Congorama.

I saw the excellent CONGORAMA at the Boston Independent Film Festival. For now I'm going to list a series of good articles about the film:

ExploringThe Ties that Bind Belgium and Quebec by Matthew Hays

Congorama Wins 5 Prix Jutra

Congorama OpensMontreal Film Festival.

People have asked me why this is happening

I don't have an answer, at least not one they want to hear at any rate. The film festival starts tonight. This year's line up looks alright however not as promising as the one circa 2005. That was indeed a time to remember. In terms of programming, on a certain level I can understand why some basic so-called indie romances are included however they just don't provide any interest for me-- at all. I'd prefer more somewhat didactic documentaries, or ones that are at least educational to a certain degree-- something that the Canadians and Europeans seem to excel at.

Speaking of Canadian film-- that is to say Quebecois cinema-- "Congorama" (dir. Philippe Falardeau is one of the last films that Jean-Pierre Cassel starred in before passing away. I'm looking forward to that as well as Sarah Polley's (who is also on this year's Cannes jury) first feature film: "Away From Her". At any rate, this is all due to materialize in the near future.

What has piqued my attention in the many news stories regarding this year's Cannes Film Festival are Fatih Akin's new film "Yasamin Kiysinda", which includes Hanna Schygulla among its cast, and a film version of Marjane Satrapi's work Persepolis.

Recent Articles of note

The Minitel evolves; Public Art & Plagiarism are considered ; Pop music is sacred; sports get exclusive; Newspapers don't know how to handle blog comments; drugs and morality get the spotlight; The curse of retro-cinema is upon us; more end of the world scenarios profligate; Jean B and Kurt V passed away; Troxler's Swiss poster Tradition; Excellent look at the Ennio Morricone series that's been about; Jacques Rivette resurfaces; How to tell real drugs from fakes; what cyberchat does to the brain(cuts off inhibitions); A look at current Swedish Design; British seaside towns are in decline; Germany is booming.

That's most of what I've enjoyed reading in the past month or so news-wise.

*********************
Kick off your weekend with an informative look at theAu Pairs.

Independent Film Festival Boston 2007 - tentative schedule

Below is my tentative schedule for the IFFB at the end of this month.
This is all subject to change.

Wednesday April 25, 2007
7pm “Fay Grim” dir. Hal Hartley at Somerville Theatre

Thursday April 26, 2007
Somerville Theatre
7pm “Congorama” directed by Philippe Falardeau

9:45pm “Great World of Sound” directed by Craig Zobel

Friday April 27, 2007
Somerville Theatre
6:45pm “The Cats of Mirikitani” directed by Linda Hattendorf

9:45pm “Monkey Warfare” directed by Reginald Harkema

12:00 “The Beach Party at the End of the World"
dir. by Kevin Wheatley & Jonny Gilette

Saturday April 28, 2007
Somerville Theatre
12:00pm “Lake of Fire” directed by Tony Kaye
12:15pm “The Unforseen” directed By: Laura Dunn

6:00pm “Away From Her” directed by Sarah Polley

10:45pm “The Living and The Dead” directed by Simon Rumley

Sunday April 29, 2007

12:00 “King Corn” directed by Aaron Wolfe at the Brattle

Somerville Theatre
3:00 “Strange Culture” directed by Lynn Hershman Leeson

9:00 “Fido” directed by Andrew Currie

Monday April 30, 2007
Somerville Theatre
5:15pm “Pretty In the Face” directed by Nate Meyer

Playlist - April 6th 2007

I'll be on the air this Friday the 13th and Friday the 20th of April.
Details are at WZBC

"off the cuff"
Fri Apr 6th 2007 7.00pm–10.00pm
Like everything else, times are approximate.

