Lost links & Re-ups

On any post, if the link is no longer good, leave a comment if you want the music re-uploaded. As long as I still have the file, or the record, cd, or cassette to re-rip, I will gladly accommodate in a timely manner all such requests.

Slinging tuneage like some fried or otherwise soused short-order cook

28 August 2011

An Unidentified Man


Something to listen to (& ponder) as you read:
Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band - Harry Irene,
The Brown Star Sessions, bootleg 1972.
decryption code in comments

I wrote this when I learned my old friend Mother Jim, an alcoholic for many years, had committed suicide by hanging himself from a rail-yard trestle. An article in the local paper began,
"An unidentified man was found Thursday night hanging from the Fourth Street Railroad bridge. Cause of death was apparently suicide."


An Unidentified Man

A philosophical dialectic featuring three players:
The Narrator (played here by Aleister Crowley)
Mother Jim
Nathan

Narrator (seated on his resplendent throne) :
Thirst!
Not the thirst of the throat
Tho' that be the wildest & the worst
Of physical pangs---that smote
Alone to the heart of Christ,
Wringing the one wild cry,
"I thirst!" from His agony,
While the soldiers drank & diced.
Not the thirst benign
That calls the worker to wine.
Not the bodily thirst
(Tho’ that be a frenzy accursed)
When the mouth is full of sand,
& the eyes are gummed up, the ears
Trick the soul 'til it hears
Water...water at hand,
When a man will dig his nails
Into his breast & drink the blood
Already that clots & stales
E're his tongue can tip its flood,
When the sun is a living devil
Vomiting vats of evil,
& the moon & the night but mock
The wretch on his barren rock.
The dome of heaven high-arched
Like his mouth is arid & parched.
The caves of his heart high-spanned
Are choked with alkali sand.

Now this! but a thirst uncharted;
Body & soul alike
Traitors turned black-hearted,
Seeking a space to strike
In a victim already attuned
To one vast chord of wound.
Every separate bone cold,
An incarnate groan
Distilled from the icy sperm
Of Hell’s implacable worm.
Every drop of the river
Of blood aflame & aquiver
With poison secret & sour---
With a sudden twitch at the last
Like certain jagged daggers...

Mother Jim (rambling) :
With bloodshot eyes dull-glassed
The screaming Viet staggers
Through his village aghast.

Narrator (perturbed at being interrupted) :
So blood wrenches its pain
Sardonic through heart & brain.
Every separate nerve
Awake & alert, on a curve
Whose zenith’s name is "Never"
In a hyperbolic "Forever!"
A bitter & burning snake
Striking its venom within it,
As if it might serve to slake
The pain for the tithe of a minute.

Nathan (full of sound & fury, signifying nothing) :
Awake, forever awake!
Awake as one never is
While sleep is a possible end.
Awake in the void, the abyss
Whose thirst is but an echo of this.
That martyrs, worlds without end.
(World without end, Amen!)
The man that falters & yields
For the proverbs "giveth & taketh away"
To the lure of the grain-ripe fields
Where the alcohol sees its first day.

Only a sip from a glass
Charged from a Wizard’s well!
Is this sufficient to pass
A soul from Heaven to Hell?
Was human’s spirit weaned
To fawn at the feet of a fiend?
Is it so terribly odd---
The heir of ages of wonder,
The crown of earth for an hour,
The master of tide & thunder
Against alcohol’s power?
Aye, in the roar & the rattle
Of all the armies of sin,
This is the only battle
He never was known to win.

Slave to the thirst---not thirst
As here is so weakly written,
Not thirst in the brain black-bitten
In the soul more sorely smitten!
One dare not think of the worst!
Beyond the raging & the raving
Hell of a physical craving
Lies, in the brain benumbed,
At the end of time & space,
An abyss, immeasured, unplumbed---
The haunt of a face!

Mother Jim (in reverie of his true love, Alcohol) :
She it is, she, that found me
In the throes of my virginal honeymoon,
With silk & steel she bound me,
In her poisonous milk she drowned me,
Even now her arms surround me,
Stifling me into the swoon
That still---but oh, how rarely!---
Comes from that sip from that glass.
Steadily she stares & squarely,
Never needing to receive my pass.

(here he slips fluidly into the ease of non-corporeal 3rd person)
Her slave agasp for a kiss.
Her whose horror is his
That knows that viper womb,
Speckled & barred with black
On its rusty amber scales
His tomb---
The straining, groaning rack
On which he wails---he wails!
Her cranial dome is vaulted;
Her mad Mongolian eyes
Aslant with all the ecstacies
Of things immune, exalted
Far beyond stars & skies.
Slits of amber & jet---
Her snout for the quarry set.

