Said the Gramophone - image by Ella Plevin
by Sean

Snow Roller - "Too Good".
Snow Roller - "Kar Kar Binks".

Sometimes Snow Roller's guitars are ding-dong doorbell, sometimes ding-dong cake or ding-dong mixed nuts. Sometimes their guitars are ding-dong the witch is dead. Imagine an electrified doorbell, joy-buzzer style. An electrified valentine. A young man in love with a mile of electric fence. It's an undangerous danger, like certain kinds of crushes or drunkennesses. The way a guitar part can feel utterly new, just-written, while also nostalgic - awash in dreams of Weezer's Blue Album or even Jimmy Eat World's Clarity, as if it's a cover run too-many-times through Google Translate. These songs are tiny clubhouses, Ronald McDonald cabooses (cabeese?) full of friends. They are first dates, last dates, mixtapes written but never delivered. Did I mention those guitar sounds? I want to go sledding in summer - somehow for there to be sledding in summer, in flying snow, arcing jumps, ice and frost and all the summer blaze, beer or sangria and cats shimmering in the heat, the tin drumming of downpour rain, and all that wind. (thanks Hamza)


by Emma

Un Blonde - "On My Grind"
Un Blonde - "Trust Your Judgement"
Un Blonde - "Exercise A"

A body built for summer: all your nerves replaced with those thin, silvery cables they use in telephone wire, the kind the light runs through, so you walk around swallowing sunshine, glow like a constellation in your sleep.

[buy Good Will Come To You]

by Mitz

Fake Buildings- "July 5th(Buying Gold)"
Fake Buildings - "March 21st (Matadør Records)" [Bandcamp]

After a long day at my studio, I often get home close to midnight. There is only rice in my precious rice cooker my parents brought it. It keeps the rice warm without drying them up. It's fresher than Billy Corgan shoved his head and became Mr. Clean in late 90's. I care about the quality of my rice. Sometimes, I have this imaginable Smiths cover band called, "Takahashis"(one of the most common Japanese last name as well as my last name,) and I sing a hit song called, "There is a rice that never runs out"

the end.

ps. I think I might told this story before. If I did, my apologies.
and thank you for nice comments! I read them all the time! It means alot.

by Jeff
cover of a Weird Science comic book from the 1950s

Bjork - "Alarm Call"

Continued from Part One

Paul called the number scotch-taped to his console. The note was so old the tape had grown brittle and brown.

"Hello?" someone answered on the tenth ring.

"I'm calling from Outpost X, the alarm is going off."


"The alarm!" Paul didn't know what else to say. The number had been in his peripheral vision during the past eighteen months of sitting, waiting, doing nothing. Whenever he imagined calling it, he never thought he would have to convince the person on the other end that something was actually happening.

"Outpost . . . X?"

"On the outer Ecrustean line. The alarm is going off!" He felt like it was buzzing a hole into his head.

"Hm. Well, it must be a glitch on your end. I've got your entire system on the screen in front of me and everything looks fine."

"But . . ."

"Don't take it personal kid," she told him. "But at this point your outpost is almost like, what's the word I'm looking for?" She paused. "Totally useless, that's it. With this new GRID technology we've got the whole Union on lock. These universal sensors, they're great. We can watch every known bio-unit. Heck, I'm looking at you right now. Woah - your core temperature is waaay up, and I'm sensing a major influx of adrenaline. Calm down buddy. It's okay. Also, take some B vitamins, according to the read-out you're deficient."

"But the alarm--"

"That's a glitch on your end. Call in the engineer to fix it. It's so old I can't override it from here."

Paul breathed out. He was finally starting to calm down. It was nothing but a false alarm. A Pincer invasion was unlikely, of course. The chances of it happening on his watch, after a hundred years of nothing, were infinitesimally small. But when the bell rang he was sure he was doomed.

"Oh, hey, that's weird," the voice on the phone perked up.

"What?" Paul asked nervously.

"According to this there's someone in the room with you. Maybe I didn't pick them up before because they're invisible - an invisible life form? Is that possible?"

"WHAT?" Paul back up against the wall. "Invisible life form?"

"Woah, yeah, okay. They're invisible and extremely vitamin D deficient. If they are there, which I can't say for sure, get them some supplements ASAP, okay?"

"But how do I protect myself from someone I can't see?"

"Well, that's a tough one, right? Let me check the manual."

The phone went dead. Paul felt something on his shoulder, and he turned to see the face of a Pincer fading in and out of visibility. He recognized it from the books he'd read. Then he began screaming at the top of his lungs.

To be continued . . .


by Sean

The following is a guestpost written by my friend Julia Caron, one of Said the Gramophone's longest readers, whom I finally met in Québec City last year. All of us at StG would like to send our love to Geneviève Elverum, whose work we have revered for more than a decade.

Ô Paon - "Sainte Patronne de Rien Pantoute".

