Posting late today, don't care. Writing about not caring, don't care. Being totally uncharming and undazzling, don't care. Let's move on then shall we? Another slam-bango goodie from my dewy-skinned days. Black Sabbath's Zero the Hero, track five on Born Again (um, get this album okay)...I'm not going to get verbose and witty about Black Sabbath, that's just plain S I L L Y.
Who can resist Ian Gillan, roosters, rats and zombie-Frankensteins set to a buzzsaw guitar riff?
I grew up with an older sibling who was listening to a veritable buffet of varying genres of music at an early age. This meant that I would often be exposed to blasts of Fleshtones, Dead Kennedys, Big Black(don't *you* wanna change your name to Santiago Durango?) Public Image Limited and - holding breath? - Art of Noise while practice kissing my Corey Hart Boy in the Box album cover. My growing curiousity and insatiable appetite about/for music took on a very unique shape. By about 13 I was digging on some pretty 'out there' stuff and what you'll see below was one of my favourite videos from that time. In the 80's this kind of flagrant punkery was regarded with gasps (from frightened parents) and cheers (the kids).
The morning is crowned with skyblown sunshine and a palette of sorrowfully gorgeous music. For the sun, a thank you to all of the gods and nature. For the sounds, thanks to Knut @ Eardrums Music for the tip-off to Hauschka's newest cinematic accompaniment to Morgenrot, from his latest album Ferndorf. A contemplation of falling, highlighted by striking contrasts in light and shadow. Don't stop there though, Knut points out that Hauschka's YouTube channel is brimming with fascinating vignettes for both film and music lovers. Eat! Eat!
As it happens, while revelling in everything Hauschka, I came across another diamond in a coal mine: Sara Lov. An enormously talented singer-songwriter who succeeds in transforming My Body is a Cage into an airy symphonic poem, as well as pulling an album-worthy cover of the Silversun Pickups' Kissing Familieswith nothing but a teensy piano, megaphone and tambourine.
You can check out Hauschka's Morgenrot and Sara Lov's New York below.
I've finally stopped laughing at the f u n n i e s t thingI've read in days, a celeblurb providing further proof that some people get higher off of masturbating their cerebral genitals even more than playing with themselves or indulging in other tangible, snortable, edible or drinkable forms of hedonistic pleasure inducing the illusion of being a "vessel of God". So, while Mr. West's id sits convulsing in a mess of its own jelly I elect to look back fondly upon a humbler, dirtier and more earnest bunch of musicians that stand under the umbrella entitled Fugazi. If you've ever had the extreme aural and visual pleasure of witnessing this band in all of its intensely rhythmic, bassy, sweaty goodness, you are a fortunate one. The rhythm section are expert at the game of syncopation, synchronicity and sheer power while somehow resurrecting the cowbell as percussive sex symbol. The vocals - more like a sing-shout-chant- make you want to dance riotously insane like a Haitian voodoo priestess and then some. Back in the good old days (July 2001) I had the opportunity to see Guy Picciotto, Ian McKaye, Joe Lally and Brendan Canty do their thing at thePolish Hall (where I also sawSNFU's last show before they disbanded, sniff sniff). And when I say their thing let me be clear. I'm talking about a band that are not only performing, playing their instruments and engaging the audience. I'm talking about shit like this for t w o h o u r s. I mean have you ever seen Guy Picciotto dance?!
Anyway, I figured at the start that I was nowhere near close enough so I grabbed my big balls, boldly sallied forth and sat my buttocks right on stage left, expecting to be promptly ushered off in a not-so-nice manner. To my relief and joy I encountered nary a sign of protest. There I stayed, firmly planted, transfixed and completely hypnotized for the next 2 hours. An incredibly satisfying musical experience.