John Foxx & Louis Gordon “Car Crash Flashback V2” from Sideways (Metamatic)
David Sylvian “Pollen Path” from Dead Bees on A Cake CD ALBUM (Virgin w 1999)
The Berg Sans Nipple “Aquarium Life” from along the quai (Team Love 2007)
Num9 “The Wait” from The Glow-worm's Resistance CD ALBUM (Acuarela)
The Durutti Column “Birthday Present” from Sporadic Three (Kooky 2007)
At Swim Two Birds “falling from trees” from returning to the scene of the crime... (Green UFOs www.greenufos.com 2007)
July Skies “Garden Constellations” from Dreaming of Spires CD ALBUM (Rocket Girl)
Thomas Belhom “electrolyse” from Cheval Oblique CD ALBUM (Apparent Extent)
Holiday for Strings “Pain Au Chocolat” from CD (stilll 2007)
Hugo “la collection” from 20 Ways to Float Through Walls (Crammed Discs)
Florida “The Girl on the Escalator” from Monika Force (Monika)
Section 25 “The Process” from From the Hip LP ALBUM (Factory 1983)
Future Conditional “Bright Lights & Wandering” from we don't just disappear (LTM)
Martial Canterel “Ascent” from confusing outsides LP (genetic music 2005)
Vitamins for You “Luxury and Hope” from Saturday Morning Empires (intr_version)
Arthur Russell “Keeping Up” from Another Thought(Orange Mountain 1993) To Rococo Rot “Testfeld” from .cd (Kitty-yo www.force-inc.com)
Arbol “Summer and You” from Acuarela Songs 3 CD COMP
Pan American “train station” from Personal Settings CD COMP (Quatermass)
Jay Jay Johanson “Fire” from Poison CD ALBUM
Lazerboy “the day the earth caught fire” from a murder in the company of vespertine
Anna Domino “Zanna” from anna domino CD ALBUM (LTM)
Purple Confusion “Return to Nassau” from the sound of the atom splitting (Gooom)
Mobius - Plank - Neumier “Pitch Control” from zero set CD ALBUM (Captain Trip) M83 “Night (remixed by ISAN)” from Goom Tracks Vol. 2.5
Tuxedomoon Vs. DJ HELL “Luther Blisset” from Sonar 2002 CD COMP (sonarmusic)
Wilfred* “Loved Ghost” from Songs for Mum and Dad
The Village “Childhood” from "the Village" (Elefant www.elefant.com)
Languis “Far Away Days” from Unithematic CD ALBUM (Simballrec)
Francois De Roubaix “Commissaire Moulin - Indicatif” from Anthologie Vol. 1 CD ALBUM
Thick Pigeon “Silhouettes” from Crepuscule for Cafe Apres-midi (Victor Entertainment (Japan) 2001)
David Kristian “Fragmented Skyway” from Sweet Bits CD ALBUM
Future Conditional “Your love leaves me colder” from we don't just disappear (LTM)
Harmonia “sehr Kosmisch” from musik von harmonia CD ALBUM (Lilith 2006)

The act was committed (Excerpt)

Where were you? Again, it hits me like a blow to the head knocking me backward and unsettling my stomach. The work was done. The act was committed. In essence, Itself, at work and at play. My time is much too valuable for these kinds of pursuits. I fall into them much too easily. Am I always determined to suffer on this earth? Am I always bent on complaining about such inconveniences? I can’t make any accusations at this stage. I suppose I knew I didn’t want it anyway. Worthless and tragic as it is. I’m going to bed early tonight. I cannot stand the sight of other people. My sickness won’t allow it now. It flares up in my lungs and causes my dry throat to retch in pain. I hoped for a new beginning, some other side of happiness. Now that’s all gone. Such pain, such annihilation, the buildings were razed to the ground and now there’s nothing left. Life still exists of course, trying to create some semblance of a normal existence. Obeying ancient rituals to restore humanity to the scarred souls of the few survivors. The bandages aren’t ready to come off yet. The plaza is empty now. I wait for a sign and dismiss it as soon as it arrives. One cares not for such deterrence. Especially in the heart of one so young and capable of anything as yourself. As your work and its life. As it continues to breathe and reproduce within itself. My madness, my cyclical need for renewal. The unconscious debt of my forefathers. The sound of the radiator singing to my ears. I cannot listen anymore. I am called to attention. I am working. That in itself will set you free—won’t it? Where are the darkened halls, the dismantled corridors of time gone by? When will these disruptive changes occur? She waited and watched. Not making a sound. The plain and sketchy way her fingers gestured before my eyes. On days when I thought her mercy would be enough! The pleasure I took in seeing her alive and well—in my arms once again. Spotless and devoted. A chance for another conversation. We were lovers, let me make this clear, I don’t know what she saw in me but finally something connected. There is a new kind of life gestating already. I cannot sense it in this decayed state. The old wooden walls of the overly large room in which I rest free from photographs and other voices. The room is my own jailer. Its backwards comfort keeps me here on nights like this. The thin sheets of glass barely protect the broken hinges of the storm windows. They make a terribly loud rapping noise. It creates a perverse rhythm in my life. The street below is full of children coming home to play in the snow. They need neither the future nor any material possessions. They are consumed by the newness of the physical world. I shudder at them though! My mind has been plagued with its own inconsiderate thoughts and conclusions. I have never been able to see the beauty around me. What it unconsciously sets out to do is perhaps better than any reality I ever faced. I took a lover. I involved myself in the kind of noncommittal relationship that is so common nowadays. I have no need for pretense or equivocation now. History did not exist for Strindberg. He, like Corto Maltese, did not like the lifeline he’d been given, so he decided to cut his own. The force of the present and how much I have ignored it. I am not a kind, loving person at all, quite the contrary. I fight for my own existence every day of my life. Never charmed by pleasure or lust—always insisting on something more, something that isn’t right for one to feel at this age. Caught in the blue viscous liquid that is despondency.

