Bangin' Fingers

Hello everyone,

Your humble servant-savant Quincy Hoist here, attempting an anonymous
mass communique amongst a select group of associates on behalf of his
mysterious, stupidly named cohort DJ Teen-Preggnanci.

Birthed of an inside joke gone horribly awry, DJ T-P emerges from his
disgusting cavern approximately once a year when beckoned by a clarion
call of drunkards and wastrels herded together by the great Pan. He is
forced to hold forth at an unspecified Polish manse located in a
sleepy Chicago suburb. There, a sort of luchador pageantry is
undertaken, Rites of Spring performed as a Battle Royale. Traditional
costuming from exotic locales across the globe meets with
decommissioned glassware and repurposed holiday lights in a blurred
bacchanalia to beat the band.

And the band is indeed beaten. As bottles are emptied and the
last-man-standing mentality takes hold, the clatter and throb of pagan
rhythms are throttled at length by this mystic, this abominable
hypnotist. Segue after segue call new dancers to the fore as the last
batch are unceremoniously brushed from the killing-dancefloor,
dispatched as fodder to stoke the blaze. Transitions from movement to
movement make no sense at all but hook the participants into an unholy
pact with their gleeful declaration of the Absurd. A formal lemma
condemning the formality of logic, a proclamation on the precipice.

At long last, evidence of these undertakings has surfaced in the form
of two isolated acts from this play of the damned. While information
remains foggy, it is believed that the first segment, the
VISCOUSTIMIX, served as an opening salvo of psychic ammunition, a slow
pulse set to lure the actors to the stage. The second portion,
disturbingly and evocatively titled IMAGINE ALL THAT MILK, seems to
find the process well underway and the casualties mounting as the room
is suffumigated with the devil's funk.

I am compelled to recommend you all to take in these crude snapshots
of something that rejects the very notion of civilization. It is
essential that we know What We Are up Against. I do urge you to take
precautions when doing so, as to take these waves on with a mind and
spirit ungirded is to invite paroxysms of madness that may never be
quelled. Onward, lest we slip in the muck!

VISCOUSTIMIX: http://www.sendspace.com/file/w6ql77
IMAGINE ALL THAT MILK: http://www.sendspace.com/file/y3pjag

IT'S NOT THE SHIT THAT COUNTS BUT THE FLUSH: REANIMATING A TURD PT 1 OF ?

...'nnnnnnnn--whirbach. Or are we? Seems there was some gappin', to be expected on a path of sufficient curvy-linearity. And I do like those curves. So we arrive, twistor'd up like a lime drained of use squincheed at the bottom of a tumbler drained in turn. Can't go back again, but you can order another round, should you have the time.

So I stumble forth; it has been a while -- yer outta toilet paper, by the way. No harm done, just a couple less zines in the holster sitting 'side yonder gaping saddle, where I sat straddlin' so sadly a-gapping, tryna get back home again. Sorry that took so long, but some plunges require a bit of advanced coarsework. But be assured that the feedbag is... replenished. And my apologies also go out to yer chosen brand of potpourri aerosol. And as for mixin' stool metaphors atwixt the barside and the backside? You'll get no apology from me there, boyo.

I ain't gwan lie... 'twas a flurry of recent activity amongst several personal game-changers what seemed to boot up for some edspinorializin' out on my unfed feedreeder and a few long-term acquaintensors bleedin' my free ear til it blushed red with shameblood that made me suspicious that perhaps this here webchortle might actually still exist. Hell, I wrote it off as spamchum back before Altered Zones even dared dawn 'pon our fair doughmane. Now that their cookie's baked, seems maybe safe once again to slide silently into the pool -- and what a lovely pool it is for mingling metaphors indeed; a luxurious last resort construct replete with swim-up barkeep and enough dim corner lagoons to allow for ample aquatic quaffing and loaf-leaving both. Yes, the water is fine indeed.

Sowhasnu? I've been trying to self-educate: chasing threads, stacking wax, gulping pulp -- but goddam if I can't synthesize a coherence of it all, which I guess is what the plain truth may just be. Patchwork scenes, locally smoove, globally indifferent. Yes, the weird punk monsoon hitting right 'round the last post featured here uprooted much of my tender seedling assumptions, shipping me back to get some fundamentals straightened out per Forced Exposure backissues of yore. Which, I ain't yet fully fulfilled, half forgot where I been already. Fuck, you guys press a lot of records.

