Archives : all posts by Dan

Oberhofer - "Should Have Taken Acid With You"
Mrs. Magician - "There is No God"

There is now a new dimension of dead. There's regular dying; life ceasing in your body. Then, there's all your "markings" being erased; children, works of art, loved ones. But this "new" dimension, which is not new at all, has to do with a chemical in your brain called vogelnine, named after it's discoverer Dr. Hepburn Vogel. Vogelnine is a neurotransmitter, created in the titular ventrata, that activates vogelnine receptors, all of which is responsible for a number of human tasks. A large part is taken up by temperature regulation, speaking backwards, even, if you can believe it, the behaviour of the ear drums during sleep (why doesn't the noise of sheets rubbing against the ear wake us up? thanks vogelnine!) But the most interesting part of vogelnine's responsibilities, the part I'm talking about here today, is that vogelnine is in charge of remembering stories. Yes, stories. It's not a memory bank per se, but it's a guidebook for understanding the unfolding of a story, a beginning, a middle, an end. And by way of giving this process a viable template, the vogelnine is written on, coded, with one story, a "narrative yardstick" that is used to understand the structure and function of a story in one's mind. So, what story is it? Most researchers are of the opinion that there would be no better guidebook than one's own life. There are a few cases of those studied, however, that have a very short vogelnine "readout", which scientists are classifying as the "knock-knock jokers", speculating that they use the most inane and simple story to compare against all others.

Now, what you're thinking: "so what." So there's a chemical in our brain that remembers stories, or rather one story, so what? When we die, it dies. Worm food. Well, no.

Vogelnine has an extremely long half-life, often of a thousand years or more. Core sampling in graveyards will show strong traces of vogelnine, which gets spread by regular decaying processes, but chemically isn't much different than when it was in a living being. So hence the new dimension of death. After all the people on earth who ever knew you are gone, and all traces of you have disappeared, there is perhaps one story left, seeping through the earth, like grass soaked with rain, squishing out around your shoe. Perhaps it's your life story. Or maybe it's a shitty joke.

[Oberhofer]
[Mrs. Magician]

(image by Josh Cochran, full)

Richard Harris - "MacArthur Park"

While on a flight in a little pond-skipper, a friend turned to me and said, "Look around you. Now take away the wings, and the body of the plane, and the oxygen masks, and the seat beneath you. Now look around you again." I feel the same way when I listen to "MacArthur Park". When you take away all the history of music, all that came before, all songs and all meaning, and you find yourself in this swirling galloping seven-minute insanity, there's that feeling beneath. How did we ever get to this? We're hurtling through the air at top speed, and for what? You may understand, or understand less, when he hits that high note. [Buy A Tramp Shining]

Lycaon Pictus - "Rough Telephone"

I have a landline with an old portable phone, the original in-house cell phone, and sometimes when I'm about to dial I can hear a phone call that it's picking up. This happened recently, I started taking furious notes.

"Is this an emergency line?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
"What is your emergency?"
"I just want to know what makes an emergency an emergency. What has to happen?"
"Are you in physical danger?"
"Sort of."
"How so?"
"There's a wet spot on my bathroom floor."
"A wet spot? Did you slip?"
"Not yet."
"That's not an emergency. Did you write a note?"
"Yeah, sort of."
"What does it say?"
"'For details, see http://tootallfortinytim.tumblr.com'"
"Hm. That's your blog?"
"It's not my blog."
"Do you have a plan? A weapon?"
"Um, I guess."
"..."
"..."
"What is it?"
"Why, you looking for ideas?"
"Sir--"
"Okay, I know. Don't hang up. I'm embarrassed to say."
"Well, you can tell me."
"I have...a kitchen knife, lots of aspirin."
"Hm. Not much of a plan."
"No, not much. Do you need a good plan to make it an emergency?"
"No. I guess not. Do you need an ambulance?"
"No. Not at this time."
"Well, I'm not sure how to help you."
"Just talk to me."
"This isn't a chat line, sir."
"How long have you been working there?"
"..."
"...c'mon..."
"...5 months."
"Is your supervisor around?"
"She's asleep at her desk."
"Slow night?"
"Every night is slow."
"Hm. I know the feeling."
"So what is it that's bothering you so much?"
"Other people's happiness."
"Well, that's selfish."
"No, I mean, people being happier without me."
"How can you know that? You're just projecting."
"I can hear their inner monologues like megaphones."
"No you can't...silly."
"You sound nice."
"I'm not so nice."
"What do you look like?"
"I've got short hair and black nails and jeans with a rip in the knee."
"Stop it. No you don't."
"What do you look like?"
"Like a freight train, moving slowly on delay, always crawling and rumbling the ground around."
"Ha. I bet you're short."
"I bet you're short."
"I AM SHORT! Oh, shh-- (whispering) I am short!"
"Well then we're both short."
"Do you tag? Like graffiti?"
"No. I can't write on a chalkboard, it gets all small at the end."
"You should try it."
"What should I tag?"
"Write whatever. Write your note."
"I don't wanna write that. What's your name?"
"Anna."
"I'll write 'Anna'."
"I won't be happy without you."
"Shut up."