Serge Daney: Postcards from the Cinema

I just placed an order forPostcards from The Cinemaby Serge Daney; translated by Paul Grant, published by Palgrave MacMillan. I can't wait to read this. I've head so much praise about his ideas.

UPDATE: A good overview/review of Daney's writings that have been translated into English can be found here.

From the publisher:

"Description
Postcards from the Cinema is the book Serge Daney, one of the greatest of film critics, never wrote. It is based around an interview that was to be the starting point for a book, a project cut short by Daney's death. Postcards turns a history of cinema into a profound meditation on the art and politics of film. Daney's passionate and lucid engagement with film, combined with his concern for journalistic clarity, effectively created film criticism as a genre. Equally at home with the theories of Deleuze, Lacan and Debord as he was with the movie-making of Bunuel, Godard and Ray, Daney was also a fan of Jerry Lewis and Hitchcock. At the same time - and before his time - he championed the critical analysis of television and other audio-visual media. Long-awaited, this is the first book-length translation of Daney's work, testimony to a life lived with a fierce love of film.

Author Bio
Serge Daney was a writer, and eventually editor-in-chief, for the highly influential film journal Cahiers du Cinéma. He went on to write for the newspaper Libération, and founded the film journal Trafic."

FUTURE CONDITIONAL "WE DON'T JUST DISAPPEAR" (LTMCD 2478)

FUTURE CONDITIONAL

Every once in a while a new pop album comes out that takes hold of you from the first listen, "We Don't Just Disappear" by Future Conditional is one of those albums. I had high hopes already for this disc (so much that I decided to pre-order it) based on the concept and personnel involved. The notion of Glen Johnson and Cedric Pin (of Piano Magic) collaborating on a disc heavily influenced by early OMD, early Human League, Kraftwerk, early New Order and Section 25 circa "From the Hip" was more than enough to keep me intrigued. The album exceeds my highest expectations-- it plays like an unreleased masterwork from Factory Records' heyday. The album starts with a series of 'clicks' reminiscent of the theme to the cursed Scottish television program "The Omega Factor" before becoming an analogue synth charge: "I have trouble holding on, I have trouble staying straight" Dan Matz (of Windsor from the Derby) sings to a singeing-dry electronic beat. It is the perfect opening to an album filled with so many highlights. Angele David-Gillou (of Klima & Piano Magic) sings "You never got over the last girl that kissed you..." on "Crying's What You Need" a track that seems like a perfect rejoinder to New Order's "Perfect Kiss". The album ends with Bobby Wratten (of Field Mice & Trembling Blue Stars) singing on "Your Leaves Me Colder", as if assessing all the stories of love and loss that have come before on the disc, before the beat fully stops and the song ends in a chant:

THE NIGHT IS YOUNG
THE STARS ARE OUT
THE SONGS ARE SUNG
THEY'RE ALL ABOUT

THE BROKEN HEART
THE FINAL KISS
THE ONE WE LOST
THE ONE WE MISSED

If only more songs could haunt me in the same way.

UPDATE: Its now available for download on emusic.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
from the website:
WE DON'T JUST DISAPPEAR (LTMCD 2478) £10
The debut album (2007) from Future Conditional blends classic analog synth-pop with sleek retro-futurist beats, and features a stellar array of guest vocalists including Melanie Pain (Nouvelle Vague), Bobby Wratten (Field Mice, Trembling Blue Stars), Angele David-Guillou (Klima, Piano Magic), Dan Matz (Windsor For The Derby) and Carolyn Allen (The Wake). As Glen Johnson explains: "Future Conditional isn't just an exercise in nostalgia. We are, in some way paying homage to the groups we love and inspire us, but we're also experimenting with the glacial electro/human emotional interface. The future is a robot with a human heart."

Full tracklist: Bright Lights & Wandering, Broken Robots, We Don't Just Disappear, Switchboard Girl, Substance Fear, Crying's What You Need, The Volunteer, The Last Engineer, Typos, Your Love Leaves Me Colder.