(it seems as though he percieves clearly at last)
Her snout for the quarry set,
Fleshy & heavy & dross,
Bestial, broken across
& below it her mouth, it drips
Blood from her lips
That hide the fangs of a snake.
Drips down upon venomous udders
Mountainous flanks that fume & sweat.
The spirit sickens & shudders
At the hint of worse things yet.

Alky! the golden bait
Barbed with infinite pain.
Fatal, fanatical mate
Of a poisoned body & brain!
Alky! the name that leers
Its lecherous longing & knavery,
Whispers in crazing ears
The secret spell of her slavery.

(as if the memory of his slavery plunges him painfully back into his body in a maddening rush, he finds himself once more)

Horror indeed intense,
Seduction ever intenser,
Swinging the smoke of sense
From the bowl of a smouldering censer!
Behind me, behind & above
She stands, that mirror of love.
Her fingers are supple-jointed;
Her nails are polished & pointed,
Tipped with spurs of gold.
With them she plows my brain.
Her lust is critical, cold;
Her Chinese cheeks are pale
As she daintily picks, profane,
With her octopus lips & teeth,
Jagged & black beneath,
A morsel of pulp & blood she’s impailed.

One soothing drink was enough
In days gone by to invoke her.
She was incarnate love
In the hours when I first awoke her.
Little by little I found
The truth of her---stripped of her clothing,
Bitter beyond all bound,
Leprous beyond all loathing.
Black---the plague of the pit,
Her pustules visibly fester,
Cancerous kisses that bit
As the asp caressed her.

Nathan (final nothing) :
Dragon of lure & dread;
Tiger of fury & lust;
The quick in chains to the dead;
The slime alive in the dust.
Brazen shame like a flame,
An orgy of pregnant pollution
With hate beyond aim or name---
Orgasm, death, dissolution!
Know you now, dear brother, why her eyes
So fearfully glaze, beholding
Terrors & infamies
Like filthy flowers unfolding?
Laughter widowed of ease;
Agony barred from sadness;
Allison, sweet innocent child, robbed of peace---
Is not your she-devil madness?

Mother Jim (teen again, in the school yard, bristling at Nathan’s insult) :
She waits for me, lazily leering,
As moon goes murdering moon.
The moon of her triumph is nearing.
She will have me wholly soon.
& you, you Puritan other
Who missed the alcohol’s craving
Cry scorn if I call you brother---
Curl your lip at my maniac raving.
Fool, seven times beguiled.
You have not known her? Well!
That was never a need she smiled
To harry you into Hell!

Narrator (getting his sweater out of the closet & putting on his slippers, looking now like Mr. Rogers) :
Alcohol is but one spark of its secular fire.
She is the single sum-type of all desire!
All that you would, you are & that’s the crown
Of the craving,
You are slaves of the wormwood star.
Analysed, reason was raving---feeling, examined, was pain.
What Heaven were to hope for a doubt of it!
Life is anguish, insane; death is---not the way out of it.

I won't say Enjoy,



18 August 2011

Ride On

Crustation - Bloom was re-uploaded 08/22/2013. Enjoy, NØ.





One thing I’ve learned doing this blog is that out here amongst the byways of the Interweb there are a
bunch of wisenheimers, wait, strike that, fonts of wisdom. I’m calling out to all you Brainiacs around the globe. Riddle me this: What ever became of Bronagh Slevin (musickally mostly...I don’t mean I want to invade her privacy or anything...I not a stalker)???

Crustation was a trip-hop band, formed by Ian Dark, Stig Manley & Mark Tayler, three producers from Bristol. In the 80s they had played in bands with Adrian Utley of Portishead. In a later incarnation of Crustation they collaborated with vocalist Bronagh Slevin. In 1997 they released their only full length album Bloom, under the moniker Crustation with Bronagh Slevin.

After that, the trail of Bronagh becomes sketchy at best.
Below is a picture of her at a Gala student reading Saturday 26 May, 2007.



Carrie Etter presents
a Gala Student Reading
at The George
in Bradford on Avon
with creative writing students
from Bath Spa University
& The Poetry School.














There is a track on Up, Bustle, & Out’s 2010 Soliloquy album, "Luminous Fragments" featuring Ms. Slevin. That’s about all I can discover. Can someone please fill in some more information? Any Irish readers that have the skinny? Musick insiders in the know?

Crustation w/ Bronagh Slevin - Bloom, Jive Records HIP 184, 1997.
decryption code in comments

Side A -
Hey
Purple
Close My Eyes
Face The Waves
Reverie
Side B -
Down Down
Falling
Flame
Life As One
Ride On

Enjoy,


Thanks to loyal musick lovin' visitors, I've got a fresh half dozen.
As always, decryption code in comments.

