06 April 2007

{ 10 } .. . juggernaut

i’m so manically messy, i must be messianic

Moments of truth, a random sampling:
The opening note that Miles Davis blows on the very first track of Porgy and Bess. It is a detonation, a squall from his horn so thunderous that it leaves me excited and scared at the same time. It is like being slapped in the arse to breathe in the world for the first time. It’s what I imagined the Trump of Doom will sound like.

The little guitar riff in the middle of Prince’s Blue Light (from Sex Symbol). Amidst this great little throwaway, anchored by a light touch of reggae soul, a dozen or so notes comes from the lead guitar, all spidery and sparkling with nervous energy, underscoring the sexual tension (well, is there any other kind with Prince?) of the song.

The quality of Gillian Welch’s voice as she sings, ‘went out walking with a girl pure as milk’ on Good Til Now (from Hell Among the Yearlings). It’s a languid performance, twangy and cornpoke, conjuring up hot, windless prairie days in a town with nothing to do. And when Welch gets to the words, ‘sweating through her yellow silk’, the eroticism just melts away the syllables.


spiral scratch
personality crisis .. . { new york dolls }
majorca .. . { rheostatics, the nightline sessions }
the last mile of the way .. . { the soul stirrers, the last mile of the way }



01 April 2007

{ 09 } .. . outcast

resistance is fertile

In my younger days, I would stop at nothing to feed the hunger. I was focused. I was obsessed, And I was always hungry. That desire was my alpha and omega, the totality of my life. It burned with the intensity of acid and the force of bile. Rules were meaningless. People meant even less. My only connection with them was in terms of whether they can help me feed. I was becoming feral. I started talking to myself. Briefly, at first. Short, syncopated, like the words to a magic spell. Eventually, it became more, uh, effusive. It was as if I had tapped into some hidden reservoir, and these dialogues erupted like ulcers onto the lining of my crumbling personality, making me porous, ready for some foreign, diabolical infection.

spiral scratch
crooked down the road .. . { oh susanna }
what do i get .. . { buzzcocks, operator’s manual }
heard’em say .. . { kanye west, late registration }