My friend Jules just lost her cat. Hazel was a gorgeous tortie kitten, not even a year old. Jules writes a heart-wrenching account of the accident and the accompanying guilt and sadness in a recent blog entry. Take a moment to comment on her post and remind her that it wasn’t her fault. I think she knows this, but it’s gotta be rough.
Check out Jules’s Buzznet gallery of Hazel here.
I leave my house at about noon to get a haircut at Rudy’s on Sunset. That’s all. I just want a haircut. Somehow, within an hour, I’m sitting down to lunch with Sara and, among others, Jonny Wickersham from Social Distortion, Keith Morris from Black Flag and The Circle Jerks, and bassist Flea from Red Hot Chili Peppers.
I am NOT prepared for this. And though they are all very nice, very cordial, very entertaining, I feel desperately out of place. My already crippled ego gets up and leaves the table. I want to follow it out the door, but I hang in there, manage to make small talk and hope deperately for a chance to do this some other time, when I don’t feel like I’ve got soggy toast for brains.
I’m finally putting together a cd cover and label for my latest mix. I’m calling it Prime, because it assembles eleven of my most favorite tracks from the past three and a half years (which is how long I’ve had my turntables.)
Tracklist:
1) Breeder � Tyrantanic
2) Gus Gus � Purple (Sasha vs. The Light mix)
3) BT � Mercury & Solace
4) Schiller � Das Glockenspiel (Humate mix)
5) Nuclear Ramjet � Deep Blue
6) Luzon � Manila Sunrise
7) Underworld � Cowgirl (Bedrock Mix)
8) Sidekick � Respond
9) Max Graham � Airtight
10) Matthew DeKay � Space Mountain Ride
11) Sander Kleinenberg � My Lexicon (full-length)
Sometime soon, I’ll make it available for streaming.
Christmas is roaring down the pike full-throttle now at Amoeba. Mondays feel like
Saturdays. Saturdays feel like Armageddon. Everyone’s running around with a “just trying to hold it together” look on their faces. I have to work nine hours on Christmas Eve. Then I’m driving up to SLO for two days. This, of course, depends on my car. The clutch is beginning to slip and the steering mechanism complains when I work it too hard. The one thing that gives me hope is that the stereo still works fine.
I’m feeling a little lazy tonight. I want to post about Diamanda Galas, as I promised last time, but she commands a little more effort than I have now. It’s 12:44 PM and I guarantee I’ll be up until about three. Tuesdays are my Thursdays, so I’m having a little to drink, kicking back at my desk and listening to tunes. In an hour or so, having posted whatever nonsense I’m about to write, and having perused a few more Twilight Zone episode summaries in search of something I can pitch as “adaptable,” growing weary with the hour, I’ll shut things down, shuffle over to the couch, drop in a movie (just borrowed the Mitchell Bros. classic, Autobiography of a Flea from work) and pass out after about twelve and half minutes.
Oh, alright. I’ve been listening to Diamanda Galas while I’ve been writing this and I just can’t help posting a little bit about her. I first caught a scent of her intensity back in 1994 when The Sporting Life hit the shelves. I was at Morninglory Music in Isla Vista and I just had to ask the guy at the counter, “What in the name of all that’s sane are you playing??” The Sporting Life is her collaboration with ex-Zeppelin bassist, John Paul Jones. Her voice is unbelievable. To say she’s operatically trained is a little misleading. She’s classically trained, but the operas she’s performed were inspired by the Expressionist Shrei (shriek) style. She’s had more than a passing acquaintance with drugs. Her voice spans four octaves. She knows several languages. She’s smart as a whip. You put it together.
I’ll skip Plague Mass, which really should be heard in its entirety. This is her harsh, confrontational bleed-out over the AIDS epidemic and the pain (both physical and emotional) it has caused. I guess you could call it her magnum opus. Instead I’ll just give you something from The Sporting Life and then toss in, for good measure, something from Schrei X. The first sounds more or less like a blues standard. In fact it is. But Galas brings her own unique flair to the vocals. As for the second? Well, let’s just say I like extremes.
And as with the Death Metal I lobbed out to you last time, this is not gentle music, so brace yourself, or go find yourself some Erasure. But compared to the battle axe of Gorgoroth, this is the surgeon’s scalpel:
Dark End Of The Street: stream | mp3
Yes, that’s a human voice making that noise. And before you dismiss it as mere noise, let me just say that there’s something deep and primal that stirs when you really sit down and listen to this stuff. Galas taps into something I don’t even want to try to explain, but it’s powerful and it’s damn frightening.
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Bedtime.
A lot happens in two years. I had been wanting to make the move to LA for some time. So two years ago I shift down to LA from Santa Barbara. I stay in Lomita with my friend Mandy while I look for a job. I spend large chunks of time writing in the Rolling Hills Estates Public Library (a beautiful, comfortable space I miss terribly.) It is a time of uncertainty and stress, and often in my current time of uncertainty and stress, I look back on that time and…well, long for it.