14 August 2011

Aztec Ascent

Update : This post was re-uploaded 08/25/2013. Enjoy, NØ.

Something to listen to while reading, if you so desire.


White Car - No Better ep, Hippos in Tanks 4-song 12" HIT002, 2010.
decryption code in comments

Side A -
No Better
Feel Hunt
Side B -
Spread Split Slap
Reality Beat
plus extra non-ep bonus track
No Better (Gatekeeper Freundshaft remix)

& now on with Story Time

Saying things didn’t start too well on this mini-tour, this southwestern soiree, would almost be a joke if any of us were inclined to laugh about it now, but we’re not, so... We just threw this tour together on our own, calling friends & bars, using phones & maps, counting our shekels & busting our piggy banks. I’ll admit, on paper it looked good...really good...BOOK OUR OWN FUCKIN’ LIFE good...this is IT...what a life.

L.A. went smooth as Ex-lax. We played Hell’s Gate. We’ve played there before & they seem to like us all right...at least they don’t throw shit. Hell’s Gate...what a hole. But just the hole we needed to feel our creepiest & play our freshest. Damn, we even got paid $86 so we all fooled
ourselves into believing it was the (false) portent of good future.

Outside of Mesa, AZ...the first problem with our van. The true Mother of all our van problems to follow. Just something simple, right, no problem. The fan belt breaks...& wraps around the fan...& bends the fan...which gouges the radiator. I cut free the fan belt, straighten the fan blades, crimp closed the leaks in the radiator coils with some needle-nosed pliers we just happened to have... BE PREPARED (yeah). Dirt & I hitch to the nearest town/gas station for a new fan belt & more beer, leaving Slag & Pete to keep watch over our gear in the 100o + van. Soon belt, beer, & on our way. Get to the Mesa show late & have to play last. Maybe three people stay for our set after The HeadLiners finish. We’re hot, greasy, & tired. We couldn’t really give a flying fuck about this late night ‘practice’ session, but we give it all we’ve got & then some. The three who stayed liked us. Also, Sean, the punk who hooked us up for the gig, really appreciated the effort & could relate to our road woes. He let us park the van in his driveway. Next day when we finally joined the living, we all got showers & breakfast courtesy of A Righteous ‘Zonian. He even gave us $20 for gas. Thanks, Sean!

50 miles from Durango, CO. More van trouble. Seems the fan shaft had become bent when the fan belt broke. The bent shaft ruined the water pump. Then the water pump froze-up, the fan sheared off & this time devoured the radiator to such a degree that first aid was not going to help. Pete shagged a ride to the nearest phone. Called a tow-truck in Durango to come & get us. Put it on some bad plastic he was burning up. We rode in the van on the back of the tow-truck into Durango (highly illegal but way cool, just sailing alone with no one driving, no one even looking outside. We cranked up the tunes & smoked out. Left the van at a garage in Durango & went to check out the club where we were playing. Turns out the owner is some cowboy redneck shit-kicker. He informs us, thumbs in suspenders & pistol on desktop, that the show has been changed to tomorrow. By the time we get back to the garage after hassling with Cowboy Roy, the place is closed & locked up. The van & all our gear out of reach, locked in tight, well-fenced & guard-dogged. We go back to the club & using our nicest manners, threaten Cowgurl Pearl into putting us up for the night. He finally agrees to let us stay in the club. After it closes at 2:00am, the cleaning crew (bartender [redneck], waitress [redneck’s sister/wife] & bar-back [Hispanic]) take another hour of extreme noise terror & merciless CW mu-sick-sick-sick bombardment. We feign sleep until the dogie-punchers vamoose. Then we help ourselves to an enormous amount of the club’s beer & liquor supply. We drink ourselves to oblivion. We crack our eyelids about 2:00pm & head back to the garage. They’ve already replaced the water pump, the fan, & the belt. They’re just getting ready to put in the used radiator they found at a Pick’n’Pull. Before long, we rolling again...now totally broke. Back to the club. Cow-owner, none too thrilled with our bar tab...informs us that The College Radio Stars who were headlining tonight have canceled so now it’s a free show. No pay. Gas money. $15. We were burning but we were broke. We couldn’t refuse. We couldn’t revenge. All we could do was play our best & pass the hat. We collected $21, sold two T-shirts for $10, & three cassettes for $9 for the huge total of $55. Luckily our next gig was in Aztec, NM, only 120 miles away.