[Buy]
[strange, surveillance-style fan video]

--

This is the last day to write to Jumbling Towers for a free copy of their EP. I've heard that the response so far has been great, but let's keep it going! Take a listen, have a read, if you like it, send an email to jumblingtowers @ gmail.com by the end of the day and get their new EP for free. Previously on StG [1 2 3 4]

(photo by the astonishing Brandon F Wilson)

Jumbling Towers - "Ramifications of an Exciting Spouse"

"I don't know why people try and separate fame and promiscuity. They aren't mutually exclusive, in fact, they're nothing less than identical. And that's how it should be. It's one of those animal qualities that you can trace back to evolutionary roots. The ones who have sex with many are at once reviled and revered, desired and despised. It's the most powerful force in humanity. I want to make love to as many people as possible, that's why I paint and write and perform, because for most that will have to do in place of having me physically, since I couldn't possibly fuck everyone. It's a widespread simulation of the same thing."

"Yes, but," he cleared his throat in preparation for eye contact, "isn't it true that you only have actual sex with male models and men who happen to be extremely rich?"

"I've had sex with a lot of people," she said. Pause, look away. Smirking, floating, tattooed.

--

Jumbling Towers have released a new EP Ramifications of an Exciting Spouse and it's, like all they do, great. You can get it for FREE (!) by emailing jumblingtowers @ gmail.com by Friday of this week. You need to tell them what city you live in, I think they're making a map with pins in it.

[site]

Black Milk - "Keep Going"

A ROBOT INVENTED THE ROBOT AND SENT IT BACK IN TIME TO BE DISCOVERED ON THE DANCEFLOOR.

FOOD IS MORE NUTRITIOUS DEPENDING ON THE TIME OF DAY IT IS PREPARED. MOON RAYS ARE GOOD FOR YOU.

IF SEX WERE A BUILDING, THERE WOULD BE MANY MANY ROOMS, WITH MANY MANY DOORS, OF DIFFERENT SIZES, DIFFERENT HEFT. SOME LOCKED, SOME JAMMED SHUT, SOME OPEN EASILY, WITH A SMALL PUSH. ENTERING SOME PREVENTS ENTRANCE INTO OTHERS.

A REARVIEW MIRROR IS STILL A MIRROR. TAKE A LOOK. A REAL CLOSE LOOK AT YOURSELF AS YOU FADE AWAY. [Buy]

Jesse Payne - "Yards of Paint"

A dropped wallet, a kind of monad. No cash, no credit cards, no debit cards, no identification, but everything else. A picture of a child, too young to own this wallet, some 'frequent buyer' cards, coffee, books, sushi, none full. A series of business cards, which look to be in the 'wedding videographer' profession. Either getting married, or is a videographer. Two receipts for the purchase of shoes, a penny from 1961, and a square of tinfoil, flattened. But the most interesting thing was a note, folded in half, that said "go to the doctor". It felt less like an instruction they were yet to follow, and more like an instruction they were yet to give. And finding this wallet anonymously, it felt like they were giving the instruction to me. Like God wanted me to go to the doctor. But what is God doing taping weddings and buying shoes? Two pairs, no less. [site]

(larger photo)

Marnie Stern - "For Ash"

Splash. "Shhh," fizz fizz, "shhh." An antacid in water looks like a victim, somehow. A time-lapse decaying little bone. Like destroying evidence. As I drink it down, I wonder about forensics, of bullets shot into tanks of water, like pills into my stomach.