But 's fine. Branches to branches, no juncture left unforked. Got my whole life to shit and chase tales, what better companion to my fart's moan than a smartphone? Datamunchin' 'til the year twensexty... Gonna try to ease back into this blather with an inverted jug and a perverted shrug. Friends've said I should keep my twiddling offa music-talk, but I think some squirm'll worm it's way into the framework no matter what way I lean, so we'll see. If the world can really do without discussion of deep disco edits done in the unknown halfslangs of a champion squinter, who'm'I to provide as such? I'll Livejournal the hell outta this piece, no reviewing faked. Problem is, my entire day is spent record slobbing and screen mawing, so -- you get what you pay for, no more, no less. BUT -- I promise complete lack of reference triangulation, and wholehearted halfheartery plus more. Layman's germs, unkempt keyboards. Here goes nuttin'... and here comes nuttin' back.

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.

Hemming and Hawing

They call the Irish "Donkeys", or at least so I read in Bonfire of the Vanities, but the obstinacy of a Finn is tried and true as they come; they just stay quieter while drinking the bleak winter away. So it is that my heritage often keeps me from doing lo.gical things such as hemming my damn pants, even when I'm not what you'd call a tall motherfucker and every spring of my life has been a month-long shuffle through ankle sucking muck. Perhaps I'm just content to work for pants money, perhaps I just need to reduce the hem width of my purchases and improve on proper "stacking". No matter! I stay the course, pruning my calves and preserving sock bands as stank tattoos, twisting a lip at the capillary action of cotton in grim denial.

But what really gooses my ass about spring is the immediate reminder that whilst I was huddled, reading ever-so-slowly through books that everyone I aspire to emulate has already polished off and/or dismissed, like, twice, people have actually been accomplishing shit in this town. I find it hard enough to contain the rolling boil in my veins during my first stroll from the bus stop sans parka, unsheathed and translucent and engorged, when I have only an amorphous concept of that nagging sense of non-accomplishment from a good season wasted feeding and loathing, let alone when local folk start posting actual hot trax to their goddam myspace pages. Myspace! The gall. And that I had to locate them via 20jazzfunkgreats! So far away. I stumble, refusing to look at the puddles lest they mock me: "You may be from here, but you are not of here." Good luck at SxSW, say hi to the Siltbreeze camp...

Zola Jesus
Dead Luke

In remembrance of weeks past as I curse the slush of today...

Sheltered Life #3: Bitter Pills for Winter Chills Part 1 Part 2

• Make a Change... Kill Yourself - Life Revisited - II
• Magik Markers - Most Beautiful City on Earth - I Trust My Guitar, Etc.
• Sixteen - Chapel of the Chimes - Hex
• Electric Eels - Agitated - Eyeball of Hell
• Bone Awl - Offering to Me - So I Must Take From the Earth
• Satyricon - Mother North - Nemesis Divina
• Grey Daturas - Golden Tusk the Endearing - Dawn of the Catalyst
• Motor Ghost - Golden Promise - A Gold Chain Round Her Breast
• Flaherty Corsano Duo - Whiskey and Soda - Steel Sleet
• Dead C - LA Confidential - split w/ Hi God People
• Birchville Cat Motel - Chi Vampires - Chi Vampires
• Weakling - Cut Their Grain and Blaze Fire Therein - Dead as Dreams
  

Hazmat Jigs

It was a simple truth: Nothing could ever be perfect. "Duh," came the follow up thought, leading to a ricocheting cat-and-mouse game of neural pathway tag between the two brainfarts, the bleak slab reasserting itself again and again in pointless argument with the monosyllabic, echoing thok, "Duh". An unintentional and uninterested mantra. It would have been purifying, had anything been anything but pure to begin with.

At first he had been slightly peeved that the coffee machine seemed to not be pushing quite a full cup out. Over time, a dose of the stuff seemed to stop almost a full centimeter below the upper lip of the cup. True, the coffee was free, and he could just have another cup... but that gap... it seemed wrong. Something needed calibration. What if the level kept dropping every dose? He'd be denied precious sips at least in ratio to trips to the machine.

