The beach is the most vulnerable place, but it's the place of most access. It's horrible to think about attacking a beach, about war on a beach. About all those people with their hot dogs and portable stereos and colourful towels and suits, and sunglasses and lotion and near-nakedness, getting attacked. Do people bring portable stereos to the beach anymore, or maybe did they ever? But I suppose that attacking that part of the land makes the most sense, it's the softest place. Like they know the dark truth of the matter, and they exploit it. I feel that way about my love, like he attacks the beach of my heart. The beach of my body. The softest place, the most vulnerable, innocent, reckless, and unexamined. I am devastated, bent on revenge, but understanding that strategically, it was the smartest move." [Buy new record] (image source)

TO KNOW WON

Sean — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 10:45:32 -0500

Cuddle Magic - "Expectations". The voice like a trombone solo is back. But the thing you should understand is: there are no actual trombones here. There's a salt of drums, a pepper of strings, a little woodwind and whistle and the guitars that do not let you go. But the trombone thing is a different thing. Remember when you did not know the trombone? Remember when you thought the trombone was just the slide-whistle sound of an ice-cream scoop leaving a cone? When you thought they were the wan backup singers of the brass section? Remember that time? And then gradually, slowly, hearing the great trombonists playing, hearing the right trombonists play, you learned that really the trombone is the greatest instrument of all? Because humanity lives in that moment a scoop leaves a cone; wisdom in the slip from low to high. Well all that is in this man's singing. // This is a song by Cuddle Magic, dumb and handsome, clever and plain, beautiful as anything you decide you are yes going to treasure. [anticipate Picture / go see Cuddle Magic in Iowa and the northeast / site] The Curtains - "Go Lucky". Where the cork grows, there are years of sky. There is wind and sunlight among the trees. There are smaller plants that grow green among the roots. In time the cork trees are stripped. The cork is taken in trucks, boats and jet-planes. At M. Giddenze's vineyard, grapes are turned to wine. Steel channels pour wine into grey bottles. Labels are steamed onto glass. And then the small carved corks, falling slipped thunk into the mouth of every one. A cork in every one. These fine bottles crisscross the world, they hide in a thousand cellars, and a cork in every one. The memory of wind and sunlight, tightly held, in the dark. (I do not need to tell you that this is another voice like a trombone solo.) [site/buy] /// I am still seeking the most wonderful songs of 2009. This Thursday (November 19), I will be doing a short reading at Le Pick-Up. I'll be reading from something I've been working on for a while. It's free and at 7pm. It would be nice to see you. (photo source)

