Museum Mondays
1 week ago
Monday, May 11, 2009
Declassified Documents Available in Amoeba San Francisco
The CD is priced at an affordable $6.98. It is handmade and limited to 100. It features a 6 page booklet with photos by Matt Parchinski. Go pick it up!
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Tooth Powder #2 + Hungrier Demo
That hungry fella is up to his old tricks again. My good friend Preston just finished off the second issue of his zine, Tooth Powder. Its 45 pages long(!) and also comes with a cd featuring some of his music. Our mutual friend Jen made one of her sweet collages for the issue. You can find me on track number 6 of the demo gettin down with the irie vibes of jah praise. Read more about it here and order a copy damnit! $5 is a hell of a deal for this sexy book of goodness.
That is all.
Monday, May 4, 2009
This dude...
"kid koala lives in Montreal. his weapons of choice are… pencils, paper, clay, glue, mosquitoes, records and mixers… all of which he slyly uses to bring joy and silliness to the far reaches of the earth.
he is currently working on his second graphic novel + soundtrack… as well as his fourth album. in his spare time, he has been scheming up some new tours including but not limited to: a puppet musical about a robot who works at a cookie factory (complete with turntable orchestra pit), a quiet-time headphone / beanbag tour for the non-dancing listeners, and a hilarious Roller-rink tour which should be fun for the whole family.
all new romantics and jaded people alike are invited."
http://nufonia.com/
Sorry Preston...
NY MOMA is so big its overwhelming. León Ferrari's incredible art was featured on the top floor.
I go to see one of my favorite pieces by Steve Reich, Electric Counter Point. It ends up being played on this bad boy.
Kid Koala, hands down, the most talented guy in hip hop and one of the best musicians Ive ever seen in my life.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Friday, May 1, 2009
Reading at 39,000 ft
....
To be inside taht music, to be drawn into the circle of its repetitions: perhaps that is a place where one could finally disappear.
But beggars and performers make up only a small part of the vagabond population. They are the aristocracy, the elite of the fallen. Far more numerous are those with nothing to do, with nowhere to go. Many are drunks--but that term does not do justice to the devastation they embody. Hulks of despair, clothed in rags, their faces bruised and bleeding, they shuffle through the streets as though in chains. Asleep in doorways, staggering insanely through traffic, collapsing on sidewalks--they seem to be everywhere the moment you look for them. Some will starve to death, others will dies of exposure, still others will be beaten or burned or tortured.
For every soul lost in this particular hell, there are several others locked inside madness--unable to exit the world that stands at the threshold of there of their bodies. Even though they seem to be there, they cannot be counted as present. The man, for example, who goes everywhere with a set of drum sticks, pounding the pavement with them in a reckless , nonsensical rhythm, stooped over awkwardly as he advances along the street, beating and beating away at the cement. Perhaps he thinks he is doing important work. Perhaps, if he did not do what he did, the city would fall apart. Perhaps the moon would spin out of its orbit and come crashing into earth. There are the ones who talk to themselves, who mutter, who scream, who curse, who groan, who tell themselves stories as if to someone else. That man I saw today sitting like a heap of garbage in front of Grand Central Station, the crowds rushing past him, saying in a loud, panic-stricken voice: "Third Marines....Eating bees.... The bees crawling out of my mouth." Or the woman shouting at an invisible companion: "And what if I don't want to! What if I just fucking don't want to!"
There are the women with their shopping bags and the men with there cardboard boxes, hauling their possessions from one place to the next, forever on the move, as if it mattered where they were. There is the man wrapped in the American flag. There is the woman with the Halloween mask on her face. There is the man in the ravaged overcoat, his shoes, wrapped in rags, carrying a perfectly pressed white shirt on a hanger--still sheathed in the dry-cleaner's plastic. There is a man in a business suit with bar feet and a football helmet on his head. There is the woman whose clothes are covered from head to toe with presidential campaign buttons. There is a man who walks with his face in his hands, weeping histerically and saying over and over again "No, no, no, no. He's dead. He's not dead. No, no, no, no. He's dead. He's not dead."
Baudelaire: Il me semble que je serais toujours bien la ou je ne suis pas. In other words: It seems to me that I will always be happy in the place where I am not. Or, more bluntly: Wherever I am not is the place where I am myself. Or else, taking the bull by his horns: Anywhere out of the world.
by
Paul Auster (The New York Trilogy: City of Glass)
To be inside taht music, to be drawn into the circle of its repetitions: perhaps that is a place where one could finally disappear.
But beggars and performers make up only a small part of the vagabond population. They are the aristocracy, the elite of the fallen. Far more numerous are those with nothing to do, with nowhere to go. Many are drunks--but that term does not do justice to the devastation they embody. Hulks of despair, clothed in rags, their faces bruised and bleeding, they shuffle through the streets as though in chains. Asleep in doorways, staggering insanely through traffic, collapsing on sidewalks--they seem to be everywhere the moment you look for them. Some will starve to death, others will dies of exposure, still others will be beaten or burned or tortured.
For every soul lost in this particular hell, there are several others locked inside madness--unable to exit the world that stands at the threshold of there of their bodies. Even though they seem to be there, they cannot be counted as present. The man, for example, who goes everywhere with a set of drum sticks, pounding the pavement with them in a reckless , nonsensical rhythm, stooped over awkwardly as he advances along the street, beating and beating away at the cement. Perhaps he thinks he is doing important work. Perhaps, if he did not do what he did, the city would fall apart. Perhaps the moon would spin out of its orbit and come crashing into earth. There are the ones who talk to themselves, who mutter, who scream, who curse, who groan, who tell themselves stories as if to someone else. That man I saw today sitting like a heap of garbage in front of Grand Central Station, the crowds rushing past him, saying in a loud, panic-stricken voice: "Third Marines....Eating bees.... The bees crawling out of my mouth." Or the woman shouting at an invisible companion: "And what if I don't want to! What if I just fucking don't want to!"
There are the women with their shopping bags and the men with there cardboard boxes, hauling their possessions from one place to the next, forever on the move, as if it mattered where they were. There is the man wrapped in the American flag. There is the woman with the Halloween mask on her face. There is the man in the ravaged overcoat, his shoes, wrapped in rags, carrying a perfectly pressed white shirt on a hanger--still sheathed in the dry-cleaner's plastic. There is a man in a business suit with bar feet and a football helmet on his head. There is the woman whose clothes are covered from head to toe with presidential campaign buttons. There is a man who walks with his face in his hands, weeping histerically and saying over and over again "No, no, no, no. He's dead. He's not dead. No, no, no, no. He's dead. He's not dead."
Baudelaire: Il me semble que je serais toujours bien la ou je ne suis pas. In other words: It seems to me that I will always be happy in the place where I am not. Or, more bluntly: Wherever I am not is the place where I am myself. Or else, taking the bull by his horns: Anywhere out of the world.
by
Paul Auster (The New York Trilogy: City of Glass)
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