AFTERBORN AG'IN
The 'scuses are many why I haven't been poking up like you wanted me to around here for a year or whatever. Solidarity with Rettman, consumption of bitter seeds, too many nights of "sobriety", continuing to have my laptop be "stolen", and just general weariness of the eyes, mind, and fingertippies. But eff it, I Am Hurdlejumper, and I am back because NOW FEELS RIGHT. There's been a new synthesis (so tempted to CAP that as well, but hell if I'm gonna give you the edge of dismissal on schizo grounds) and temporary or not, some sac up in my head emptied all the noxious neurofactor and my boddy (yes, two 'd's, 'cause we're also pals us two) dumped that crap into the River Isis (I's is) and now that I've had a whole weekend of rollaround with no regret, no second-guess'd manouvers, well, felt the time to touch down 'pon yr screens. I AM PUSHINK THRU (yess caps).
"Why the new mood?" you ask, "and where does this leave yr krumbled rantish behaviors of yore?" Well that's a valid question and one I'm sure I'd care to answer if I had butta clue. As it sits, all I know is that something to do with the cooling air temps prior to the full hit of ballfreeze that is as always (always!) en route has linked up the different factions in my brain in a conductive wiring that keeps the roles bawling and the desire for balance and charity most humanizing. Total lack of meanthinks or sadcrappenings, at least for a while, is what I am saying to you now.
"And so I guess whatchoo been listening to, then?" you figure you might as well ask, 'cause otherwise I'll probably start blogging about denimwear again or some such. Well, I have been listening to SO MUCH that it just isn't unfunny. I mean, what, I give you an overview of the past year? Now? Or just a smidgen of the current angles I'm working? I'm not thinking like that, no, so be patient pups. I'm sure it'll weasel it's way in, but for now I'm finding some footing while footing is good. I'ma write about just about nothing, or more or less nothing, 'cause, well, (1) I've been reading Javier Marias so I suppose that's my headspace (not quite nothing, but almost, or at least not much) and (2) THESE WORDS JUST KEEP A-COMIN'. Who am I to shut 'em down?
So now that yr reluctantly inching lips towards spigot, eyes casting a gaze imploring me to go easy on the pump, hoping the swelling juices aren't dosed in weird and sour'd reuptake uninhibitors, or maybe hoping that they're just not *too* sour, crossing yr joss and thinking on the crassest of jass, I'll let you know that I have been hardly working, churning and reinterpreting all that eargristle that's been chumming my way. That's right...
I made a damn song on a tape.
That's right, after a year of being terrified of my own keyboard (okay, not even my own keyboard but the keyboard of another), following the year plus prior to that where I did what but occassionally haul off on a few 'graphs and mebbe once in a moon tune up in mossy basement cache (and not even my own basement, natch, but that of a brother) I stunned myself to the brainquick with the utter realization that alla this record collecting and side hunting and cake gobbling was, yes, in part to broaden what I was aware of in terms of what music, exactly, was. I mean, it took a while, as it would if you were raised on a tennis racket and Cruisin' 1962, but that is some never ending push I can now tell you that, and what it became also is like some kinda me hunting out what toes I had to not step on. See, deep deep down I've always been a total rocker, you know this. It comes thru. But what I was up to was tendin' way too much towards "internet music huckster guy", and a fairly fake-ass one at that. Whuddadda whuddadda whuddadda? Who does THAT by choice?
So my quest for "inspiration" turned into a lookout party for what bases were already covered, a sorta "who don't I want to rip off", which became absurd because I was not producing shit, which yes does make me horrid. A "patron", if you will. Gross. But not so gross, I suppose. Because I finally got good and rum hungover this weekend, or still morning-drunk, perhaps, and sat down all by my lonesome with my cheap ass setup in my nice ass clothes (priorities, rockers!) and I made a little tune. Or, more to the point, I started making a bunch of little tunes, and connecting dots that I didn't even know I had pinpricked in my own melon. Whoda thunk, you go and shiver in a corner with a stylus for a couple years and some creases actually start acknowledging shit. It's good time, after all. Sense has been made of my existence!