Dickie Part Two

Dan — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 03:53:09 -0500

Neko Case - "Never Turn Your Back On Mother Earth" Sparks - "Never Turn Your Back On Mother Earth" The name of the game was "Gotta Do It". The rules were simple: someone would name a deed (it could be something normal like "eat grass" or it could be something weird like "climb up Dead Dog's Tree and scream the name of your True Love") and point to a person and then the rest of the watching group would whisper "Gotta do it!" over and over until they, the chosen boy or girl, did it. Dickie had watched many a game of Gotta Do It from afar, and would watch with curiosity, thankful separation, or unbearable envy, as the various "do its" were acted out. He came to school that morning with a very particular "do it" in mind. He spent all of science class unable to focus his microscope, his hands were shaking and his eyes felt sweaty, blurry. He couldn't eat breakfast that morning, he dumped his oatmeal in the toilet after his parents left for work. "Take off your jacket, Dickie," said Mrs. Greg, the wiry science teacher, he hadn't noticed he'd left it on, "you're not outside yet." At the bell he flew out the door and stood in the center of the field, the usual location for a good game of Gotta Do It. Since he had never actually played a game before, the other children all cast glances at Dickie standing on that spot and thought there must not be a game today, since Dickie was standing there and no one else. He started shouting, "Hey! Game time! Hey guys, game time!" A few straggled closer, with furrowed brows. "Bring Walter! Hey guys, game time, bring Walter!" Walter Hannigan, 8-and-a-half years old, was a regular player of Gotta Do It. He had brilliantly thought up the "do it" of "steal Mrs. Greg's cigarettes", which was one of the all-time greatest do its the game had ever seen. Mrs. Greg kept her outdoor cigarettes (she had a pack for indoors and outdoors, depending on where she was doing duty that day) inside a little metal door meant for a water pipe, a small tap covered in a hinged metal door that had just enough resting place for a pack of cigarettes. Tina Dion had stolen them, and everyone smoked one each, they coughed and laughed and did Mrs. Greg impressions. The gang gathered, skeptical of Dickie's idea to play Gotta Do It, but they gathered nonetheless, including Walter Hannigan. A few do its got handed out (stand on your head and say the alphabet backwards, do the stupidest voice you can think of, say "fuck" as loud as you can) and then it was Dickie's turn. He glanced furtively around, and then pointed at Walter, "This one's for Walter," his hand shaking in the wind. "Kiss me." The group fell silent. No one laughed. They all seemed to think about it, pause, look at Walter, think about it, pause, and then whisper. "Gotta do it. Gotta do it. Gotta do it. Gotta do it!" The whisper-shouting was deafening, Dickie's head was throbbing and his blurred vision was getting blurrier. Walter looked around easily, shrugged, stepped closer to Dickie, held his breath and planted a kiss on him. His lips hung there, and all Dickie could see were all the things he hated: the light-up shoes, the expensive clothes, the sugary lunches, the hundreds of girlfriends, all start to fade to white like they were covered in light instead of covered in pitch darkness. He almost made it out, he almost just got a kiss from the most popular boy in school, but then he remembered his plan. It was too devilishly good, thought Dickie, he was unable to control the completion of his plan. Having Walter finally this close, he snapped out his teeth and bit down on Walter's cheek. For what seemed like an hour, Dickie hung there, teeth sunk deeply into Walter's face. When they were finally pulled apart, Dickie had a fair chunk of Walter's cheek left in his mouth, and as he emerged from his cathartic stupor and the gravity of the situation began to dawn on him, embarrassed, he swallowed it. [Buy Neko Case's Middle Cyclone] [Buy Sparks' Propaganda] ** trailer for Episode 5 of The Bitter End **

RISING DAUGHTERS

Sean — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 11:46:15 -0500

Ola Podrida - "Donkey". Hard-strummed banjo, and David Wingo, one of my favourite songwriters, singing. He strums and sings louder & louder, and yet it's not because of mere urgency, the wish to communicate that he cares. He has to yell because there is howling. He has to raise his voice over roars, whirlwinds, tides. This doom is murmured in creak & drone but it's also promised in Wingo's (marvelous) lyrics: We yelled our names over the noise, we saved the girls and drowned the boys. Sometimes you are yelling too loud to know if what you yell is a confession, a warning or a memorial. [website & videos / buy Belly of the Lion, which takes its title from this song; Ola Podrida are wonderful.] The Desks - "If You Will, I'll Stay". I used to think this was a song about wanting. I think now that it's a song about choosing. (And, if we're lucky, the joy of the choice.) [download free] --- Earlier this year, my friend P and I helped La Blogotheque to choose ten or fifteen wonderful Montreal bands that are not yet very famous. Then Vincent Moon came to Montreal and in spaces around the city, he shot films, tiny little Take-Away Shows, with some of these. These small films are now online: VIEWS OF MONTREAL. They feature (modest, ragged) performances by: BRAIDS, Clues, My People Sleeping, Witchies, The Mittenstrings, Little Scream and The Luyas. Perversely, I haven't yet seen any of them bc streaming video doesn't work on my computer. (Take note!) But I have reason to believe they are very, very special (and consist, I think, of one of the first-ever chances to hear Little Scream, who has not yet released any recordings). Merci à Mathieu, tous et toutes. Finally, a re-run: End-of-Year Plea! As usual, I will be preparing a list of the best songs of 2009. And as always, I ask for your help. Heard a wonderful song, this year? One that we haven't written about? Please email it to me. Major-label or local obscurity; indie rock, folk, hardcore, especially r&b, pop and chart hip-hop - you name it, I'll listen. But do remember: I care about the song, not the artist, not the album. Please don't send me more than one track by any given act. (And please send MP3s - not links to MySpace/Youtube!) (photo source)

