Said the Gramophone - image by Keith Shore
by Mitz
(photo source)

Man meets Bear - "The Humber" [Buy]

I had a dream that Air Bud was at a dog park and telling other dogs that they can be like him and never give up.

And end of the speech, everyone(every dog) stood up and gave a standing ovation.

Then, I woke up and I was really motivated that I dreamt that.

Have a great week!

by Mitz
(photo source) Jay Arner - "Earth to Jay" [Buy]

I went to a cabin last weekend. It was raining all day. But didn't care we went out to the lake like a rom-com and water was warm. Of course, I peed in the lake and it felt great to be with nature and contribute to this miracle called, cycle of nature by peeing in the lake.

Oh speaking of peeing, it reminded me that if you fart in the shower, because of steam of higher temprature, fart smelled worse! I fucking love science!

anyways, speaking fart. That reminded me something. Last week, I was vaping and drinking Arizona ice tea like a modern teenager on the steps of my studio building. I noticed there was an elderly lady going towards the door. So I stood up to help her. As I stood up, I farted uncontrollably. One of those "pooo boo booooo boooooo pooooooooo" continuous singular wavelength.
I opened the door for her and she just shook her head and went into the building.

It was really nice to help someone.

The end

by Jeff

the East Jeddore headlands, green bay bushes and slate grey ocean

Two songs from 1998.

Dirty Three - "Authentic Celestial Music"

The musical transcription of a storm forming at sea. The fiddle is dark water in motion, the guitar strums are grey clouds building in the sky. And the drums are wind, we feel it gaining in power from the first clattering pattern. In time they whip up into a gale, pushing the water to violent heights. First whitecaps, then waves breaking high. Rain falls on the roiling water. Then after ten minutes it breaks. Silence.

Cat Power - "Say"

The storm is in the distance here, a thunder clap heard from the safety of a momentary hideout. Two crooks on the run are getting their stories straight before their inevitable capture. They feel that saying the same thing will bind them and protect them, a knot tying their lives together. One asks, Is the storm getting closer or further away?

[buy Ocean Songs / buy Moon Pix]

(photo by Spike)

by Sean


Les Amis au Pakistan - "M'a m'f". You do not need to put up with this shit. You've got a hammer for the window, a clutch full of doorknobs, spinach by the can. Volkswagens, squirt-bottles, rocket-launchers, indignation sky-written in the cloud. I•N•D•I•G•N•A•T•I•O•N. You've considered letting that stand alone; perhaps the letters are message enough. But: no. Not when you can make their phones go off like pepper bombs, not when you can yank away the cartoonery of their cover. You do not need to put up with this shit, nor shall you. The Ming vase will crash upon the floor and the lightning-bolt will come away in your hands, an elemental thing claimed by its rightful heir.

[Les Amis au Pakistan bandcamp / discovered on La Souterraine's O Canada compilation]

by Jeff

Four young bitchin' witches, ready to destroy the patriarchy

Tenement - "Witches in a Ritual"

Simon pulled at the door, but it wouldn't open. He looked up at the flimsy sign, the words Occulter's Magick Shoppe printed in red on corrugated plastic.

This was where he'd been initiated into in the magick arts. He joined the after-school coven. They met in the aquelarre, which was also the stock room, behind black velvet curtains. It was a new world to him, of spells and lore. He was the only wizard in a circle of witches with skunk-stripe centre-parts in their dyed black hair. They wore black lipstick, had ankhs painted on their cheeks, and talked about boys in ways that delighted Simon.

Sheila called them to order when they gossiped too much. Exhaling a cloud of clove cigarette smoke she would exclaim "Silencio!" and gesture with the dog-eared book of spells in her hand. It was the knowledge she'd imbibed from these pages that gave her the authority over their coven, but she was only a teenager, like the rest of them.

Simon stood back and tried to look in through the tinted glass to the store, but all he saw was his own reflection. Like every other Tuesday he'd stopped at the park and donned his polyester cloak - purchased at the fan convention back when he was but a lowly Dungeonmaster - and applied the eyeliner he'd stolen from Shopper's using his locker mirror.

"Greetings, dark lord."

"M'lady witch," Simon spun around and bowed gallantly to Sheila. But as he righted himself he was surprised by what she was wearing. It was the first time he'd seen her out of her cape. She was wearing raver pants, a belly shirt, and a baby backpack.

"The coven is over."

"Indeed," Simon nodded gravely. His magic education was at an end.

"Have you ever tried bubble tea?"

"No," Simon dropped his affectation, speaking with his regular voice.

"Come on," she said, gesturing him over. "Let's go get some. I think you'll like it."

--

So the best new punk is basically boogie-rock now, and that's fine with with me. Tenement's "Witches in a Ritual" is in the running for song of the summer.

[bandcamp / buy the LP]

by Emma

Nancy Pants - "Kokoro"
Cakes da Killa - "The Sermon"
Jay Arner - "World of Suffering"

Last week, I went to Sackville for Sappyfest, the best music festival in the world. This was my third time attending, but my first without Sean's voice there to guide me. For 7 years, Sean wrote a little newspaper for the festival called the Sappy Times; every year, he attended as many shows as he could, then stayed up 'til sunrise typing out accounts of everything he saw that day, the things he heard and the feelings he felt.