On Tuesday night, I stayed up late re-reading Geneviève Elverum's Maman Sauvage. I had first read it this winter, after discovering I was unexpectedly pregnant. I was desperately thirsting for words and experiences I could relate to. Where could I find stories of a woman like myself: an adult who often feels ill-equipped to deal with the responsibilities of adulthood, let alone pregnancy. Were there other women out there, pregnant and overwhelmed by the strange and surreal process of carrying a baby in one's body? I had read one patronizing pregnancy "how-to" book too many, and I finally found solace in these poems by Geneviève. I shouldn't have been shocked to find that her poems resonated with me just as deeply as her music had, but I was.

Page after page, I found slivers of myself in her words, in her stories, just as I had in her songs, years prior. Her musical projects, Woelv and Ô Paon, came into my life via a tweet from her partner Phil Elverum in 2014. How has no one told me about her sooner? I thought to myself. I listened slack-jawed, overwhelmed by these songs. Who was this bilingual Québécois woman with droning sounds and unnerving lyrics about the city I live in, and even its south shore which I know so well? Who was this woman who sings of these places in a language that feels like my second skin, avec des notes qui faussent in the most wonderful dissonant way.

It happens, that strange intimacy. The desire to call a stranger by her first name because you have heard her songs, read her books, admired her art. The distorted impression that you might even know this stranger better than you know certain friends - because the stranger has laid their heart bare and shared it with you. Hearing songs that tell you no, you're not the only one who feels that way.

The next morning, I learned of Geneviève's illness. It is heartbreaking to hear of anyone diagnosed with inoperable, stage 4 cancer, let alone if they are a new parent. A new parent who happens to make gorgeous art, but art that doesn't pay the bills in the same way other work can. And it feels yet more visceral, violent, tragic to discover this diagnosis about someone who has sung songs that got you through the shittiest winter days, someone who writes words you feel you could have written yourself.

I read Geneviève's news on a tiny screen in a public place. Tears welled up as I continued past the first few words, absorbing the facts. Geneviève Elverum. 34. New mother. Inoperable. Written by her partner Phil, their plea for financial help alludes to the way they have long kept their private life private, and how "the difficult times ... challenge that bubble." Perhaps these donations from strangers will help protect the beautiful bubble they've chosen to create for themselves and for their family, and will help them continue their dispatches toward our eyes and ears.

I've been thinking about Geneviève and her family as I wander through Québec City, a place she once called home. On her spectacular album Fleuve, she sings about this city caked in ice and dirt and melancholy. These days, it is anything but: it is green and warm and the lilacs are blossoming yet my heart feels heavy with her words and songs in my head. I find myself walking past those lilac bushes, praying to the Sainte Patronne de Rien Pantoute, the Patron Saint of Nothing at All, wishing for the best for this stranger who somehow doesn't seem a stranger.

Love to Geneviève, Phil, Agathe and their cat Manon.


> Donate to help Geneviève Elverum and her family.
> Learn more about Geneviève's work.
> Buy Courses, from which this song is taken.

Julia Caron is a bilingual bundle of contradictions, endlessly enamoured by self-portraits, dip-and-dunk photobooths and confrontational contemporary art. She has called Quebec City home since 2008; it is only appropriate she ended up in one of the oldest cities in North America, given her affection for all things old.

by Mitz
(photo source) Les Calamités - "Toutes les Nuits" [Buy] Television Personalities - "Part Time Punks" [Buy]

So my bike was stolen in front my place at 2:30AM a couple of days ago. I know the time because I was watching hippos eat watermelons on youtube and I heard the noise. I looked out and there was a guy biking away. By the time, I looked for shorts and put it on, he was already gone. I chased him but I lost him when he turned. Stolen bikes will break your soul. So does your leftover pizza you brought for lunch at work and your co-workers eat it.

A couple of weeks prior to that, when I was coming home from a corner store(we call it dep here in Montreal), I noticed someone was looking at a bike and even touching it. I was at the end of the block and my place is in the middle of the block so I wasn't sure if he was looking at my bike or someone else's bike. I walked to towards it and he saw me and kept walking. That time, I didn't really think of it much since my bike is not super awesome bike that you have to wear spandex shorts with diapers inside with Alien head looking helmets. Its just a single speed bike old frame. I got it from a friend of mine. But I knew I needed to get a better lock for it since I have not so good chain lock thing. I mean it wasn't a thin gold chain necklace like 2Pac would wear. It was more of chain that separates VIP and people in line for a hottest supper club where serves cocktail shrimps with avocados kind of chain. I didn't think anyone would spend time to steal it. Anyway, I thought I was gonna get a better lock one of these days but you know life. I got busy with my work, youtube watching hippos having extreme diarrhea and eating frozen yogurt, I didn't get around to buy it.

Ironically, earlier the night when it was stolen, I was looking bike locks online since I didnt have time to go buy it in person. Maybe Drone can deliver it to my bed like my mom would bring me a cookie and milk.