Dickie Part One

Dan — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 18:39:09 -0500

Sparks - "Sherlock Holmes" The Dirtbombs - "Sherlock Holmes" Dick Colford, at 8 years old, and Walter Hannigan, at 8-and-a-half years old, were life-long enemies. Dick Colford, Dickie to his mother and teachers, was short, with his head stretched up he would just press against the flexy membrane of 4' tall. Dickie wore penny-loafers and ugly sweaters and jeans with an elastic waistband. He had no television or video games, he had only the radio and his thousand-piece puzzles of The Strand and Presidents in Time. Walter Hannigan, however, had everything. He had flatscreens and ergonomic joysticks and sugary after-school snacks (literally a cupboard with every variety from Mimis to Jackson's Jupes to Hollywagons to Jelly Turnstyles). He wore light-up shoes and fitted jeans with patterns on the pockets and t-shirts with on-purpose rips in them. He even had those God-given gifts, an extra 6" of height, and an extra 6 months of life, proof that even God favoured the favourites. These two were life-long enemies. In a sense. In fairness, it must be said that Walter Hannigan did not know that he had a life-long enemy. Dickie would watch Walter from the shadowy and lonely parts of the schoolyard. He would spit on the ground and step on it. He would draw pictures in the air with his finger, pictures that started with the outline of Walter, traced from watching him juggle a soccer ball in the distance for a group of girls, and then a stabbing motion. He would laugh and mutter and he was genuinely happy to have a secret punching bag for his many-pointed and overflowing energies. On the bus he would count all the times Walter said "man" or "cool", and would slap his knee loudly every time they crossed a multiple of 10. Walter would get off first, and Dickie would watch him walk past the yellow sports car to his door every single every single every single day. Dickie, turning his back to the sting of a cold September wind, had a dark glimmer of an idea. [Buy Sparks' Angst in My Pants] [Buy The Dirtbombs' We Have You Surrounded]

NEUTRAL MILK SAY YEAH

Sean — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 11:58:07 -0500

Both these songs have unnecessary intros. The Crown Vandals - "Guenevere".You want to go back to the 14th century, to wait in a grove by the walled city. You want to hide your drum-kit beneath under a leafy oak, conceal your guitars in a mulberry bush; cheap amps, cheap mics, cheap booze nestling among beech-roots. You want to wait there, for courtiers and commoners who steal away from the walled city - weirdos & thieves & lovers & lonelyhearts. They come loping to the grove, in tunics and bucklers, coins in coin-pouches; they turn their problems and thrills around in their heads. They hum sorrow as a lute-strum, sing lust as a minuet. They have no idea. They have never heard an amp blow out, a cymbal crack, an electric guitar-string snap. They have never heard a sound this loud. You wait in the shadow green, to teach them. [The Crown Vandals are from Montreal // they play New York and DC next month // MySpace] Taken by Trees - "Anna". Some things just simply mostly work, like traffic. They are based on physical laws, like batteries. They ignore whims, like clouds. They are reliable, like good clocks. // But these "things" I talk about are not all boring. // Some of the "things", the ones that work and are reliable, that ignore whims and are based on physical laws // are friendship, rhythm, and sunset. // And some of the things you think are like traffic, batteries, clouds and clocks; // they're not. [MySpace / buy] --- Witchies, Mixylodian and Silly Kissers, three of Montreal's best bands, all of whom we've written lustily about in the past, are playing together (yes, together) this Friday. Le Milieu, 6545 Durocher #200, $7/$10. MP3s, courtesy of Mr Mixy: Mixylodian - "Bad Girls (Mase Cover)" /// Witchies - "Hater" /// Silly Kissers - "Easy Fantasy". End-of-Year Plea! As usual, I will be preparing a list of the best songs of 2009. And as always, I ask for your help. Heard a wonderful song, this year? One that we haven't written about? Please email it to me. Major-label or local obscurity; indie rock, folk, hardcore, especially r&b, pop and chart hip-hop - you name it, I'll listen. But do remember: I care about the song, not the artist, not the album. Please don't send me more than one track by any given act. (photo by Simon Roberts / source)