Aztec is where our fortune changed for the as they say better. I don’t want to sound totally bonkers. I don’t want anyone to think my time on the road finally drove me completely insane, but I have to believe it was a direct result of the sacrifice. Normally, I’m the last person to fall for that supernatural mumbo-jumbo. I live in the Here/Now & revel in my own reality. But I saw what happened that night & have experienced all that has transpired since. It is of that sacrifice which I now speak.

Aztec, New Mexico (the Land of Enchantment). Nestled serenely in the arms of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Yes, the Blood of Christ mountains. Aztec. Population 6384. Never played a town this small & not at all certain as to the outcome of this venture. We call Zarak, our contact in Aztec. He sounds genuinely enthusiastic if a bit ‘spacey’, but gives us precise directions to his place. He lives on the outskirts of town in a place that used to be a chicken ranch. It’s called The Chicken Ranch. No, really. We find our way to The Chicken Ranch with no problems & are warmly greeted by our host, Zarak. He led us to the bunk-house, which though Spartan, was clean. It afforded us the luxury of spreading out more than van floor or bar booths had thus far. He told us to come up to the main house after we got settled in & washed up. We could discuss plans for tomorrow night’s full moon extravaganza. We unpacked our sleeping bags & back-packs, washed up, smoked a few dubes, then headed up to the house.

Right away Zarak starts smoking us out. Huge hookah bowls of his personal-grown Indo mixed with native Peyote. He had home-made cactus liquor to drink. Before long, the long road was falling away behind us. He started telling us about his plans for this show that he was putting together up on this ridge above the town. Under the full moon. The ridge was a holy Anasazi place. Supposed aliens landed there in 1948. Zarak’s got his own generator. He’s invited thousands of acquaintances. He wants us to really get into it, be the soundtrack to this dream of his. He’ll pay us $1000. He’s going to sacrifice a virgin & eat her heart. We’re all righteously fucked-up. Bound into the web he has woven with smoke & drink & magick. It sounded huge & radical. It sounded fierce. Dangerous. We unanimously agree. We wake up the next evening from our drugged debauch to the sounds of progress. 15 or 20 people are loading equipment & supplies into an old ex-military half-track with the generator loaded on a trailer behind. The show is on. We follow the growing convoy of vehicles to the ridge above Aztec & near the stage find parking in the dust-swept lot. The next hour is a buzz & blur of activity. Zarak comes by, thanks us & pays us in advance for playing. He gives us a generous supply of weed & peyote & cactus liquor. Tells us he wants us to start the show just as we see the moon coming over the horizon.

At first I’m not positive it is the moon coming up. I’m so high. But Dirt, Slag, Pete, & I all vote. We decide it’s time to get the show started. We stumble onto the pale moon-washed dimness of the stage. With a sudden gigantic surge of feed-back we go live, we rip into the start of “Howling at the Moon”. There are several thousand people staggered around the ridge & ancient ruins. The only lights are from our equipment, the moon, & eyes glowing in the night. The moon & the power of the place, the sum of this one moment in time carry us to greater heights. We play as we know we can.

Some time unmeasured later, out of our drug/musick rush of joy I notice torches approaching the stage from the distant darkness. The torch-bearing procession parts the crowd of revelers much as Moses must have parted the Red Sea of lore. A masked High Priest leads a smiling maiden in virginal white to the front of the stage. The musick swells to touch the moon. The moon shines in the midnight sky. The virgin laughs a laugh caught by the microphone & amplified above the cacophony. The knife blade flashes in the wavering torch light. A dripping hand raises high, holding a still beating heart. Zarak throws back the High Priest’s mask. He sinks his teeth into the throbbing organ. I see his scarlet liquid grin in the spotlight moon. I see our musick caress the moon. I smell incense & jism. I smell brimstone & funk. I hear the multitude baying on the night breeze. My fingers are bleeding on my bass strings, but still there’ll be more.

We awaken in our van, alone. We drive around Aztec but can’t seem to find The Chicken Ranch. No one we ask in Aztec has ever heard of it. They all look at us extremely weird. We try Zarak’s phone but the number is no good.

But the $1000 is good. & our next show in Taos, NM is sold out. Word about the Full Moon Show is on every lip. Everyone seems to be expecting a sacrifice. A riot ensues. We’re asked back the following night for double the cash. Another sold-out performance. Plus all our T-shirts & cassettes are sold. It’s just grown from there. Great gigs. A recording offer. $$$. We’ll be back in Sacramento in about two weeks. We’ll see how it goes at home. Slag, Pete, & Dirt all say they vaguely remember eating some raw heart. I tell them it was just the drugs, but... Who knows. Just glad I’m a vegetarian. I’ll never sign on that dotted line. Oh, no.

Enjoy,