2007 Rhâââ Lovely Festival

This music festival in Belgium is coming up fast and is pretty hard to beat. Thanks to the Silent Ballet for providing free downloads of a compilation featuring bands from this year's festival. Enjoy.

P.S. FYI- the 'agenda' section of the Rhâââ Lovely Festival website provides a good listing of upcoming concerts in Belgium-- where the active music scene never rests.

a bit of a wash

Last weekend went alright, as weekends go, relatively uneventful and somewhat plain. I finished Jan Kjaerstad's "The Conqueror" (review shortly forthcoming) and started "That Awful Mess on the Via Merulana" by Carlo Emilio Gadda (recently reissued by NYRB). Its a book I'd purchased used years ago after reading a reference to it in one of Jonathan Rosenbaum's film reviews (probably either in Movies as Politics or Placing Movies). The fact that its being reissued is certainly good news. It is definitely a unique "murder mystery" that more probably investigates the sickness of a society, but not without humor and a touch of the absurd. Apart from that, I finally got around to seeing the movie "Dirty Harry" as it was playing at the Brattle this weekend. Having read J. Hoberman's The Dream LifeI was more than prepared for the picture however, in retrospect, I didn't imagine the film to be so cartoonish. So much of the film felt like a very low-grade morally loaded argument. More sledgehammer tactics to make views from the periphery seem like the only sensible position to adopt. Oh well. Things are brightening up at the moment, weather-wise at least. I still have another issue of the NYRB to sift through, amongst other things. I have also been steadily transcribing other earlier journals, to be served up in some for or another, expect some of that shortly.

That's all for now.

P.S. I will be on the air this Friday, March 23, 2007.

First Signs of...

The first Sunday in March I spent walking about listening to music and watching. I went across town with some kind of objective in mind, that I quickly dispensed with after a moment's consideration. For reasons I cannot entirely explain I became saddened and filled with an intense overwhelming fear. I could not isolate this in order to understand it and prevent it from further inhibiting my movement. Still, I proceeded on, I came to a hill and worked my way up. I noticed most people around had on winter coats and such. I let the mild 10 degree increase in the temperature go straight to my head and had left the house in jeans, a fred perry and zip-up jacket. As I walked up the hill, I noticed the lawns of the houses mostly empty and scarred from the ice and snow of just a few days past, with the exception of a few at the very top. There was a tree on the front lawn, beside that tree were a couple of Robins, as my eyes moved slightly past the few birds, I noticed a couple more and a couple more, then I noticed some in the tree and on the lawns of either house beside this one. The ground was filled with a plothera of Robins. I looked up at the gray, overcast skies, and back down at the many birds about and smiled.

Later in the day I told a friend of my observations, this led to much joy and shared smiles amongst us. Perhaps things are brightening up after all.

Times of Perilous Discovery (Excerpt)