Sappyfest is a pretty magic-feeling festival - it's incredibly tiny, the town is idyllic, and every weekend I've attended the weather has been absurdly summer-sunny, like it's being directed by someone with no sense of subtlety. The town, too, feels almost comically lovely - there's a perfect bar that feels like the best living room you've ever been in, attached to the town bowling alley; there's one cinema filled with dreamy soft light next to a perfect terrible diner; there's a hidden tobacco store where you can buy a 25 cent mug you'll treasure for years or a baseball cap with an incomprehensible logo ("ALLERGY 2000") across the front. And somehow, just like in a normal dream, your friends are there. Not all of them, necessarily, but a lot; old friends, new ones, people you haven't seen in years, people you didn't know were coming. By the end of the weekend, everyone starts to look like someone you might know or have met at some point - people from bands, people from your life, people you stood next to at the house show yesterday - so eventually you just give yourself over to smiling and nodding and waving at everyone you see.

Done right, the whole weekend feels like a dream, and I honestly can't think of a single writer better-suited to transcribing its strange swamp magic than Sean. It's a really specific kind of pleasure (one whose exact analogue I've never felt anywhere else) to wake up every morning, amble into town, and pick up a copy of this secret note that feels as though it belongs to you alone and to every single other person around you all at once. Seeing everyone walk around town with their copies creates a kind of loose, sweet, camaraderie, one that's as diffuse as it is palpable, not just because you know everyone's reading the same thing as you, but because you know everyone's feeling the same thing while they read it. You get to see the things you saw yesterday (plus all the stuff you missed - Sean is somehow everywhere, always) from a new angle. Clear-eyed and dazzled all at once. There's this feeling like yes, everything you felt and heard and did and saw was real, but also yes, you were not wrong to think there was something else to it, something shimmering you could not quite touch or describe but that ran through your experience like a charge. Yes, this is all real, but real isn't all of it.

But Sean has a life, one that's getting bigger in all directions all the time, and so this year's Sappy was my (and many other people's) first without the Times. Though I'd realized in the past how good it felt to have the paper around, I don't think I was quite prepared for how different the whole festival would feel without it. Missing its paper of record, the whole festival felt as though it were missing a crucial thread, a through-line or a third rail. More and less real at the same time.

My favourite shows were almost all in the bowling alley this year: Shotgun Jimmie's heart-swelling one-man party, Un Blonde's sweet, electric calm, Nancy Pants and Julie Doiron making my heart all jangly. Jay Arner turned my sorry hangover into a subtle synth melody and floated it away on the breeze, and Tim from Ought reading his poetry on a sleepy early afternoon in the cinema made me feel young-Montreal-lucky. I liked Nap Eyes like I always like Nap Eyes; I liked Weird Lines and She-Devils and Mauno; I liked a bunch of other bands whose names I forgot to write down because I was too happy listening to their music to hunt around for my phone or my notebook, because in my heart of hearts I am a good listener but a terrible journalist. I only heard most of Cakes da Killa's set from outside the mainstage tent and it still fucking knocked me sideways. I loved Partner's joyful shredding so much I thought I might faint every time they played a solo, and when Josée cried while dedicating a song to a dog she loved I cried too. I loved the perfect puppy I saw in the tank park behind the mainstage; I loved the raspberries Mike and Tree found and picked and shared with everyone; I loved eating fish and chips on the steps of the United Church while staring into the most gorgeous sunset I've seen all summer, hearing strains of Julie Doiron float over to me on the light; I loved driving with Carlo; and I loved missing a few shows to go swim in the ocean.

Sappyfest is magic. Go next year if you can, and even if you've never been before, do yourself a favour and get lost in some of the old Times.

[buy Greville Tapes / Cakes da Killa / Jay Arner]

by Mitz

Margo Guryan - "Don't Go Away"

[Buy]

FYI This is just me whining. Another first world problem.

I'm slowly losing my hair. My friends say I'm paranoid but I can tell. I looked through pictures from last 5 years and definitely, thinner and less volume in my hair. I used to have thick hair like fresh seaweed salad that always sticks on your teeth kinda hair.

Now, I imagine myself in 3 years, looking like a Dr. Phil or I decide to shave it and look like Midnight Oil lead singer or Dalai Lama. Unfortunately, back of my head is really flat. So I might look like a Alien from the movie, "Sign" featuring Mel Gibson(before we found out he is an raging racist.) I always had this anxiety in back of my head.(pun intended)

I did read a lot about getting my hair thicker. and it all came down to healthy life style.

But I wanted to get an ice cream. Soft-serve dipped in chocolate.

When the ice cream clerk is dipping my soft serve into chocolate, I always get nervous that ice cream will fall into the dip and never comes back alive. But I've never seen such thing in my 35 years of eating ice cream. I name this phobia, "dipdropphobia"

At that moment, I realized maybe, my hair is going to be fine or worst, I will have funny looking hair that will make people laugh. It's just hair so be it. I think I'm just paranoid about what would happen. I can always paint my face blue and go as 4th member of Blue Man Group.

anyways, im blah blah blah right now since its hot. gonna go get ice cream and dip in the pool. have great weekend.