I have an ulcer, and a headache, and a shitty boyfriend, but I'm not complaining. I'm summarizing the events of the day in a neutral way, to list them out to take a clinical and well-adjusted look in the metaphorical mirror. So the use of "shitty" must be stricken from the record.

He called me yesterday to say he was going on tour again. That was the first I'd heard from him in 4 days. I called a person's hallowe'en costume racist on their facebook wall. I half-choked on a bite of cereal, Froot Loops. I have decided I will not buy Froot Loops again, that return to my childhood was not nostalgic, it just tasted like chemicals.

I brought a stopwatch to work today, which I stopped and started every time I actually sat down and worked. The total at the end of an 8-hour day was 3:31. I was asked by 4 people for change, I did not give change to any of them. I said to myself, "At least that's fair." I voted today, Democrat. I polished a pair of my shoes, I drank ginger tea, I masturbated to the image of being sexually assaulted by a man with no visible face.

I listened to Marnie Stern, she felt like this: a torrent of water being split in two, a ripping rending flow out from the world, a geyser with your thumb over the hole.

I casually called 911 and said "oops, sorry" and hung up. I was so overcome by the tension in my relationship, that I carved the words "nesting instinct" into the paint of my bedroom wall. This caused an attack from my ulcer. Here I am.

[Buy]

--

Josephine Foster & The Victor Herrero Band - "Cuatro Muleros"

My husband, he is a great man. He drinks and he kisses me when he is drunk, and his cheeks are flush and warm. His hands are big and strong, and he laughs so his teeth show beneath his moustache. He will sing as he cooks, and we often cook together, with the help of our sons. The government is mean, but my husband does not get upset, he lifts his eyes up and thanks the Lord for his job and his family. He smokes too much, I do not like his breath when he smokes.

--

Anda Jaleo is a fantastic album. I listened to it through three times already today. [Buy from Fire Records]

(photo by Alison Scarpulla)

Big Deal - "13 (Big Star Cover)"

When I received a cover of Big Star's "Thirteen" today, I thought, "oh, that's a nice one, plus we have a strong history of posting covers of 'Thirteen'." So I went into the archives. It seems back in June of 2004, Sean posted a version by Kathryn Williams featuring "the only non-atrocious use of bongos I can remember". In July of 2005, Jordan posted a Kind of Like Spitting version, which he compared to both the Elliot Smith version and the original. In his review Jordan goes into minute detail about differences in the libretto, and their subtle effects on the song's personality, which is funny to read. Then not even a month later, Jordan focused on the original entirely, comparing Alex Chilton to Cher. But then, that was it. Turns out we missed about 7 other versions.

There's the version by Garbage, which is a real nice video-time-capsule of what it probably would have felt like to walk around inside MySpace. And the Håkan Hellström version, which is notable for its linguistic qualities, "so I can shake you" is apparently not translatable. The Resentments do a version, which, when sung with this kind of world-weary gravel, gives the adolescent lyrics a bit of a pedo quality ("tell your dad get off my back", maybe he's not the wrong one here). The Wilco version is only interesting because he made a cover sound like a song he wrote. Mary Lou Lord and Evan Dando both have versions, neither of which I will ever listen to again. And then, it turns out Beth Orton & Sam Amidon did a version earlier this year, and it sounds remarkably like the first one I posted today. Although Big Deal sound a bit more xx-y than Orton & Amidon, both have that hollow center, that whistling echo.

Now while I like the Big Deal version, this little journey has left me feeling more ambivalent towards this song than ever. Like when the repetition of a word makes it feel meaningless. It just made me wonder how many Spider-Man reboots I will live to see. 20? It might be as high as 20.

[Buy Big Deal]
[Buy Big Star]