(Short fiction, shorter increments.)
Looper in the Dark: no. 1, no. 2, no. 3, no. 4, no. 5, no. 6, no. 7, no. 8, no. 9, no. 10, no. 11, no. 12
Looper was in the dark. He was sitting, that was all. Outside, it snowed. The apartment sang in response. Steam rushed through the pipes, crying and hissing. Looper listened, though not that closely. He was happy to sit. From his green easy chair, he could see the heavy flakes falling. They were gray and muted through the glass.
The streetlamp was dim. Looper rose to see if the snow was accumulating on the cars and the fire escape. That was when he bumped into the corner of the table. He felt his thigh bruise. That should not be, he thought crossly. The table had not moved for decades. The snow was blanketing the street, unbroken by tire tracks or footprints. It was late. Nobody should be out anyway.
Before he went to bed, Looper drank a glass of milk. It was not cold enough. He’d been drinking milk from this refrigerator for some 33 years, since he first moved to the city. The dials indicated that there was nothing wrong, yet that was incorrect. Oddly temperatured milk and furniture not where it should be. Looper did not like it. The snow kept falling.
It’s always fun to go through old issues of Wired from early in the first cyberboom. On the hyper-colorful mess of an index for the May 1995 issue, they refer to cover subject Brian Eno as “a prototypical Renaissance 2.0 artist” — funny to see the 2.0 meme/self-image already in play, even then.
I was in high school at the time, so I didn’t really grasp most of the hilarious hippie optimism of the whole affair (nor all the details). Still, I quite uncynically read interviews with a lot of heady hitters. I didn’t consciously hear Eno’s music for another few years, but this quote stuck with me right away.
Try it with a British accent. It sounds more thoughtful.
So, what happened with recording is that suddenly you could hear exactly the same piece of music a thousand times, anywhere you chose to listen to it. And this of course gave rise to a while lot of new possibilities within music. I think the growth of jazz, especially improvised jazz, was entirely due to recordings, because you can make sense of something on several hearings — even things that sounds extremely weird and random on first hearing. I did an experiment myself last year in which I recorded a short piece of traffic noise on a street. It’s about three and a half minutes long, and I just kept listening to it to see if I could come to hear it as a piece of music. So, after listening to this recording many times, I’d say, Oh yes, there’s that car to the right, and there’s that door slamming to the left, and I would hear that person whistling, and there’s that baby coming by in the pram. After several weeks, I found I loved it like a piece of music.
Features:
“CBGB Closes” (audio slideshow for Associated Press, photos by Jack Chester)
Song reviews:
“Tio Minuter (Ten Minutes)” – Pärson Sound (PaperThinWalls.com)
“Good Things Are Coming” – New Sound of Numbers (PaperThinWalls.com)
“God Bless the Ottoman Empire” – A Hawk and a Hacksaw (PaperThinWalls.com)
“Untitled (Track 4)” – Talibam! (PaperThinWalls.com)
“Trial By Lasers” – Icy Demons (PaperThinWalls.com)
“Time Passing” – Max Richter feat. Robert Wyatt (PaperThinWalls.com)
“Soul Master” – Edwin Starr
“I’m Your Puppet” – Yo La Tengo
“I’d Love Just Once To See You” – The Beach Boys
“California” – Dr. Dog
““In a Different Light – The Bangles
Album reviews:
The Information – Beck
Live at the Warfield – Phil Lesh and Friends
Live reviews:
Of Montreal and Jamie Lidell at Irving Plaza, 26 September 2006
Yo La Tengo at Loews Jersey City, 29 September 2006
The Mountain Goats at the Bowery Ballroom, 1 October 2006
Columns and misc.:
BRAIN TUBA: Five Little Thoughts (It’s a Scientific Lifestyle
Two new Funny Cry Happy demos
Only in print:
o November Relix (Tenacious D cover): album reviews of Bob Dylan, Tortoise, Joanna Newsom, Four Tet; book review of 33 1/3 Greatest Hits
o Paste #26 (Beck cover): movie review of Fast Food Nation, DVD review of Jeff Tweedy
“In a Different Light” – The Bangles (download here)
from Different Light (1986)
released by Columbia Records (download here)
(file expires November 2nd)
My first exposure to the Bangles came through the radio show Kids America that my mother and I listened to, and where — being a kid-friendly novelty — “Walk Like An Egyptian” was a ceaseless hit. Not long after that, we bought a tape of the album. The songs disappeared into my memory until this summer, when my friend Paul convinced me to grab them from his iPod. The title track, whose chorus was one of the few bits of the album I remembered (along with Prince’s “Manic Monday” and “Walk Like An Egyptian”), remains awesome. Give or take a little bit of the production sheen, it doesn’t even sound too dated.