And then I stumble across a journal entry like this one, written exactly two years ago today. I had been developing an idea I called God Chasers (or more jokingly, Apocalypso) about an investigator for the Catholic Church who debunks miracles, but who’s finding them harder and harder to explain in the face of what turns out to be an onrushing Apocalypse.
“It’s been a hell of a day. Forget the fact that I spent most of it crouched at Mandy’s sink, wrestling sweat, rancid water, a large pipe wrench and recalcitrant pipes, emitting weird, strangled curses and fighting the urge to put that pipe wrench through the nearest window. Forget that the night before was one of the worst in a long time, a night spent fighting the growth of a nasty, bitter panic, feeling pathetic and useless and afraid of death, solitary, agitated, and unable even to engage, thanks to a stubborn computer, the MST3K lullaby. And forget the world of uneasy, fragmented dreams when I finally drifted off that left me knotted and anxious about rising the next morning. Today was a hell of a day because I’ve just been informed that ABC is premiering a television series called “Miracles” starring Skeet Ulrich as a seminary student dispatched by the Vatican to debunk miracles… Now what the hell is going on here? Really, what is going on?? How the hell did this happen?
So, yeah. It�s been a hell of a day. But I’m at the library. Late today thanks to “Fun With Plumbing” but I have the evening open and available, John Digweed vortexing on the Rio Volt and a very tall ladder.
Um… the ladder is figurative, you see, so I can climb up? You know, out? Of this hell?
…
I have no recollection of this “MST3K lullaby.”
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I lock myself out of my car tonight. I enter through the passenger side, grab a piece of paper and a pen and write a note to put on Sara’s car (in retaliation for the note she left on mine.) When I’m done, I get up and instinctively lock the door, realizing even as the door’s closing that my keys are sitting on the driver’s seat.
Slam. Too late.
It just so happens that John, the master craftsman responsible for all the amazing shelves, fixtures and repairs around Amoeba, happens to have a long piece of hooked wire exactly as long as I need to reach in through the cracked window and retrieve the keys off the seat.
Very typical.
Anyway, I’ve been down, I guess. Low on inspiration and short on motivation. I’m saying this to explain two things: one, why I’ve been absent. It’s tough to write about things when I think there’s nothing worth writing about. And two, it might explain my sudden interest in Black Metal.
Huh? I hear you think.
I’ve always been curious about it. And I love exploring new and intreresting genres of music. I leap into new musical terrain often. This current fling is really the result of several things. I’d read recently about the exploits of notorious Norwegian lunatics Mayhem, Burzum and Bathory. I’d also had a discussion with coworker Ariel about the difference between Death Metal and Black Metal (I’m still not clear on the exact criteria for each, though there’s clearly a difference since we keep them separate at Amoeba; confusingly, allmusic.com seems to lump them together.) And then the death of Thrash Metalist Dimebag Darrell Abbott stirred me enough to want to explore the more intense end of the musical spectrum. So I’m diving in.
I remember the days of the PMRC and it’s Filthy Fifteen. Remember them? These were the fifteen songs that were the worst offenders of the moral dignity of America. Madonna was on that list. So were Def Leppard and Cyndi Lauper.
What would they have done if someone had snatched a copy of Nymphetamine by Cradle of Filth from eighteen years in the future and dropped it into their CD player? Heck, you be the judge:
Pretty, aren’t they? As rough and tumble as that song is, surging with orchestral blasts and lead singer Dani Filth’s growls and screams, Black Metalists Gorgoroth cultivate an even darker vibe. These guys are pure Black Metal. I’ve scanned a couple images from the inner sleeve of their album Twilight of the Idols to give you an idea of the theatricality and posturing that exemplifies this genre. Here are lead singer, Gaahl and drummer, Kvitrafn:
I’d love to hang out with these guys. Click on the link below to hear a little of their upbeat melodica. Turn the volume up. Brace yourself.
Procreating Satan: stream | mp3
Enjoy. It’s getting late. I was going to expand this post by bringing up Diamanda, but she’ll wait till next time.
Another quick, pointless entry, but I just have to post this pic of the British Buffy Box. Seven Seasons. 39 discs. 117 hours. It comes through Amoeba yesterday. I immediately get on the horn to Ryan, whose collection, like mine, consists of the entire run of the series, but whose bank account, unlike mine, can probably afford such pointless redundancy.
“Dude,” he says. “It’s mine.”
P0rn for TV geeks.
How’s this for crazy? Pantera guitarist Darrell Abbott gunned down by a crazed fan while on stage with his new band. This world keeps getting weirder and weirder.
Forgot to have coffee this morning. I’ll write more once I extract the white hot brass knuckles from my head.
I actually do call in sick yesterday. It’s great. I sleep and clean and do nothing. And all that activity works. I get a call from Boss saying he’s gonna leave a check for me at Rocket and that he’ll call me when he does. Of course, he doesn’t, and I don’t receive a call. But I expect nothing less. This morning he does call and declares he’s leaving a check for the full amount he owes me, including the extra I tacked on to cover overdraft and late rent.