Since my bike was stolen, I saw my bike in corner of my eyes all the time. I looked on Kijiji and Craigslist frantically. Everyone I see looked like bike thieves even my corner store owners. I couldn't trust anyone.

Last night, I was walking on the street close to my house, I saw a guy who looks like high school kid riding my bike slowly passed me. I knew it was my bike since its old British brand named Hercules and handle bars had no grips, I installed the front brake housing but hadn't had a chance to add cables for brakes.(its coaster brakes) He was riding slowly passing me by so I could observe it closely. Apparently Darwin observed creatures on Galapagos Islands and got Evolution theory. Newton observed the apple fall from the tree and there was Gravity. I saw a punk biking by and saw a thief. I fucking love science!

I didn't yell or chase him at that moment because I knew he could bike away so I creeped up to him like vital video, Ninja Cat. But he sped up little bit even though he didnt see me. So I had to yell with very manly voice, "Hey! That's my bike!" In my head, it sounded like UFC champion but I probably sounded like Teletubbies or Pingu.

He turned around and said, "oh shit!" and he started biking faster. This moment, I was holding my vape really tight in my hand with the vape juice flavour called, "Justice" and I ran. Like my high school track and field coach, Mr. Brown told me to. "swing your arms, your knees will go higher." I ran like Ben Johnson in 1998 Olympics, I could feel adrenaline giving me extra energy but it faded away in 2 seconds. I'm out of shape. I wished I drank just Soylent and not eating ice cream for breakfast, new york cheesecake for lunch, a bag of Chicago mix(caramel and salty popcorn mix) for dinner on my bed, with Ipad watching dumb Japanese shows where comedians put diapers and put coca cola inside diapers. In short, I was out of shape.

Then, there was a cop van driving by. Even before I waved, the Cop van turned around, his tires squeaking. Mind you Montreal Cop van is size of soccer mom van so it was squeaking hard and almost tipping. So this point, Im running and police soccer dad in a van driving like jehu, chasing this kid. He turned into back alley and that point, the corner was too tight for the speed he was going for. I could hear, "whaaaaaaaa" in Mario Kart and spinning. He dropped my bike there. Now the kid is running away and the Soccer dad is chasing him.

(Following is all in my head. Didn't actually happen)
I'm with my bike life less. I held my bike tightly and told him/her, "I will never let you go! I love you!" and that moment, I could hear my bike's weak but steady heartbeat so I did first aid, mouth to mouth, and CPR.

"Come back to life!" "I need you!" I yelled.

I'm sure my bike almost went Bike Heaven where all the bikes are free from abusive bike owners. All the single speed, fixie, hydbred, racer, cruiser, BMX, mountain bike and even those kind of bikes that members of LEN riding on the song, "Steal My Sunshine" videos are running around freely together without any judgements from people.

(back to reality)
So I grabbed my bike and cop dad came back. I told him and he told me he didn't find the kid. To be honest, this point, I got my bike so I was happy. That kid probably learned the lesson and he will straighten up hopefully. But cop Dad told me, he called back-ups.
I saw three more cops cars show up.

This point, I was surprised they spend that much energy into little punk. It looked like OJ Simpson car chase now. He said I go home so I came home and tucked my precious bike into bed and whispered into him/her, "I love you." Once, someone told me "you won't realize how precious the life is til you lose it." Its true, how great to have normal life.
I just laid beside my bike and stroked his/her hair til he/she fell asleep.

The story continues. After 30mins or so, I see flashlights thru the window, someone coming up the stairs to my place. I went outside and there were three cops and 2 dogs! like seach dogs!! and they are cute! They told me they are looking for the bike thief!

I almost wanted to say, "go home! that's too much! Dogs look sleepy too!" but I didn't say it.

One day by the time when Im old and grandpa, I will exaggerate this story and probablly be telling my grandkid, "once when I was young, I was a hero in the neighbourhood. I saved kittens from the house fire, I caught bad guys" etc and my grandkid with google glasses or whatever the tech he will have, will tell me. "Grandpa! you lying again! You just got a bike back. I just googled!"

the end.

by Jeff

a beautiful assortment of hard candies

Pavement - "Cut Your Hair"

The first person to shave my head was my grandmother. She sat me in a kitchen chair and tied the plastic bib around my neck. Then she took out the electric razor from her Sears home barber kit - the one she used to shave my grandfather's head. It was in a cardboard box with a barber-pole design that I can almost remember. It buzzed pleasantly against my skull as the light blonde almost white hair of my childhood fell onto the squares of the linoleum floor. She told me to sit still and afterwards rewarded me with a bowl of banana slices in corn syrup, the closest thing they had to sweets in the house. Well, there were candies too. I remember once she told me where they were, in the closet above the metal folding chairs standing in a row. I found the candy dish, excitedly lifted the lid and reached for one of the brightly-coloured glass candies, small squares and rectangles. But when I grabbed it, it resisted. The candies had fused together into a new form, a mass of sweetness far larger than my mouth, although I would have surely tried to eat the whole glob if she had let me.