I can imagine walking into a bar on the Lower East Side and hearing some sub-Strokes band covering this. It’s garage-pop of the first order: pounding wah guitar intro, a chorus/hook that drops immediately, and — eventually — lyrics that run just deep enough to be meaningful as lyrics, but don’t strive to be anything deeper. The first verse, to me, is just plain effective: “I wanna make a movie / I wanna put you on the silver screen / Sit in a darkened room / and study you from a distance.” There’s no attempt at a backstory, it’s just an observation — an unrhyming one, too, which makes it even kinda elegant. (Funny that the other two verses do rhyme, but it’s really the first one that sets the tone.)
All the lyrics are about making some kind of art to explain the subject — a movie, a novel, a painting — but, in the end, it’s just a song, and not even one that really explains anything. It only gets at the feeling of wanting to explain — which is not only a more modest goal, but a more evocative one, and certainly more mysterious. Not everybody needs to be John Darnielle, y’know?, and “Bob” bless ’em for all that.
“California” – Dr. Dog (download here)
from Takers and Leavers EP (2006)
released by PTV Records (buy)
(file expires November 1st)
Been taking a leisurely slog through Writing Los Angeles, an anthology of great writing about the place. Here, in an essay titled “Paradise, ” Double Indemnity writer James M. Cain writes about what he thinks of as the shallowness of L.A.:
But what electric importance can be felt in a peddler of orange peelers? Or of a dozen ripe avocados, just plucked that morning? Or a confector of Bar-B-Q? Or the proprietor of a goldfish farm? Or a breeder of rabbit fryers? They give me no kick at all. They give themselves no kick. The whole place is overrun with nutty religions which are merely the effort of these people to inject some sort of point into their lives; if not on earth, then in the stars, in numbers, in vibrations, or whatever their fancy hits on.
Thing is, all those things do have kick: what a weird, mystical place southern California must have been in 1933, between the wars. Dr. Dog evokes it perfectly on this Western Swing-on-a-soundstage number from their Takers and Leavers EP.
o A mondo-heady Judith Supine punk-rawk collage/animation video by the dude who may or may not be my roommate. (Thanks, Judith Supine!)
o Former Mets’ manager Bobby Valentine sells meat in Japan: for a relaxing time, make it Bobby-Burger time. (Alright, MetsBlog, and thanks for the great year.)
o A DJ set Simpsons‘ creator Matt Groening spun on the BBC last year (or, the badass setlist, anyway).
o A really creepy bootleg mix I acquired over the weekend, called Endless Bummer: The Very Worst of the Beach Boys, features in-studio arguments, terrible ads, drunken live cuts, Brian rapping, and the Spanish version of “Kokomo.” Perhaps I will post a track sometime. (Big ups, Pete.)
o A recent article about what’s become of the Shibuya-kei scene that produced Cornelius and Kahimi Karie.
The Mets will change in the off-season, as teams do. Some are now free agents, others — perhaps — trade bait. The lineup will morph, and they’ll start again in Florida, in the agreeable weather and miles of green.
On the way home from Shea, I pulled my comfort ripcord and listened to In Utero quite loudly while reading the new 33 1/3 book about the same. Escaping back into the music that I loved in ninth grade when I turned away from sports to begin with, the phrase that kept rolling around in my mind was “aqua seafoam shame,” which is what I thought Kurt Cobain was singing somewhere in “All Apologies” (and still kinda do; the actual lyric is rather mundane).
