Though I spent many a teenage night in Denny’s drinking decaf until I hallucinated, I’m not a fan of monolithic chains. I had to be dragged to a P.F. Chang's recently, which interestingly enough is not only in the States but also in Mexico City, Kuwait and the UAE. I’m sure there’s some geocultural commentary there, but that’s not the point. Full disclosure: I enjoyed the food far more than I had expected.
I won’t pretend I’m above playing Angry Birds; Salman Rushdie does it with pride. But I'm an adult playing on an Android phone (often with the audio off and listening to Democracy Now!), not as a kid on an iPad at a table full of boring adults. I would have loved to read a book at table when little, but ironically that was not allowed; no one took any issue with this kid pictured, and occasionally adjacent others, being completely absorbed in this game that was illuminating half the party. This just seemed peculiar and alienated to me, like the generation gap just became a concertina-wired moat with vats of boiling oil poised above. Can anyone argue that this social milieu is an improvement?
All recordings are merely sketches. The quality is not representative.
While in Puerto Rico, I saw the above street music performance in a public square. It was free and attended by all ages. Songs were played that got every age group dancing at the same time, from children to older folks who'd barely budge in the U.S. (proper) without The Clapper and Life Alert – and they moved without the deliberate delicacy and caution so common among the elderly in the mainland. It was beautiful, and I teared up thinking of how unfamiliar such a thing is in the states as I've seen them.
I thought about local culture, and how much you hear about that from someone waving radicchio at a farmer’s market. In this case, it’s not about things grown 200 miles away that you drive 15 miles to buy. It’s routine life, not a commodity, and it’s free so everyone can enjoy it together.
Happily, something like that still happens in the States, though. I quite incidentally heard from an older acquaintance about a Christmastime doo-wop show in a local theater. It sounded like fun, and though the tickets were $35 (steep for me, for a night’s diversion) I went – and was totally floored by the performances I heard. A schmaltzy old Jewish guy, who owned the theater, would get on stage periodically and make awesome nasty jokes and other schtick by way of entr'acte.
The singers had been into doo-wop for the better part of their lives, given their ages and the spirit with which most of them performed. Occasionally they would tell something about the singles they were covering, when they were released, on what label, and folks in the audience would comment or “mmm” in enthusiastic support. I should probably mention that the majority of the audience and performers were white, which belies doo-wop’s origins. That happened to jazz, and blues, but not to hip-hop (probably because commercially and socially, it can be reprogrammed and deployed as a mole).
A large black woman was sitting near me, and conspicuously fell asleep for most of the show, which were classic love songs almost to a one. I couldn’t see why she’d paid $35 to be sandwiched and wedged until we were told The Persuasions were on next. Even in my doo-wop-proof bunker, I had heard who they were.
They were amazing…and flexed political. The large black woman woke up the moment they appeared, to shout that they were the fathers of doo-wop. Old Man River and Buffalo Soldier were braided into medleys, and discussions of slavery, house versus field slave dialectics, and union membership took place in skits that knitted their medleys together. At one point they seemed to acknowledge they might be alienating their white audience by covering Under the Boardwalk, but then even Africanized that by insisting on call-and-response and involving the audience: one member took his mic around to the seats and tried to get folks to sing. One white guy made a game effort, and a white woman was so embarrassed to have the theater watching her that she giggled through most of her 15 seconds. I admired The Persuasions’ boldness, which appeared more as infectious, veteran confidence. It was unchained, off the chain, denied even the possibility of chains.
These two things are examples of what I wish we USers, who pioneered globalization as our last sweeping gesture of significance, cared about. In a Christmas season festooned with economic recovery baubles ("Silver Bulls, Silver Bulls / it's Christmastime on the market") and orgiastic Black Friday coverage, this was the sort of localized cultural event that radiated me the elusive holiday cheer. Can’t we still share regional things that are not dictated by enormous international concerns? It was a fine Christmas present to see that we could, in a quiet corner of a senescing suburb – though a sad footnote that most of the attendees were old enough to be my grandparents.
I found the above in my tatty "must scan" file and thought I'd put it up before it gets any more disheveled. These are the instructions to a hand-pump flashlight (example below) which generates power from users flexing their fingers as if on a Gripmaster, those springloaded plastic petits-fours that strengthen spelunkers or perhaps self-abusers.
What's interesting is that my unit was made in Russia, and the instructions depict its use in finding a bag of cash (USD, no less) in a dark vault. The user is a white-collar criminal, or perhaps a quaint gangster or mafioso. Was this a class joke by an underpaid Russian illustrator? Ah, stereotypes.
Next installment in the coffee-grounds readings journal. Same project specs as VOLUME 1, but with cups of unknown make.
Two people are rejoicing, maybe they are dancing. (This could have something to do with my impending marriage.)
Two paths come after the rejoicing, and because they are fat and straight they mean easy, blessed roads.
Someone (presuming me) is on top of a pile of something, probably kismet – good fortune/positive destiny – or money. I am trying to balance myself and stand up because I’m on my hands and knees. There are two spots exactly on either side of me, standing for a piece of news each that will arrive before and after I find my equilibrium atop whatever this pile is.
A palm is turned towards me/the viewer, or they could be cupped palms raised to the sky, full of some benediction. This means someone is wishing me well or praying for me.