FESTIVAL DAYS


Times of Perilous Discovery. Watch Out! These fields will be forever darkened. To happier times. I come home to this same sense of distress and disregard for the future. How you mediate time is what it comes down to: we have to look out for each other. She did it on purpose. She did it to get rid of me. I was too much of a burden. Escape—for freedom’s sake! Now that they separated—the real battle begins. Foolish Motives—kept half in reality and half in fantasy. The truth—when will I cross it again? Placed in such a stale room waiting for the hour to come. She wanted to stub a cigarette out but none was lit. The best she could come up with was to grind her heel in the dust. She wanted to be a futurist but couldn’t keep up with herself. So many loose ends—broken by the fear of absolute desire. Act at once or leave it all alone. What you do shouldn’t be done. Stay clever like this and you’ll never leave the house.
“It didn’t work out but it was fun while it lasted.” J-F said about his last girlfriend.
Turmoil ‘hidden’ beneath an open surface.
“I never lied to you. She said—do you know that? She actually felt like telling me that!” J-F continued, wallowing in his pint. I hoped it wasn’t to make me comfortable. I had too much else on my mind. I hoped my progeny wouldn’t go through this same mess. Perhaps the next time it won’t be so apparent. You’ve seen it all before—what good are my words when they delete the possibility? How good are these clichéd moments? I don’t think of you very often.
Past the white porcelain banisters and onto the marble floor below. Teasing out the warm strain. The difficulties of an unrecognized half age. I call to you like a child once more. I home and dream of exits—different passages from this shallow plane. It will work out. I see her now in that lovely blue gown crossing the floor, approaching the arches that led to the sea. Perhaps then, then it will make sense. The island, the sorcerer, the girl—other frozen traps of belonging—breaking away from the sequences. I layer this fiction with blood and violence. The words examine all I could ever love—shaking away on a night such as this. Back into it—drifting after the planned excursion. You see all these tortured words—look at my skin; the absence of marks—try to live this way for a second and you may understand. I am pushed and realize there is nothing left alive.
Her eyes blinked for a second. I witnessed it all in close-up, the relaxed facial muscles, the absence of thought, the pale skin.
Work in a new form—stop bothering us all with recycled trash. Oh, but we can’t move—a likely forum for interruption. My teeth came down hard at the thought. I nearly bit my tongue. The blood came rushing into her cheeks.
We colored outside and over the lines—didn’t we?
“I confided in you and you abused my trust.”
I didn’t believe any of it anymore—the language is gone. Its rubbish for the Silent Cinema. The images do justice to the text. Our relation is strained, I sense that—you don’t feel as much as you should and I—my desire is wrapped in so many secluded gems. The connection is too forced. She lets out the sigh I’m waiting for: now the adrenalin kicks in. I’m not allowed to smile yet. The sky turns from pale blue to ultramarine—her dress shimmers in the wind. I want to raise a glass but put my arm around her waist instead. Should it start now? Yes. It is time. Simplify things. My dreams overlap and envelop each other until I can’t read them any more. It arrives now, I suppose it was always there—only now, it’s prominent—I sense her smell. Things aren’t collapsing now—its difficult to describe, the disparate origins have formed a tapestry of sorts—a coherent goal: yes, it’s starting to gel.
Ask what color this scene is—I cannot tell you: my eyes are shut. I don’t want this sensation to end.
We are together on the bed, covered in flowers locked in a suitcase moving from stations to the all-consuming end. Like the liquid that issued from between her thighs. I wondered what was inherent in the middle. The minute hand hadn’t moved very far—twenty minutes passed at most. She joined me on the terrace. I smiled finally as she approached. Her arm extended, I kissed her hand. People, other couples were out there dancing to our left. The square was filled with as many people—lovers, scoundrels, foreigners, and children, all lost in the crowd.
One can still find a legitimate reason for sending a postcard.
Pick a cut and I show you the wealth of the ages. I’ve set it up and off before. Along these white walls with blue trim. “That’s the empty room—it’ll be our nursery when the time arrives.” I said with a smile, my eyes bursting with happiness to look at her.
“Why do you think its over? It’s barely even begun—you must understand that.” J-F told Jurgen in all sincerity. To escalate their fraudulent works. One day, I’ll tell you how it all should be—domestic rupture, life in the cities, a suicide of morals.
Past the dilapidated apartment complexes, into the cleanlier city center.
The beautiful parts of the city are home to students, foreigners, and the well-off. When did I sell what I loved—no, I don’t think I profited from that, I gave it all away freely. Letting it clog my own worthless sense of sunshine. I don’t like paying for the abuses the misconceptions of others. “Let them drown in their own confusion.” What is the range of this distraction? You—the charm is gone: you’ve worn it out.
Questionable displays of anatomy: My eyes: your skin. The predictable misery of it all: Description? Another sweet conceit: The rooms, the color of the lights, the people present, the smell of the air and her perfume, the cut of the dress she wore and how long before our tempers gave way. It’s a lying sense of collared shame. As I listen to songs of forgiveness and passion. The sickness burns my lungs apart.
I don’t want her to see me like this. I know it will pass. Reissue it with different packaging. It’s inevitable. Another section of this fiendish plot. I can feel the presence of another directing us toward destruction.
“She was here. You’ve missed her apparently.” I was left with the salty residue of her tears on these sheets. Isn’t culture so much more refined these days? Yeah, but in the end it only makes matters worse. Crime’s become just as sophisticated by half. Inquires? Domestic tension—as they say. Quickened journeys. What’s the point of travel? Real experience? Guilt? Such travesties—cutting apart examples every day. The process starts over—I cannot help it. Do you recall the sound of such things?
Festival Time. The streets are lit, the arches filled with streamers, long paper chains covering all the main shopping districts. Each restaurant has added its own special touches to the traditional Festival Menu. The performers from out of town have arrived. They’ve taken up residency in the various hotels near the theater district, while some have camped out on the park’s grounds. One can see the vendors with their carts setting up—selling useless gifts or food—each with its own specialty or gimmick. I knew better than to give in. After a few drinks however, it seemed like a good idea—as my stiff judgment waned.
“You’re too young to be disillusioned.” I remember telling her—she wasn’t jaded, she just had no trouble recognizing all the symptoms.
Perfection—let’s be progressive. Your rationale seems insignificant when put into perspective. Too much decay. Disturbing compression. I wish it would all subside. I can’t be any clearer. Take out the filter and clean it!
“Isn’t there some kind of detergent I can use?”
Why do these stories persist? Forward all kinds of subjects related to the project at once. Odes of love or fetish objects. Clouded eyes—perpetrating the dismal presence of misguided wants. Other pockets of shame. The shifting of words. I’ve been off to a slow start. I expected to accomplish more. Writing here—in this dry heat on this white table.