I’m not sure why it’s appropriate, really, or even if it’s how I’m actually feeling right now, but it’ll do. Next season in Jerusalem, as I believe the saying goes.
Of all the major professional sports, baseball is easily the one with the most physical inactivity. That is, with the exception of the pitcher and catcher, most of the players are still far more than they are in motion. In that, it is also the professional sport best suited for lingering close-ups on players’ eyes. Resultantly, though perhaps I am saying this as one who never developed a taste for any other sport, it also seems the game with the greatest potential for articulated drama. It is not a coincidence, I don’t think, that the majors are known as The Show.
In terms of creating a genuine, truthful response from as large an audience as possible, mannered dialogue brimming with double-entendres and clever plot devices is always going to be working at a handicap compared to the evenly distributed nine innings of a playoff game. Storylines are ending, developing, and beginning, though not even the characters know which ones. Only the unwritten ending can contextualize the true meaning of the two-out rallies that begin on botched catches (as the Mets pulled in the 7th tonight), or advances that are temporarily halted (like a massive Carlos Beltran throw to the plate that prevented Juan Encarnacion from tagging) (though So Taguchi drove him in, quite futilely, on the next at-bat, anyway). Nobody knows the meaning, especially not going into game 7, but we’ve all got our suspicions.
For fans, October is an exciting time of year, for the majority of ballplayers — which is to say, all those who didn’t make the playoffs — it must be disconcerting. The sportswire is filled with the dispensing of managers, the scouting of coaches to fill their positions. For players — nomads, mostly, during the summer months — it is about moving. No matter what the Mets’ fate might be over the next few days, and no matter how he pitches tomorrow night, John Maine will soon be vacating the room in the Ramada Inn off the Grand Central Parkway where he’s been living, headed for that black hole known as the off-season.
Watching these games, sometimes, all the fancy fonts and and modern uniforms and tailored facial hair fall from view, and the face in the batter’s box could be peering from a daguerreotype in a Ken Burns documentary or a sun-bleached ’70s Topps card, all gauzy technicolor. The face becomes, for a moment, somehow classic. Tonight, that face belonged to the Cardinals’ runt of a leadoff hitter, David Eckstein, who nabbed a few near-hits during the Mets’ first at bat, and later took a pitch hard on his fingertips. He seemed like a ghost already, someone I’ll forget after the post-season. In my memory, his features will join my blurry gallery of ballplayers, an index like a massive WPA mural.
“I’d Love Just Once To See You” – The Beach Boys (download here)
from Wild Honey (1968)
released by Capitol Records (buy)
(file expires October 24th)
Post-Smile Beach Boys tends to get a bad rap, and maybe rightly so, but some of it is quite excellent — Wild Honey, especially. It doesn’t really fit the popular Smile narrative that Brian should still be making great, current music after the collapse of his concept album, but Wild Honey is a completely Beach Boys take on the back-to-the-roots thing that Dylan, the Beatles, the Stones, and everybody else was doing after a few years of psychedelic blow-outs (see: John Wesley Harding, the White Album, Beggars’ Banquet, etc.).
The lyrics are the stuff of everyday (“I washed the dishes, and I rinsed up the sink, like a busy bee”), but are positively liberated by BB standards. “I wouldn’t mind if I could get with you right away,” Brian sings. (That’s not say they’re entirely liberated. “When’s the last time you baked me a pie?” Brian also asks.) The composition is laced with the same tricks to be found all about Pet Sounds and Smile, here applied to something modest and adult, instead of high school melodrama or teenage symphonies to God. The arpeggiated 12-string figure behind the bridge melody wouldn’t be out of place on “Cabinessence,” and — of course — there’s some lovely harmonized bah-bah-bahing.
But really, the song is all about the punchline at the end: “I’d love just once to see you, I’d love just once to see you, I’d love just once to see you…” — pause– “…in the nude.” Hot. (Kinda is, right?)