Lady of Legend, Leisure

Dan — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 18:25:58 -0500

Frozen Bears - "Tape Eater" In every society, even one as small and fluid as a city bus, there is an alpha creature. A being who, given a drastic change in circumstances, would rule. If this bus were to take off into space or suddenly bury miles underground, and we all had to live the rest of our lives together, one person would be, at least at first, in control. Sometimes it's not obvious, if the bus is filled with people who normally look furtive for a leader to follow, but sometimes it's deadly obvious. He stood at the back of the bus, in a slick canvas duster, hair down to his heart, with hands like heavy talons. Standing his bike made of body parts on its heel, he was dripping wet from a rain that no one else seemed to have experienced. As if his entire being were wearing sunglasses, he had turned himself into a reflective spirit. To look at him was to see yourself, weak and shaking and submissive by comparison. So struck by his aura, his stark, commanding presence, I turned to the woman next to me, pointed and said, "He'd be in charge for sure." She took out the white earphone on my side, <<'scuse-moi?>> [Buy] -- Parethetical Girls - "Doughnut In My Hand" (go to "news", scroll down to stream "Doughnut In My Hand") "In order to cull a sense of satisfaction from having lived, then there must at some point be a list of requirements needed in order to garner that satisfaction. In this sense life becomes a sort of 'preparing to die'. But the very idea that one could prepare mentally for the totally physical act of dying is absurd (you can't mentally put on a seatbelt or make your consciousness duck-and-cover). And subsequently, any kind of physical preparation, besides loading the gun or tying the noose, will not make death any easier or more appropriate. So the satisfaction brought about by a doughnut is perfectly serene, cynical, hilarious. I raise my glass and let it fall to all the wondrous poets who explain life through example where I cannot." [Previously on StG][Parenthetical Girls guest post][Buy this new EP][Buy the extremely underrated Entanglements] --

LOSING THINGS

Sean — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 13:49:30 -0500

Flaming Lips - "Watching the Planets". Sometimes you reach for that crystal bottle because you want it to shatter. You want to grab it with your pink pretty hand and pour a dollop of wine and then when you take a sip - for all the monster in you to sour and redden, for your tendons to burst your gown and your eyes to glow like furnaces. You've taken a little drinky-drink, late at night, alone; and you know what that means, you know what that's supposed to mean. Stand up raging; shatter glass, bottle, cabinet and lamp; wreck everything; wreck yourself. That sip of ruby port and now you will find him, blow the sleep from his eyes. You'll roar in his face and tell him everything you've hidden. [Pitchfork did its thing today, and well; this is mine. / buy the startling and wonderful Embryonic] Red House Painters - "Cruiser". My confession: I don't follow Mark Kozelek's story, here. I never do. I am not a story-song man. I can't trace lyrics, sung. I get lost in lilt and longing. I sink too deep into feel. And so no, I don't follow Mark Kozelek's story, here. Something about driving with a girl from Tokyo, listening to songs. I want Mark to know I feel sorry about this. I feel guilty. I have done him a dis-service, I think. But what I also want Mark to know is that even the people like me, way out here in Canada, listening to his songs without hearing the stories - we're listening real hard. We're listening and breathing, slow. We've put on records by Red House Painters and Sun Kil Moon on so many late nights, slipped into chairs, streetlights hazy through the window. We've taken these songs with us on journeys. We've treasured them. I would not give away this song, give it up, for $20. Not for $50. Would I accept $200 to never hear this song again? I do not think I would. This song whose story I never follow. It's a song I do not understand but that murmurs to me, no matter what, you do. [buy] (photo source - thanks andrew, see you in december)

Novice

Dan — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 01:25:10 -0500

Wale - "90210" A backwards A's cap, on a kitten, who's licking a baby mouse, who's sitting on a handwritten letter, written on ESL stationery, soaked in butter, on a plate of dainty grandmother china, all on top of a burger, which is on the hood of a cooper mini, which is being carried by a cruise ship, across a mirror-still ocean, leaving a pink wake of perfume and 100-calorie Caramilk Thins, all in a snowglobe, which sits dusty on a dresser, next to a framed production still from Scarface, a Taz-playing-darts statue, a copy of Tribute magazine, a few coins, a toast plate, a fingerless glove, an A's cap, some toe rings. [Pre-Order] Von LMO - "Be Yourself" Dennis rolls up in a stolen broken blue camaro, gets out with a pair of shades and a denim jacket. Dennis kicks the dust off the ground and walks up to the door of an open garage. An old relic is inside on cinder blocks, the sun is hard like hot metal, and Dennis looks around. The air is yellow and dry, the thin tin of a "work rock" station is coming from a small radio on the tool counter in the garage. Dennis steps back, looks past the garage to the house behind, still no one, quiet and dry and yellow air. Dennis waits. Dennis stands there, looking straight ahead at the garage, hands in his pockets, a battery in one, the bent and mangled keys to that hot camaro in the other. A voice comes from behind him, "You live here?" Dennis turns around, ready to run, but it's just the mailman. Dennis says nothing and takes the letters, the mailman, a rakish blue geezer, gets on his bike and rides dusty to the next house miles down the road. Creditors, debtors, haranguers, complainers. But one letter, in a beige, sparse envelope, with a neat print and a dime taped to the corner. "God dammit," Dennis looks over his shades. And up at the house, quiet and yellow and dry and dusty, as he rips open the beige envelope. I'll be home in two weeks. I'm in trouble. I need your help. Be ready for me. I love you and I'm sorry. -Dennis [My(OUTER!!)Space] -- Jumbling Towers release a single on Half Machine Records today. With incredible cover art.