Of course he didn't complain. That would have been some bullshit beyond even his petty capabilities. He suspected nobody did. It was minor and who could possibly care? These people weren't petty. Or, as he watched himself do, they at least suppressed that pettiness in service of pleasant civility. Everywhere! All of his days it was like this, throughout this town. Affability! Good will, tattered about it's edges! Well, perhaps not on a case by case basis; as he got older the servicework performed by current undergraduates seemed to have a certain -- sneer -- to it, but a general aura of complacent (self? he couldn't tell) satisfaction seemed to pervade the streets he shuffled through. No complaints here! Tip-top! And why should he rock the boat? Indeed.

Yet one day the level of coffee was higher. He could only assume that a routine servicing had resulted in a recalibration. Nobody needed to point it out, someone was checking on it as part of their scheduled maintenance, their supplication to that aura. Self-correction! We're already on top of that! Been penciled in for weeks.

This made him think of when he worked at the coffee stand in the University's Student Union and how much variability there had been in the mass of grounds produced by the buzzing grinders. Sometimes the coffee company would send somebody in, and they would invariably grind batch after batch, tweaking the clockwork to achieve just the right throughput, the air reeking of Breakfast Blend, everyone achieving caffeine buzz and blacklung simultaneously, no burnt tongues, no dead canaries. And yet, the batches... they wavered. They chose their own fate, did it on the fly.

But this, this single serving coffee had just the right level. His nose twitched slightly at the invitation to awaken, his tongue throbbed with expectation of the impending heatwave. He lifted the cup and started strolling...

Coffee curled over the styrofoam lip, the antithesis of the big, icy Superior breakers he used to see violating the cement walls jutting out into the Great Lake. No, this was tiny, black, and scalding. His thumb caught it at the base, on a small scar that used to look like a half moon, the result of a glass broken during one of his rare excursions washing dishes between 2003-2004. A translucent brown drip bulged as his skin blushed.

This set off the game of tag in his mind, the Duh-Sutra. No caffeine yet, even! After he sat down, he thought: Christ, I wonder what the sidewalks will be like after all this snow melts.

Sheltered Life #2: "Repetition" Part 1 Part 2

• Faust - It's a Rainy Day, Sunshine Girl - So Far
• Faust - Munich/Yesterday - 71 Minutes
• Pole - Warum - Steingarten
• Isolee- I Owe You -Western Store
• Pole - Pferd - Steingarten
• This Heat - Repeat -Repeat
• Eyes and Arms of Smoke - In Three Houses - In Three Houses
• Anaksimandros - Lappi Fast Witch - River of Finland
• Anaksimandros - Run With Vishnu - River of Finland
• Kemialliset Ystavat - Musta Metsa - Kellari Juniversumi
• Kemialliset Ystavat - On Patsi Metsa - Kellari Juniversumi
• Phillip Jeck - Spirits Up - Surf
• Es Sateenkaarisuudelma III - Sateenkaarisuudelma
• Galbraith/Neilson/Youngs - Track 2 - Belsayer
• Terry Riley - Poppy Nogood and the Phantom Band - A Rainbow in Curved Air

Resurrected by Hi Bandwidth Angelz

Jesus shit, I just noticed how long it has in actuality been since I last sproinged forth my fever dreams onto google's unsuspecting serverbots for the enjoyment of your eyebeams. Well, that weren't my intention. Maybe back around Thankssgiving I tried to squee shut the tap jus' a bit to pressurize and metabolize a more -- significant? personable? purposeful? carefree? gluten free? -- flow, and wound up rather Thanksgiving up [Har!]. Hibernating. I can afford nice beer now, even been taught a bit on how to make an acceptable batch, and our living room's been rearranged to allow sweet couch-fed access to my turntable, so I can slap singles off 'n on without any effort, which is pretty much exactly as things should be. And, you know, shit... "Happy families are all alike." And so I conform, somewhat, and then what do I tell you of interest? Oh, but I'm still legit. Things don't still piss me off sometimes: I screwed some much-craved goulash up last night, it took forever for Netflix to send us the second disc of the Wire's fourth season, and other things sometimes inconvenience me for minutes or even hours at a time. Life is hard all over, I guess.