Not long after that season ended, I got a copy of the Mets’ highlight video, 1986: A Year to Remember, at a literal fire sale over on Jericho Turnpike: the place had burned, and the tape smelled like badly crisped bacon for a few years. As a nine year old, I watched it religiously, learning consciously for the first time about drama. There was an ominous narrator, atmospheric music, non-linear editing techniques, excited radio announcers, and some killer montages (one featuring “Karn Evil 9” by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, though I wouldn’t learn that for another decade). I saw how music could build tension and how authoritative foreshadowing could build it even further. I learned about fate, or at least its implications.
For me, it is right impossible to watch this post-season unfold and not hear A Year to Remember‘s narrator framing it. I want him to. I want him to say things like “in game 5, they put the ball in the capable hands of Tom Glavine,” as he described a winning Bob Ojeda appearance against the Red Sox. I want to see surprisingly tasteful bits of nostalgia — say, Reyes sliding in slow motion into second, coming up grinning — like the condensed version of the Series set to Bob Dylan’s “I’ll Remember You” (which, like the ELP cut, I didn’t realize was Dylan until much later).
Of course, the video’s weight comes entirely because the Mets made it, and won the World Series. Watching the Mets go down two games over the weekend, Saturday night in a singularly spectacular meltdown by seemingly everybody, the fate of the team was thrown into question for the first time since the post-season began. If the Mets lose now, and they might, does that invalidate everything that has happened already? Does the entire theoretical highlights video crumble? As the games progress, I hear him crunching them into soundbytes. I just wish I could feed him lines.
Keeping score is a Braille record of the game, feeling the innings and statistics stretch, one by one. It is something to hold onto, something deeper than the drunken mayhem of the far reaches of the upper deck. Out there — even deeper than last time, now behind the stadium’s speakers — Ivan Neville’s rendition of the national anthem is almost literally avant-garde. Whole notes form ill-fitting harmonies with those on either of side of them in the melody.
Even the echo of the bat is gone, as is the announcer. The scoreboard is an unreadable sliver. In the eighth, we figure out that Manny Mota is pitching because the name on the back of the jersey is short and the number is somewhere in the 50s. On my lap, the scorecard is a languid other-world, far from the chants (“En-dy C,” “En-dy Cha-vez” and just “En-dy” all compete after a Ron Swaboda-like miracle catch) and the chill (which will surely be worse at future games).
The innings occasionally widen, only once filled with the black wedges that represent runs (Carlos Beltran’s two-run shot in the sixth), and sometimes aberrations (Beltran’s 8-3 double-play from centerfield to first base) (booya!), but mostly they roll by like a river and keep pulse: the heartbeat of a season extended nine more innings.
o The PhantasyTour message boards, where the Phish parking lot lives on, are many things. Rarely, however, are they as brilliant as the thread that began several weeks ago with the subject “moe. = missionary position sex…” and went from there. (Random sampling: “Brothers Past = boning an emo chick just to see what it’s like. Turns out, not that bad.”)
o An unusually well-written baseball profile by John Koblin in the New York Observer, about Mets’ starter John Maine. (Thanks, MetsBlog.)
o These lists make the rounds every few years, but here is an updated page of how much it costs to book bands at colleges via the Man. (James Brown: $100,000; Huey Lewis, $150,000. Hmm. (Go Josh!)
o Yo La Tengo’s Ira Kaplan listed his faves for both Pitchfork and eMusic recently.
o A great piece from the New York Review of Books reviewing a bunch of books about Google, the Long Tail, and such. (Word, Joey.)
Since the last update from wunderkammern27.com’s Ordovician Archives, Dr. Tuttledge has traveled to Nigeria. Though he has remained in constant contact regarding his collection of oral histories related to the narratives transmitted by what he deemed “Urgent Message” artifacts (classified as “419 scams” by other scholars), Dr. Tuttledge has been unable to maintain his own observational work. The Center for Anthropological Computing — whose ever-expanding collections continue to be stored in Manhattan — has received applications for our still-open intern position, though none have yet met Dr. Tuttledge’s exacting standards.
