The new version of the underground cult hit by Arp incorporated, a life project with my great friend Tony Abstract
I am not a band. I am not a group. I am a man and I make songs, many times by accident, or at least in the beginning it was this way. Accidental. When I play in public it is not a gig. It is people and friends gathering round someone who chose not to speak, since all involved realized it is not possible to communicate all we want through spoken language alone. So I participate in accidental encounters with deeper, more absurd, truth-like entities.
I am not that sure, but I think I somehow shifted to making songs intentionally. And why on earth or any other planet would someone want to do that? As Lou Reed said about a certain era; poetry and love were to be found nowhere else but in rock music. Now his call was severe, and at this moment I do not care for that severity (although I probably will soon). But there is something of this nature in this accidental craft of mine. And most definitely in that of any of you taking the time to read this. I find poetry and love here. Poetry and love that are mine and severe. Poetry and love that only some of us crave and even worse, cannot do without.
Of course I have seen these elements in many other works and accidental crafts of many other women and men, but here I attest to my own futile exorcism of the demonic forces that such fixations entail. And why do I call them demonic forces? Well, first of all, it is clear they are not angelic. The forces here at work are enticing and they are pretty far removed from any form of celestial enlightment. These are the forces equivalent to those of a heroin addiction. An enlightment for the man un-massed. Something you must pursue even though you know you probably would be better off without. Then again, maybe not. Surely not. Angelic, demonic, what is the difference unless there is a point to be made.
So what interests the likes of me? First of all, individuals grasped by the creative process, those of us who have been beguiled by her indiscreet charm and cannot escape its (his or her) grasp. Those who can feel the inner workings of our universe, in all its meaningful, absurd glory. Those of you (I might include myself) who live in a sense similar to that by which Ortega y Gasset conceived the act itself.
But I am definitely not a band. Even though I have one. Even though you might be in my band and I in yours. But the pursuit of this aforementioned band is quite another than that of most bands you will find on myspace. Or anywhere else for that matter. A band for the seeker, the artful lounge lizard, the Zürn reader, the strange loop maker. But I was telling you about my craft. I craft songs. It is just something that happens. As you may have happened upon this site or may already be a friend of mine. So converse with what you find here.
Well, here goes a brief description of the songs here at the time.
Beware.
Dance floor blues. The desecration of dancing. Dancing is misunderstood by our generation. Nietzsche believed dancing to be the finest of the art forms. Well, he didn’t live in our times. Yet there is an essential truth in that dancing is a higher form. Discover it in Dance floor blues, or dance alone in a room or with your closest friends.
Call me with a hum. Why don’t you try? Drunk midwives playing the horns. Making sounds we are born. A metaphysical rendering of a boy’s passage into fragmented manhood. The world is a strange place wherever there are kitchen knives.
Song bird suite. A circus trip into marriage. A circus of S&M. The aporia of commitment. A paroxysm of love in the pathological sense. All on display for hungry eyes to see what life is like in a cage.
Visions of you. A road trip of love and revenge. You shoot the sky, and out of the blue, bleeds the night. But this trip is down the road of no return. So hold on. How do you find the one you truly love? Take a trip.
Corazón de perros. Your heart is ripped from your chest by a sadistic lover and then fed to a pack of wild desert dogs. "You are the most incredible man I ever have cooked" -so she said
All of our temples are weeping; walk with me a while before we melt. A vision of anguish, of love. An exploration of transfigured gamelan music and guitar noise... picture mangled trees against a dark gray skyline... a lonely room with two lost souls bound in leather cry tears of sand and on the other side of the door... a wild dog... people with heads flattened and mouths open stare from side to side in a daze... they are dressed in white robes and seem to be fixed in the landscape... we walk by
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