The Way It Begins (excerpt)

A curiosity at length—brushing past the days as I prepare for the reality around me. A better, bitter size of worth exclamation and degradation—where will this lead? There are other ways to handle it, surely. None of them have proved sound. I hold the keys to my sadness, my sorrow, my poetry. It is better to be alive, awake, and working. I wish I could compose my own happiness. Why should I tell you anything? When will the sky break past the trees? When will I realize that complaint means the end of it all? The difficulties are difficulties—nothing more. The strain of living—snuffed out by information overload. I am not able to keep up with the cost. Moving along slowly—she stopped. I heard nothing. Silence. The difference of rooms. Antiquated subject matter beyond belief—it’s a past time, something I don’t think of very often. I stamp out my own misery rather quickly. I transfer this thought to a new plane. To move on it—to reassess the joy within such motives. Snaps of childhood—other careless treats. The one time I want you. Pictures of birds singing with difficulty. Always challenging such bliss. I have tried, I worked at it. I gave it what I could without punishing myself. The rain subsided. Perhaps better things are to be expected. Perhaps they will come at a later date—when I am awake enough to understand such reasoning. The absence of conscience—almost approaching abject malice. A dismal state of affairs. Eliminating such healthy behavior. No negotiations—the ambassador had not arrived. A step forward. I count the days, the hours and the minutes until something better comes along.
I feel a little out of it today. My senses continue to arrange themselves in a disparate manner. Searching for a beginning—how might this work and what can it possibly promise? The details—you’re just drifting now—you couldn’t just produce (it) when it was required. You couldn’t sense how hard it is for me. What was I demanding, once again? When did it eclipse me? To make nothing willing or worthwhile—why is such idiocy permitted? How can this knowledge break apart my reality? In the beginning—was it all a cover story? I was replicating past sins—I suppose—nothing I’d particularly cared to relish. This is a month of blood and growth—away from the pain of being, far from this body. Carefully thought out plans. I’m losing touch with the challenge of the idea—its all too personal—such promises are meant to be broken. This city will swallow me whole. She is already away –must I remain dormant once again? I don’t want to destroy anything. There are other possibilities. Other times. I want to move on. Do something besides listen to such sadness.
We define each other. They stray from the truth. These insights horrify me. I don’t want to accept it. The feeling causes too much pain and trouble. How many characters? Very few. The events of the past have an effect on the present. They don’t just die out. They carry the sudden memories of each other in their absence. The meeting was quick, there wasn’t time to think—interim before her schedule kicked in again. He couldn’t reach her after they tampered with her life. Too much has been said—the way I do business means nothing—I will never understand. I will never learn what it means. My life is wrong. I should put an end to it. Desperation and Dialogue. I want to hear her whisper in my ear once again. Such studies form the basis of truth. Why do you persist? When will you shake this sickness? It upsets me too much. Alternate studies. Other kinds of action. My mind is flooded with all I cannot be. They aren’t ideals, they aren’t my goals.
“Thanks. I’d rather walk to the station—if its all the same to you.” She said and walked away. Down through the streets that, try as she might, she could not familiarize herself with.
It was this practice, this miserable study, this disgrace of action—tempting her away from him. She tried, beyond the sickness of secrets, she tried, phenomenally confusing him—pushing him into despair. The waking rocks on the surface of all our lies. She blinked at him, tried to smile, then left.
Such studied portrayals of our own delicate realities—all this does is ease the tide. Does it make you sit down and reconsider what she said? No. Not even for a second—as it so happens. None of it pointed to the truth—that was Triestessa’s sweet fantasy. She had experience—and that was better than any mystical idea. Evidence saves us from belief. Your words aren’t believed—your actions are. You must understand this, don’t you? We’ve tried. You wouldn’t let it go. We exploited it. Whatever I said before doesn’t count. It only pertains to what happened to you. Why is such behavior tolerated? How can it be—if it no longer exists/
We can do this later certainly, it doesn’t have to happen now.
“What do you think? Do you approve?” She asked, with hopeful eyes.