In the meantime, we would like to present one new discovery that has earned a spot in the Archives. It is a classic type 1 goods-for-sale message, but it mimics the form of a MySpace notification. It is a strategy that employs the message type’s perfect ubiquity to cloak it against both humans and electronic filters. All of us here at the CAC are duly impressed and doff our hats. (The accompanying gibberish is pretty interesting, as well.)
From: New MySpace Message
Date: Saturday, October 7, 2006 2:32 AM
Subject: New message from Ruth on MySpace sent on Oct 07 02:20:00 -4 2006
You’ve got a new song from Ruth on MySpace!
Click here to hear your MySpace music:
http://myspace.mp3piat.com/?reloc.cfm=6&id=78730
Click here to get 5-free songs downloaded to Your Space:
http://myspace.mp3piat.com/?reloc.cfm=6&id=7873096909_5free
————————-
At MySpace we care about your privacy. We have sent you this notification to facilitate your use as a member of the MySpace service. If you don’t want to receive emails like this to your external email account in the future, change your Account Settings to “Do not send me notification emails”
Click here to change your Account Settings:
http://myspace.mp3piat.com/?account.settings=update=6&id=78730
MySpace Inc. – 1900 Wilshire Blvd. 2109, Los Angeles, CA 90403-5400 USA
©2006 MySpace Inc. All Rights Reserved
5. EXPORT RESTRICTIONS. Licensee agrees not to export or re-export the Licensed Materials to any country, person, entity or end user subject to U.S.A. export restrictions. Licensee warrants and represents that neither the U.S.A. Bureau of Export Administration nor any other federal agency has suspended, revoked or denied Licensee’s export privileges. By installing the Software, Licensee agrees to the foregoing and Licensee is representing and warranting that they are not located in, under the control of, or a national or resident of any such country.
1. Game overview
RESPONSIBILITIES FOR SELECTION OF
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– Debian bug report 338681 by Jan Kunder: make curl better detect and report
Added support for a second FTP server in the test suite. Named… ftp2.
Assess CMP compliance
compliance with the terms hereof, permits you to Use
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Daniel (14 March 2005)
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authorized to Operate or use the Product in any way.
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Over the weekend, I spent some time recording, and finally started a MySpace page for Funny Cry Happy. Included are the two demos I just made, “No Wonder” and “Textual Healing,” and a few songs from On A Clear Night, You Can Smell For Miles. I’ll post more as they’re ready.
Watching the Mets celebrate after their three-game sweep of the Dodgers on Saturday night, I again had the thought that I probably wouldn’t enjoy actually hanging out with any of them at a bar. They’re jocks after all, probably the same breed that did their best to make my life miserable in high school. What could we possibly have to talk about? But I still like them. It makes me happy to see Jose Reyes in the dugout, smiling and bobbing his head around. All of my assumptions about Reyes, though, come from trying to read into his minute variations on a very strict set of behaviors as a fielder, batter, and runner. Everything I think is probably grossly inaccurate, but that’s kind of the fun of it.
In watching baseball, I pay attention to people that I often cannot relate to in any way: physically, emotionally, financially, culturally. That’s kind of weird to me, I think. In theory, what we have in common is an interest in the sport, but I’m not sure how far that would go conversationally. Seeing the Taiwanese starter Hong-Chih Kuo — only one big league victory to his record — pitch against the Mets in game two, the dudes calling the game mentioned that if Kuo doesn’t succeed in the majors, he’ll be sent back to Taiwan, where he’ll be forced to enlist in the army. Clearly, baseball means something entirely different to Kuo than it does to me. In that sense, it’s a pretty abstract tongue, and one impossible to literally verbalize. It is irreducible, the language itself. It is spoken elegantly this time of year.
