Friday, August 01, 2008


Batteries in? Okay, then, let's see what you've got to say:

The plumbing's gawn wrong...trumpet feeds in thru a delay-loop - like you've never heard 23-Skidoo before! - but this is faint and covered in fluff; it keeps its distance. Someone's clearing out yr dead mum's house.

There's a drum-kit out in the garden, long gone and buried. Rattle n crash in amongst the begonias.

I can hear a guitar now.

I'm turning this up, but it doesn't help. The hiss is nearly as loud as the music. Maybe it's me; maybe it's the way it's meant to be. Maybe I'm deaf. *vague sigh of acceptance at my own mortality* (I was grinning when I wrote that.)

Someone's emptying out the cupboards. Old cutlery and bicycle bells. A book I forgot I'd read.

If this was a sampler I'd want to own it. But it's not: this constant rummaging thru repetitive memories, but posing as a loop. I wish I could have told you how much I loved you.

Oh! It almost ended, then - suddenly, like life itself: a distant murmur, air escaping from old lungs. A clarinet impersonating a Hoover. A Hissssss as a dust-sac decompressed.

My dad made me play clarinet at school; I never wanted to, but I wish I had now. Acker Bilk on repeat-play in the After-Life.

Is that a banjo? Did I just fall down the stairs?

There's someone at the door.

I'm in awe of all this clitter-clat, this satellite chatter; the way that drums and back-room clear-outs can fake an Improv narrative.

You're banging on the pipes now, there's a bass-gtr waiting by the post-box.

Doors close, forever and ever. Why won't that door stay shut?

A zither moves in with a piano. Blue paint-streaks on the cupboards; there's a TV on in the kitchen. The smell of cooking coming up the stairs.

I hate it when it's quiet in the morning. I hate it when you're not there.

Balloonsqueak tremors on the landing. A child's toy abandoned in an alley. Drums built from skirting-boards and pale, pink plaster - rolling dn the hallway on wooden carts. Peeling paint; giggles and laughter recede into an untouchable distance.

Blocked drains and a chewing-gum childhood - grey mulch'd thursdays in an autumn made of dreams. Horror comics and a phantom child's birthday.

That day when my sister didn't walk me to school.


This is where the music corporations are getting it totally wrong:

Instead of releasing crappy albums on compressed formats like mp3 they should be squeezing cassette-tapes into old books! Talking books! This is what the kids want! Reeeeeeeeeecycle-uh-uh-uhhh! (that's me impersonating an echo - pretending to resonate dn thru the years)

Bad Bus.

Bad Bus are yr basic human thigh-bone trumpet-dilemma resolved in simple Prole terms thru a fur-wall embedded with bongos and fssst-znnnk shrrf-fttt!

The MySpace site player is more forthright than the csssssettsses. More percussion, tho maybe not.

Let's talk about the book:

Or, maybe not

"Haunted basement scrapes, skronks, and booms; recorded live with no overdubs and minimal post-production. Includes the hands and voices of Crank Sturgeon, Cursillistas, Bird Microphone, Jason Nenn (elephant micah), Doug Tesnow (static films/pillars and tongues), Joni Wall, Ryan Niederstadt, and Adam Schutzman. Two black cassettes cased in a hollowed-out hardcover book with handpainted covers (15 copies) or cased in a carboard slipcase with patchwork band and handwritten titles (20 copies)."

The New Barbarians: that's us, innit? Stompin' over everything that was great n good, but making it better-er and gooder-er...?

The New Barbarians: not to be confused with this (and this is weird: I was only talking about Italio-Post-Apoc movies a few days ago (somewhere else), incl this one...):

I bet you thought I'd stopped writing about music.

Nah. Don't be silly.