************************

- Arbol Japan Tour March 2007 -

This just in:

-ARBOL JAPAN TOUR IN MARCH 2007-
Arbol is goin' on a "1 month" adventure tour around Japan starting on the 11th of March in Osaka. Miguel Marin aka Arbol has been lately working on soundtracks for films and music for the dance company "Erre que Erre".
Arbol is working on his 3rd and new album "you travelled my heart Inside Out" (with the help of musician Jordi Saludes) which will be released under
lejosdiscos/emiliirecords on 29th Sept 2007 and sees collaboration from Suzy Mangion,Haruna Komatsu and Fernando Lagreca among others.

Osaka 11march "Avan Music Festival" (arbol,jackieomotherfucker,merzbow)
Tokyo 17march Arbol/Eri Makino at AOI HEYA Shibuya.
Tokyo 23march Arbol/mito at O-nest Shibuya.
Tokyo 24march Arbol CMFLG party at Bul let's Roppongi.
more info

Punk is not dead!

Just like the scene from "Gegen die Wand" (Head On) dir. Fatih Akin...

Case in point -- this was recently on the Boston Globe's website:

kids today: They're narcissistic // Archives 2/13: They're hooking up // Message Board: Are they getting worse?

perhaps there's hope after all.

UPDATE: Mark Morford weighs in on this non -issue.

UPDATE: Mark Morford on innocence

Does it make a story?

re: FESTIVAL DAYS

Those are from a longer work I wrote years ago. There is a definite story there but I don't think its finished yet. Or it needs to be reworked. Maybe I could explain it to you and you could suggest things. I think some parts of it are really good and others need to be put in the bin. How does it make you feel?

The Orchids : Good To Be A Stranger

There must be something in the water in Glasgow, it has always been the home to some of the most brilliant pop bands the world has to offer and The Orchids are no exception. After a series of excellent releases on Sarah Records (discussed in full here) which ranged from sugary sweet pop to psychedelic hymns, they quietly disappeared in the Mid-90s. Now they are back with another blissful album. Listening to “Good To Be A Stranger” it immediately occurs to me that they have literally picked up from where they left off. They are still heavily influenced by good Sixties pop tunes. This album feels like a lazy summer day, hanging out on a sunny hillside with friends reminiscing of happy times. The album immediately gets underway with the title track, two minutes of a fast guitar driven warmth bearing the message: “Its good to be back.” Indeed it is. Many of the songs evoke moods inspired by the different aspects of a relationship including love, longing, and departure. Apart from the title track, the songs that really stand out to me at the moment are: “Another Saturday Night”—a chronicle of heading out on the weekend and dancing {Alas, every Saturday night should have this as its soundtrack}, “Down to the Ocean”—about a trip to the seashore, and the closing track “You Could Do Something To Me”—about the resolution of an argument, all perfect subjects for songs as compelling and sunkissed as these. “Good To Be A Stranger” proves the Orchids have not lost their touch for pure jangly pop goodness.

Track Listing:
1. Good To Be A Stranger
2. Take My Hand
3. Xylophone Song
4. I Need You To Believe In Me
5. The Last Thing (On Your Mind)
6. Another Saturday Night
7. Down To The Ocean
8. Feel The Magic
9. Do It For Yourself
10. You Could Do Something TO Me

Due for release on Siesta Records in Early March.

Another Excerpt.

(From "Festival Days")

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, I’ll sleep on the couch tonight if it’s all the same to you.” She said, ignoring me.
“Oh no. You’re not getting away so easily this time. Believe me, if you keep this sort of thing up, I’ll never let you go back there again. You should take more care of yourself.” Jurgen said trying to be as blunt as possible.
“No one cares what happens to me, Jurgen. You must know that—especially them. All they want is my money anyway.” J--- was not making any sense now. It became apparent to Jurgen she hadn’t heard a word he said. He stared at her for a minute trying to calm her down. She knelt beside him. She looked away toward a far corner of the room as her face contorted in agony. She began to cry. Jurgen lay there slightly upright, slightly lengthwise, watching her. He knew it was better not to touch her in this situation. She had to decide what she wanted to do. The flow of her tears increased and her sobs grew louder. Jurgen’s eyes tried to hold back any kind of response—he didn’t want her to know how he really felt. Finally, she stopped crying. She wiped her wet face with the sleeve of her shirt, sniffled a bit, and looked at him. Her tear ducts were empty. He already reached his emotional limit and momentarily felt nothing. She felt she could sense a great deal behind the stillness of his eyes. This time, this particular moment, when she finally opened her eyes to look at him, seemed to last forever in her mind. The glow of his retinas, the dilation of his pupils was burned into her skull. She looked down at the floor and parted her lips slightly. He thought she might say something but knew better. He extended his hand and guided her to the bed.