The drama of the upper deck is all misinformation. High above the foul poles, the sounds ricochet, like Branford Marsalis’s instrumental “Star Spangled Banner.” It echoes from the PA towers, all neutered soprano sax. “You suck!” someone shouts, but most people just stand, shifting their feet. Elsewhere, noises delay and cross, owing to the sheer size of the arena, like the polyphonic “Let’s go Mets!” chants that thunder at different tempos and from different starting points and collide like a Charles Ives orchestration. The chants, especially, are amazing: spur of the moment decisions by the collective, crunching names into a small library of flexible syllable patterns (“Car-los Bel-tran!” “M.V.P.!”). Sometimes, no consensus is reached, and the chants whither away like smoke (but not before more chaos).
Mostly, the game is far away and it is hard to see the ball. The mezzanine swallows the deep corner of right field itself. The crack of the bat is unreal, one sound in many. When the ball is hit in the air, it is like being thrust into an optical illusion, nearly impossible to tell if its movement is hard or soft, high up or just over the infielders’ heads, or even fair or foul. Adjusted to the dimensions, the ball still lands in totally unpredictable places, like David Wright’s bloop double into right in the seventh. A run scores, and the chanting starts all over again.
Pretty much the standard complaint against the World Series runs something like this: “It’s not really the World Series, is it? They’re just American teams, man.” Well, maybe, but the players are far from all American. Though I’m reasonably sure most major league franchises are as equally diverse, there still seems something particularly New Yawk about the Mets’ international patchwork.
They’ve got corn-fed submariners named Chad from Jackson, Mississippi and power-hitting scumbags named Paul, from Brooklyn. But they’ve also got players from the Dominican Republic, Cuba, and Venezuela. And until the General Manager (also Dominican) traded him for sucking, even a dude from Japan named Kaz who bugged his eyes out at unpredictable moments. (And though he doesn’t technically count as part of the international contingent, I was also quite pleased when they acquired a good Jewish boy named Shawn in the post-All Star Break force-marshalling.)
Baseball is a game of statistics. They exist so one might reasonably compare one player to any other, to find out which one is the Best. The Major League happens to be the league of record. Should the proper business interests establish a franchise in, say, the Dominican Republic, it would likely just become the same melting pot as any other organization. If one’s got an interest in baseball, the United States is where he goes. It’s not globalization, y’understand, it’s baseball. What the hell do you expect? So, the World Series it is.
All of which is to say: LET’S GO METS.
“I’m Your Puppet” – Yo La Tengo (download here)
from Mr. Tough 7-inch (2006)
released by Matador
1. Here’s the newest obscura, a literal B-side from the “Mr. Tough” single: a cover of Dan Penn and Spooner Oldham’s “I’m Your Puppet.” Presumably a Beat Your Ass leftover, it’s got lovely strings (David Mansfield?), and is a welcome addition to the late-night playlist.
2. To reach the resources of the old YoLaTengo.net, one now has to use the Wayback Machine at archive.org to consult a mirror of the old YLT.net via the now-old version of sunsquashed.com. The URLs get pretty hilarious. It is here (no graphics, so just, like, wave your arrow over the links to find what yer looking for).
3. So, apparently, there was a BBC session, recently? I seemed to have missed this. Some curious covers on the setlist. Anybody end up with a copy?
4. YLT played in Jersey City on Friday.
Yo La Tengo at the Landmark Loew’s Jersey Theatre
29 September 2006
Why? opened
Sugarcube
Pass The Hatchet, I Think I’m Goodkind
Flying Lesson (Hot Chicken #1)
The Weakest Part
Sometimes I Don’t Get You
Winter A Go Go
Mr. Tough
Beanbag Chair
I Feel Like Going Home
Stockholm Syndrome
I Should Have Known Better
Watch Out For Me, Ronnie
Tom Courtenay
The Story of Yo La Tango
I Heard You Looking
*(encore 1)*
Oklahoma USA (The Kinks)
Lewis
Rocks Off (The Rolling Stones)
*(encore 2)*
Cast A Shadow (Beat Happening)
Did I Tell You?