LOFTY GHOULS

Sean — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 13:24:09 -0500

Chad Vangaalen - "Corvette". This is a song of metaphors. Most of them are obvious. Lyrics about a he and a she, manifested as corvette and jumbo jet. Lines about millions of miles, wheels going around. But it has quieter metaphors too. Two drums represent time. An electric guitar stands in for the grim truth of life's indeterminacy. A soft clang for accident and miracle. I'm still figuring out the harmonica. [free download of Chad's Soft Airplane b-sides // buy Soft Airplane] Manson Family Picnic - "Sounds Drifting On". He gives her gifts: a funny best friend; a yearning companion; a box of chocolates, handmade; a banjo with strings in silver, lead & gold; a bare tree, leaves stuck back with tape; a pineapple; a hot-air balloon ride; a kiss in a bottle; a photograph of a man saying, So? [buy/MySpace] (photo is of the 1964 Indy 500 crash)

Speaking of Organs

Dan — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 03:19:08 -0500

DuneBuggy - "W Thing" Imagine you're me. It's two days before Hallowe'en, and you're in the dollar store. There's a CD there of "Hallowe'en Scary Sounds". It's got a shitty graphic on it that looks like it was designed by someone who had only ever read about H ween; like "cats, witches, orange and black, now get to work". It's a dollar, and it's a whole CD worth of stuff. You buy it, right? Of course you do. But then you get home, you had a long day so you forget it's in your bag until you pull it out, you put it on, and it's even lamer than you expected. It's a crappy weak organ and some intermittent moaning, some chain rattling, something that sounds like a plate smashing into mud, which I guess is scary. It's one 48-minute track, so you leave it on and giggle every so often while you carve a deformed pumpkin. But then. THEN. Buried in there, at about the 39-minute mark, is this pulpy gorgeous gem. Played by what sounds like a band that would call themselves Frankie Stein and the Halloweeners, with the vocals sounding like they're coming from behind the bathroom door, and the organ all naked and fat and too confident. It's a beautiful party costume Kingsmen dress-up travesty, it's just my thing today. [Buy] Hollows - "Watch Out Sally" Imagine you're me. You're a girl, 15, with catholic overbearing parents. It's 1961, you're wearing secret make-up, and it's bowling night for all the coolest. You're not allowed out, because tomorrow is Sunday and you need to be ready for church in the morning. You pour your nightly tea down the bathroom sink, run the shower and slip out the second-story window. These are the moments. You scrape your wrist climbing down the tree, and you practically ruin your shoes from running across the field to the road. Socks dark with wet and sweating and heart racing, exploding, you meet Tim (big Tim, such a nice guy, just a friend though, he has a beard) and he drives you to bowling. You meet up with all these people who are just on the edge of being your friend and the feeling like anything could happen is the only thing you can see, it's all around you. Matt is there, he looks so handsome, he's on Tim's team, and they win the game, but you laugh and share looks. So what do you do? Remember, you're me. Well, if you're me, you stop Matt on the way to the soda counter, you touch lightly his fingers as you spin to face him, and say with all the devil in your eyes but all the saints in your voice, "I don't want to go home tonight." And you think, suddenly a scared and desperate animal, truly afraid of what will inevitably unfold from leaving the shower running and breaking the tea cup, if you don't take me, maybe Tim will. [site] (image source)