I win this round. Now I have to go out and find some way to make an extra five hundred a month from home.
Hmm…Herbalife, maybe?
I’m just gonna wallow today. Just hang out and be depressed. I’m sick of the clutter. I’m sick of the solitude. I’m sick of trying to figure out how I’m gonna pay my rent. I’m sick of a lot of things.
Hmm…maybe I should call in sick.
Dave dyed his hair a couple weeks back. It’s now bright red. Tonight a guy comes up to the counter and asks for a movie. Before Dave can respond the guy says, “I like your hair. Very cool.”
Dave says, “Thanks. Yours looks like Eraserhead.”
…and it really does.
Also, there’s a gorgeous blonde who shops the mezzanine regularly. But there’s something not quite right about her. I ask Kyle, “Male or female?” and it’s a tough question to answer. I help her find a copy of Citizen Kane. Her voice gives it away. Male. But she’s so convincingly female, and so clearly wants to be considered such that I report back, “Female.”
And I take a break long enough to slip into a seat in front of the break room computer. Email check. to my surprise, Boss has finally written me back. Here’s the text of his message:
Sorry. I guess we have both been busy. I am going to Europe in 10 days and will be back on january 15. I need your address so I can send the check for Oct 15 to Nov. 15. There will be no work until I come back, but then we should be able to go back to our former routine if you are interested. I don’t know what you have been up to so fill me in by email. I am reviewing the entire Scarefest scenario over the holidays. I am hoping, of course, that there will be a real basis for it, but don’t know yet. If you have suggestions send them to me. I am having my secretary review the entire field of short films and festivals on the web and that should be ready in about 2 weeks.
He just doesn’t get it.
Yes, he’s paying me for the last month. But if you have read that post from a few days ago, you’ll remember that I didn’t give him an option to NOT pay me for this month and the next. We’re past options now. If he wants his websites, it’s going to be busuness as usual until February 16th. And then we’re through.
I’ll respond tomorrow, AFTER I call my landlord and tell him my rent’s gonna be a little late. The weird thing is, now that I’ve heard from him, I’m actually a little depressed. Yesterday, when it had been weeks and when there was no telling what was going to happen next I was excited, almost thrilled at how absurd this was all getting. Now I’ve got a conflict. Now I’ve got a problem. Now it’s just tedium.
After work tonight I have a couple beers with Dave and Eric at The Cat & Fiddle. Courtney is there. Courtney is beautiful. We talk about theology. We talk about the Middle East, about which Eric knows a surprising amount. And then I walk home. Junkie XL keeps me company down Sunset to Cherokee, to Delongpre, to Highland, to Franklin to La Brea and then to Martel.
Just wanted to point out another cool Internet thing to y’all. Click here to check out this nifty clock.
I download invoice software from the Intarweb today and create a fun bill to send Boss. Here’s the email I put together for him. I hope the tone isn’t too harsh…
Hi, Boss!
I sent you an elaborate email yesterday in the hopes that we could establish contact. I’m frankly surprised I haven’t heard back from you. Is everything okay?
At any rate, having discussed the situation from a legal standpoint with a friend, I’ve been told it’s best to issue an official invoice. As you can see, I’ve been forced to tack on the pair of additional charges incurred as a direct result of all of this hullaballoo. It’s not the greatest looking invoice I’ve ever created, but it’ll do for now. Eventually, I hope to get a cool logo on there. And I don’t like the QTY field either. It seems kind of silly to quantify the months like that.
Anyway, I hope everything’s well. Get in touch if you can. I hope to drop by your place sometime this week and catch you there. rent’s due tomorrow and I’m hoping I can avoid that pesky “eviction” thing that landlords like so much.
Take care,
Will
It’s a pretty safe bet that Salvador Dali would have loved this.
I try to wake up at eight. I really do. But though I don’t remember having THAT many margaritas last night, my body begs to differ. And when it comes to begging, my body can be awfully persuasive. So I mess around a little on the Web, send off that email to Boss, whom I later learn from Jeff actually IS in town. He’s just not returning my calls. Then I clamber under a blanket on my sofa and doze my way through a pair of episodes of Millennium. (One of the best things about having a multi-region DVD player is that people sell off their import DVD sets of American TV shows when those shows are released in the States. We buy them at Amoeba for cheap. I’ve recently picked up full seasons of both Dark Angel and Millennium for about eight bucks apiece.)
I eventually drag myself out of the house down to the Whole Foods on Fairfax and Third to fill up my five-gallon water bottles. They have one of those swanky cool new machines that take dollar bills and dispense water in five gallon gushes. Then swinging through the store to pick up some random, necessary food things I spot Tricky sitting by the front door. He sports a peculiar bandage on his chin. I almost dismiss the guy as a lookalike, but he says something to a friend. There’s no mistaking that gravelly Bristol accent.
So, to continue in a “millennium” theme, here’s a cut from his third album, Pre-Millennium Tension. Check it out.
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