So, yes. I am now an artist. It is true. I'm not making any grand claims to life-changing-ness on any of yr body parts (not just yet) but I'm no longer so bummed by all the slabs that I miss out on by necessity. I have my own slabs, thank you! I'm gonna add some more stuff and figure out how I wanna get them offa tape and yes then throw them up here. You don't believe me but you also don't have a finger on the epic juices of imbalance coursing through me right now, so off with ye and come back when I'm quite ready.
"Why the new mood?" you ask, "and where does this leave yr krumbled rantish behaviors of yore?" Well that's a valid question and one I'm sure I'd care to answer if I had butta clue. As it sits, all I know is that something to do with the cooling air temps prior to the full hit of ballfreeze that is as always (always!) en route has linked up the different factions in my brain in a conductive wiring that keeps the roles bawling and the desire for balance and charity most humanizing. Total lack of meanthinks or sadcrappenings, at least for a while, is what I am saying to you now.
"And so I guess whatchoo been listening to, then?" you figure you might as well ask, 'cause otherwise I'll probably start blogging about denimwear again or some such. Well, I have been listening to SO MUCH that it just isn't unfunny. I mean, what, I give you an overview of the past year? Now? Or just a smidgen of the current angles I'm working? I'm not thinking like that, no, so be patient pups. I'm sure it'll weasel it's way in, but for now I'm finding some footing while footing is good. I'ma write about just about nothing, or more or less nothing, 'cause, well, (1) I've been reading Javier Marias so I suppose that's my headspace (not quite nothing, but almost, or at least not much) and (2) THESE WORDS JUST KEEP A-COMIN'. Who am I to shut 'em down?
So now that yr reluctantly inching lips towards spigot, eyes casting a gaze imploring me to go easy on the pump, hoping the swelling juices aren't dosed in weird and sour'd reuptake uninhibitors, or maybe hoping that they're just not *too* sour, crossing yr joss and thinking on the crassest of jass, I'll let you know that I have been hardly working, churning and reinterpreting all that eargristle that's been chumming my way. That's right...
I made a damn song on a tape.
That's right, after a year of being terrified of my own keyboard (okay, not even my own keyboard but the keyboard of another), following the year plus prior to that where I did what but occassionally haul off on a few 'graphs and mebbe once in a moon tune up in mossy basement cache (and not even my own basement, natch, but that of a brother) I stunned myself to the brainquick with the utter realization that alla this record collecting and side hunting and cake gobbling was, yes, in part to broaden what I was aware of in terms of what music, exactly, was. I mean, it took a while, as it would if you were raised on a tennis racket and Cruisin' 1962, but that is some never ending push I can now tell you that, and what it became also is like some kinda me hunting out what toes I had to not step on. See, deep deep down I've always been a total rocker, you know this. It comes thru. But what I was up to was tendin' way too much towards "internet music huckster guy", and a fairly fake-ass one at that. Whuddadda whuddadda whuddadda? Who does THAT by choice?
So my quest for "inspiration" turned into a lookout party for what bases were already covered, a sorta "who don't I want to rip off", which became absurd because I was not producing shit, which yes does make me horrid. A "patron", if you will. Gross. But not so gross, I suppose. Because I finally got good and rum hungover this weekend, or still morning-drunk, perhaps, and sat down all by my lonesome with my cheap ass setup in my nice ass clothes (priorities, rockers!) and I made a little tune. Or, more to the point, I started making a bunch of little tunes, and connecting dots that I didn't even know I had pinpricked in my own melon. Whoda thunk, you go and shiver in a corner with a stylus for a couple years and some creases actually start acknowledging shit. It's good time, after all. Sense has been made of my existence!
So, yes. I am now an artist. It is true. I'm not making any grand claims to life-changing-ness on any of yr body parts (not just yet) but I'm no longer so bummed by all the slabs that I miss out on by necessity. I have my own slabs, thank you! I'm gonna add some more stuff and figure out how I wanna get them offa tape and yes then throw them up here. You don't believe me but you also don't have a finger on the epic juices of imbalance coursing through me right now, so off with ye and come back when I'm quite ready.
posted by Quincy Hoist at 1:51 PM
1 Comments:
yay
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