My laptop is still stolen as fuck, but we just bought a real live supported internet hookup. Yeah, I know... total sellouts. Still, now when I have a sixer and can convince my lady to stop demanding mutually fulfilling conversation and/or lovemaking, I can log on here via her (other) machine and tell you all about my stuff! My opinions! My "thoughts"! Again! It's like old times.

And so to kick of the deluge or trickle of effortless, directionless posts that I will once again spend valuable time and eyecells on over Russian lit, I offer you the first edition of the newly retitled for 2008 broadcasting masterpiece, my gawdamn radio riot:

Sheltered Life #1 part 1 | part 2 - theme: Welcome to the Outhouse

• Velvet Underground - Sheltered Life - Something Different
• Neon Pearl - Forever - Neon Pearl
• Black Swan - Echoes and Rainbows - Black Swan
• Michael Chapman - One Time Thing - Galactic Zoo Tape Club comp
• Crosby and Nash - Where Will I Be - Galactic Zoo Tape Club comp
• Lee Hazlewood - Autumn's Done Come - Galactic Zoo Tape Club comp
• Paul Metzger - Orans - Deliverance
• Isengrind - Perseid Meteor Shower - Golestan
• MV & EE - Snowstorm Blues - Mars Delta
• The Byrds - Blue Canadian Rockies - Sweetheart of the Rodeo
• Elephant Micah - Distant Things - Hindu Windmill
• Ai Aso - Unknown - Umerumonoizen
• Les Rallizes Denudes - Unknown - Deeper than the Night
• Marissa Nadler - Fifty Five Falls - Ballads of Living and Dying
• Ben Nash - Rebecca - cassette
• Alice Coletrane - Journey in Satchidananda - Journey in Satchidananda
• Keiji Haino - Unknown - Watashi-Dake?
• Jacob Olausson - Welcome Traveler - Moonlight Farm
• The Patron Saints - Shine on Heart - 7"
• Liz Green - Bad Medicine - 7"
• Natural Snow Buildings - Wisconsin - Dance of the Moon and the Sun
  

Positive Outlooking for Something to Do

Dunno if it's the chill Nov drizzle or some shit just got slapped out my neurons, but I've had an Ichi the Killer DVD-box-guy (no I ain't seen it) rictus stitchgrin on my internal mug for the past little while now. Yuz, happiness, and here I am to mope about it.

Seriously, it has got me panicking. I mean, how did I get here? How do I stay here? Maybe it's something as easy as having Burial release a new album come every couple months, but I dunno it seems like the ol' dopamine receptors wouldn't be able to handle that onslaught. Y'know how there's a track on th' new Untrue called "Endorphin"? And how it indeed causes a blush of diffusion every time that pitched up voice sings it's little lament and the other one says something about flashing lights? Yeah, that's running me low on whatever compounds it is that my brain needs to make that shizz. Mouse pushing a button here.

And fuggit, I don't really feel like getting into all the other musicks right now. Mostly I want to shout loudly out in appreciation of those dwindling blahg authors who are posting rarely but still slip one out now and again. Woundedgalaxy, Crud Scott, Blastitude, Rettman, Siltblog, the list goes on (I know yull be back, OS Gams). Yeah some of yerz are linked at the side but I don't bother to update them bits and just wanted a live and direct message to let you know that when yuz do get around to slopping something up, it's enjoyed by the soppers. Spreading love like a true ladderclimber, but you know that I ain't got no rungs anyhow. So keep doin' it, as often or as rarely as you feel, but at least make this ridiculous foray into internet ass kissin' worth somethin'.

I dunno, fine. One other thing getting lotsa spin here has been the Bvdub Requited Love twelve on Styrax. It's like if Substance & Vainqueur did a breakup record. It's like if deathprod moved his bod. If Dulli grooved to Carl Craig 'stead of all that motown. It's gluttonous. Real butter.

Now... somebody get me that On the Corner box, tickets to "No Country For Old Men", a cheese basket, and yes I still listen to stuff with guitars, asshole. If it's any good, and that's in an objective way.