SLUNGBLADE

Sean — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 13:45:03 -0500

Land of Talk - "Sixteen Asterisk". "Who tore the paper?" asks Lara Wright, standing at the front of the class. They watch her and say nothing. "Didn't you hear me? Which one of you tore my paper?" She lifts it from her desk, bedraggled, crumpled and ripped in two places. "It didn't just tear itself," she says, mouth crooked. There's a funny glassiness to her eyes, something the class hadn't ever seen before. There are spots of flush in her cheek. "Nobody in all of 4-2 saw who tore this paper while I was outside with Mr Mackie?" It's just an attendance sheet, they think to themselves. "Let me ask again," Ms Wright says. Her voice cracks -cracks like dry savannah, like wood under an axe, like cold steel strings. "Who tore this?" Everyone knows Brad Farczik did it. Mr Mackie knocked on the door, waved weirdly in the tall rectangular window, Mrs Wright stopped in mid chalk-like, swallowed, said "Just a sec, guys." She slipped outside and closed the door behind her. Then Heather Luft said, "Ms Wright likes Mr Mackie," and everyone said ooooh, and Mo Singh tossed a pencil at Adam F, and Adam P tossed a pencil at Adam F, and Lulu, Stacy and Merecedes started fiercely passing notes. And then Brad Farczik, speeded by the thrill of it, rushed to the front of the class, climbed onto Ms Wright's chair. Everyone gaped, Brad posed, girls laughed. Everyone waited to see what Brad would do next. He hesitated. Through the door he could see Ms Wright's back, and one hand raised toward Mr Mackie. It was 11:22 am. Brad Farczik picked up the attendance sheet, tore it up, crumpled it in his hands, held it above his head. The class cheered. Then he dropped it to the desk, jumped from the chair, ran back to his seat. // Now Ms Wright asked "Who tore this?" and everyone was silent. And something inside Ms Wright tore in two places. "WHICH ONE OF YOU DID IT?" she shouted. "Fuck, please- please, just who." // Brad Farczik put up his hand. [buy] GOBBLE GOBBLE - "o Sacred Dandruff". In the land of slides, everyone takes slides everywhere. You slide from your bed to the breakfast table; from your kitchen to your workplace; from your workplace to the fancy restaurant with the glass of Syrah. It's fun. The world slips by, your friends and family slide in parallel paths, with different accelerations. Sometimes you see dogs on the slides, or cats, or birds in full feather. Other times it's enemies and long-lost lovers. It's easier than driving, than cycling, than airplanes; in the land of slides, everyone takes slides. But then sometimes you don't want to take the slide. Sometimes you want to walk. You want to be able to stop, to clasp hands, to kiss a chance encounter on both of its cheeks. Sometimes you have a heart-attack on a slide, or a sneezing fit, or a bout of homesickness. You want to stop, you want to stop, you want to stop. You want to stop. Sometimes the slides just feel like you're falling down. [buy/MySpace] --- Marcello Carlin writes about the Beatles' White Album. (photo source unknown)

Highly Compressed

Dan — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 16:02:17 -0500

Jim O'Rourke - "Happy Days" (16 kbps, 47:33) "It's like a spy story," she whispered, as they made love for the first time in six weeks. "We're here, gettin' off on each other--" he snickered through his teeth "--don't laugh, that's what it is, isn't it? We're here, and the whole rest of the bus is just sittin' there, they have no idea this is going on, you know? We could do anything, you could kill me, strangle me to death, or I could kill you I guess. Or I could have a baby in here. I guess someone would notice if I had a baby, I'd probably be hollerin' like a wounded dog, that's what I imagine anyway. But I guess what I'm sayin' is I like this. I feel lifted up, in a sorta way. Like lifted above the bus and floating above it, like nothing could hurt me, and I feel like I used to feel when I was kid I'd imagine floatin' in a space capsule only big enough to lie down in. Totally glass, just floatin' in space in a little glass tank, like a glass coffin I suppose, just floatin'. Well now I guess I'd like to be there with you, and there should be enough room so we can sit up and talk and make love I guess." He snickered again. "What's so funny? I'm tryin' to tell you something that's important to me and you're laughin' like it doesn't mean anything." He hugged her close and the moonlight came through a frosted skylight. "You talk too much." [Buy] (image source)