Jurgen didn’t dream that night. J----’s ordeal was too draining for him. J----, however, in the midst of lying silently under the covers, traveled amidst the stars. She was in the upper rooms of a grand old house looking at herself naked in a full length mirror. Some kind of large occasion was happening in the lower levels of the estate. It was still early. The soft carpet caressed the soles of her feet as she hunted for an appropriate pair of underwear to complement the evening’s festivities. Her bedroom was gigantic. She thought it must be the largest bedroom she’d ever been in. She sprayed her body with perfume and let the smell linger under her nose awhile. The sun peeked in through the lace curtains to her left. It too created a sensation on her body. The freshness of the waning light brought hope to her eyes. The heat of the light turned from warm to mildly cool. She wore the silk of her underwear like a second skin. Its texture made her into the most precious of flowers. She winked at herself in approval and proceeded to get properly dressed. Her mind raced ahead as she heard cars arriving along the gravel driveway that led up to the grounds of the estate. She heard the parking of cars and the sound of gravel crushed under the heels of expensive shoes. She felt confident, alert and aware. She extended her arms and began to dance around her room—singing to herself. The song echoed and felt tinny. It should have helped her—the song should have saved her. But something was missing. She turned, now fully dressed, and focused on the door to her room. She remembered the color and texture of the wood, the detailing around the handle and the particular sound her door made—whether it was closed gently or slammed shut. The smell and movement of such a door brought a full, almost sensual smile to her lips. Her hand and skin became confused. She felt along the old wallpaper but could not find the door—it simply was not there. She felt at once very safe and alone. Her head was consumed with thoughts of absolute joy and sadness—she wanted something to hold. J----’s body jerked slightly as she banged her head against the edge of Jurgen’s bed.
She awoke, rubbing her head. The dream vanished. Jurgen had not moved. She laid her head back on the pillow and fell fast asleep.

This is something deliberate and unforgivable. It comes over us like a vulture, waiting for our bodies final spasms.

You've heard it before.

{another excerpt from FESTIVAL DAYS}

You’ve heard it before. It was taken to the limit of creation. My foundation shook in disbelief. Do I feel anything anymore? Too much repetition. The patio doors were carelessly left open.
“I desire no one but her.” Jurgen said, very clearly.
I don’t remember who I am anymore. My identity has been bought to distraction. I thought you were on vacation. This kind of activity takes hold. She smiled in disbelief. I could not let such futility prosper. What do you know of it? Why prevent something so easy? Perhaps brighter sunshine. The lace curtains by the doors to the veranda swayed gently in the breeze. Along with all the promises of a new age—difficult reports. Challenges outside the complex. The early days were filled with periods of joy and awakening.




The corridors end here past the threshold. There are cold, dry, dirt floors and then steps leading away from the terrace. Step back, and you’ll see the casual, almost neo-classical, organic infusion of Art Nouveau architecture at work. The whole atmosphere of the surrounding buildings in the square lent more towards a Delvaux than de Chirico—complete with skeletons and little girls. Suffice it to say, I could only wander in awe and discontent. The sky was in a perpetual crepuscular haze. My eyes adjusted to the stasis with difficulty. Each room along the corridor with its old wallpaper—had its own sound and smell—as one can imagine such places might. Some were musty with creaky floorboards, others vilely antiseptic with abrasive cushion-like sounds. But my room, my own special room, my most favorite room of all, smelled subtly of citrus—and it sounded like the warmest of string quartets. I challenged it to do more, to be more than it ever could and, the room would respond without fail—never ceasing to surprise me. Its windows looked out over the garden and beyond, to the city below. This is my forever place, I thought. It is composed of all the best parts of my childhood, all the occasions I nearly took for granted, moments which perpetuate and support my life. As the architecture of the city below corresponded to the stem leaves and petals of my favorite flowers. So that you might understand the challenges around me--so that you might learn about the flow of ideas. This isn’t about relationships. It is about a relationship: a boy and a girl. FIN. The only story left to feel—eradicated from space and time.

radio news - re: "Off the Cuff" (NCP 1) WZBC

I won't be on the air again until early March. Tomorrow night a hockey game will be broadcast, after that my friend Chris takes over.

But don't worry, I'll be back soon enough with much fun and excitement.

Until then.