Looking at the fulfillment of my wish as the drop of coffee and grounds runs along the underside of the saucer, it seems I will get my wish. It won’t be quite what I had hoped at first, but towards the end it takes the shape of a heart, which has to portend well.
Once more, if you missed the inaugural post: VOLUME 1
The Optimum Business ad that included this image was so disturbing that even on mute, it stopped a conversation.
The woman depicted stands with her arms at her sides, then raises them slowly as she speaks, as though urging her apostles to walk across the water. If she didn’t have a halo and long hair, and if she weren’t wearing white, one could argue this is just design sloth.
As it is, it is unmistakably Christian. Even non-Christians who have been to enough art museums can see it. Then there are the “commandments” that encircle her: “keep it simple,” “be honest.” What about “thou shalt worship no graven images”?
It’s hard to track down clear evidence that Optimum and its parent company, Cablevision, have any investments or interest in religious programming. This screaming conspiracy person thinks that they do. But this website of “Christian Communicators” laments that Cablevision has been so resistant to “must-carry” rules that would force more locally-produced (often Christian) programming onto the airwaves.
Residents of predominantly-Muslim countries can find cold comfort considering that when their secular governments and business are being swept by fundamentalists and Crypto-jihadis, they don’t have to suffer this kind of hackneyed advertising thanks to the Islamic prohibition on religious imagery.
To dispel any concern that I am exclusively a dour grump groaning about the political inevitable, I am introducing some new themes to the blog (HINT: the next serial will also be audial). This will make FGPlex more of an esoklektik -- Greek: esoterikos + eklektikos, both cognates -- clearinghouse and less a whizbang of writing, for which someone must be grateful.
I've enjoyed almost a year of trawling for deleted albums with the help of Discogs.com, Wikipedia and countless music blogs the breadth of which is encyclopedic. The internet has made possible the preservation of commercially-suicidal sound on a massive scale; blogs like Zero G Sounds, Sickness (Still) Abounds and Nostalgie de la Boue are lovingly maintained libraries of the vanished. I have some bits to pool in this collective curatorial effort, but not enough for my own dedicated blog.
{D'Elite} is my contribution of the best market-unviable, deleted sound art to the informal interarchive. I will chiefly present things I could not find elsewhere; on some occasions, they won't be the best albums, but I will provide links thereto.
This effort is also a paean to my salad days of going to record stores and buying whatever was used and looked interesting, then sharing as I could. That was how I found so much of the music I still treasure: brume, zoviet-france, Controlled Bleeding, and Clair Obscur are just a few examples -- not to mention U Lovemore Majaivana, the first Zimbabwean band I'd ever heard and my favorite choral popmusic.
I start with Inanna because ORDER OV FECUNDATION is the finest ambient industrial I've heard. I spent months dredging the digital seas for this recording on the web rather than master the very difficult levels that are so high on the tape, which required sensitive EQing in the transfer to digital. This was played from the source tape on an Onkyo deck @ DolbyC through an Allen&Heath Xone:32 mixer, balanced and leveled before the record out to a Cowon S9 at 256kbps (regrettably the Cowon only records in .wma), then re-encoded to .mp3 at 192kbps.
These recordings are provided for information when determined with reasonable effort to be unavailable elsewhere. If any artist wishes to have their work removed from this blog, please contact me directly. So without further dithering --
Inanna: ORDER OV FECUNDATION Mikael Stavöstrand is better known for his excellent minimal techno or his releases with (and as) Archon Satani. Inanna could have been just another casualty of the microlabel tape era, but hyperarchivers like Sickness Abounds have kept pieces like SODOM, limited to 200 copies, in circulation. Not.hing and Day ov Torment are still available on emusic, but those albums have more of a digital feel that doesn't seem sincere after the oft-muddy mastering of Sodom and Order.
Inanna is dark ambient industrial from Sweden, with a Satanic influence that is subtle enough to ignore on this release. The soundscapes on this album vary from subterranean sheetmetal banging to all kinds of tubing clangs, distorted strains of horns from Aida (Grand March, Act 2, Scene II), and treated tapeloops warbling over murmuring submerged chants. Occasionally it verges on abrasive but never distorts, even when the levels are red hot. It's not overtly dark or brooding, purple titles notwithstanding -- of Sodom, Not.hing and Day ov Torment, it's the least glowering and demonic by far. The feedback resonance narrative shot through "Tunrida", which sounds as though it's echoing around a sunlit canyon, is filmic in its vaulted beauty, and has been very moving to me for almost 20 years. I'm honored to present it, ripped from its Old Europa Cafe C60.
A1 Order Ov Fecundation. 1 11:03
A2 Annihilate Them 5:55
A3 God's Order 6:16
A4 Daughters Of The Mildewed Minds 8:29
B1 Order Of Fecundation. 2 11:03
B2 Tunrida 6:10
B3 Without Blemish 7:11
B4 Order Of Fecundation. 3 7:16
Though I spent many a teenage night in Denny’s drinking decaf until I hallucinated, I’m not a fan of monolithic chains. I had to be dragged to a P.F. Chang's recently, which interestingly enough is not only in the States but also in Mexico City, Kuwait and the UAE. I’m sure there’s some geocultural commentary there, but that’s not the point. Full disclosure: I enjoyed the food far more than I had expected.
