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The blog of author Dennis Cooper

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Gig #135: Of late 43: Caterina Barbieri, Baron Mordant, Full of Hell, Drowse, Bath Consolidated, Ben LaMar Gay, Morphoex, INTER ARMA, Kukangendai, Lost Souls of Saturn, Kevin Richard Martin, MSYLMA, UCC Harlo, Quelle Chris

May 22, 2019 / / 4 Comments

 

Caterina Barbieri
Baron Mordant
Full of Hell
Drowse
Bath Consolidated
Ben LaMar Gay
Morphoex
INTER ARMA
Kukangendai
Lost Souls of Saturn
Kevin Richard Martin
MSYLMA
UCC Harlo
Quelle Chris

 

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Caterina Barbieri Pinnacles of You
‘The 2017 album Patterns Of Consciousness introduced many people to the modular synth-based music of Catarina Barbieri. Although she uses a mathematical approach, Barbieri’s work is brought to life by generative music techniques, which allow for an ever-changing sound within a set of strict parameters. Slight variations on a theme turn a single sequence into colourful bloom of sound. In this way, rigid guidelines become organic melodies. Like Steve Reich and the drone-centric Hindustani classical music Barbieri has cited as influential, her music is minimal and focused on repetition. 
Barbieri’s ability to tease melody from electricity is due in part to being a classically trained guitarist. “The music I’m doing now is basically guitar music but with synthesizers,” she recently told Resident Advisor. It brings to mind Laurie Spiegel, who drew from her days playing the banjo in order to compose certain parts of The Expanding Universe. But the guitar’s influence goes further. There are multiple instances on the album where Barbieri absolutely shreds.
’ — Resident Advisor

 

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Baron Mordant Prakash Is Typing
‘There’s a commonly held view that people mellow with age, they accept their limitations and come to an understanding of their place in the world. This does not apply to Baron Mordant, who for the last nineteen years has been pushing the boundaries of what electronic music can be composed of; there has been no facet, no angle and no technique left untouched. For all of his efforts he has gotten minimal (at best) recognition for just how much innovation and daring he has exhibited in all the time he’s been not only expressing himself artistically but also running a label.’ — Santa Sangre

 

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Full of Hell Burning Myrrh
‘FULL OF HELL make their their most explosive album to date, Weeping Choir. Dynamic, pissed, and wholly urgent, the highly anticipated Weeping Choir is a definitive statement of intent by one of the underground’s most dynamic and virulent entities. FULL OF HELL have once again culled the extreme elements from hardcore, metal, and power electronics to redefine darkness and sheer brutality. Distorted guitars, and ominous, disparate electronics grind and gnash against rapid-fire drumming, as FULL OF HELL take themes of religion, loss, hatred, and set them ablaze. Recorded by the critically acclaimed Kurt Ballou at GodCity Studio, Weeping Choir sees FULL OF HELL fully unleashed. Abrasive, confrontational, none equal!’ — Relapse

 

________________
Drowse Between Fence Posts
‘Light Mirror falls within a lineage of overcast Pacific Northwest albums (think Grouper’s Dragging a Dead Deer Up a Hill), but finds Drowse pushing past its slowcore roots. The album’s prismatic sound reflects experimental electronic, noise pop, black metal, krautrock, and more through Kyle’s distinct song-worlds. The lyrics are ruminations on the idea of multiple selves, identity, paranoia, fear of the body, alcohol abuse, social media, the power of memory, the truths that are revealed when we are alone, and the significance of human contact. They were influenced by filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky and poet Louise Glück, who both address self-contradiction. Mastered by Nicholas Wilbur (Mount Eerie, Planning for Burial) at the Unknown, the album showcases a striking maturation in sound. Light Mirror is Drowse’s most intimate and desolate work to date.’ — The Flenser

 

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Bath Consolidated Modified Ashworth Scale
‘A millennial is someone caught in between the past and the future. This perspective naturally has a desire to be recognized. There is a fear in this generation of being lost or effaced from the canon of mythology, for example, legacy fomo. This album is copying and pasting my peers into Dante’s Inferno or the bible and seeing what happens. This sits in the background on the theme for Narryer Gneiss Terrane. The main thrust is studying the aesthetics, flow, and syntax of a mythology attempting to form a millennial mythos. I thought often in imagery rather than words. For the track medulla, I pictured a boltzmann brain appearing at the big bang with the personality of a millennial, the great filter climbing the walls of the biblical bottomless pit.’ — BC

 

________________
Ben LaMar Gay Muhal
‘”Downtown Castles Can Never Block The Sun” is as much a ‘greatest hits’ as it is a ‘debut album’ for Ben LaMar Gay. It’s a collection of music composed, performed & produced by the anomalous Southside Chicago-born, sometimes Brazil-residing artist, compiled from 7 albums he made over the last 7 years but never made the effort to actually release. With its title taken from the mantra Ben repeats across several tracks on “Grapes” (1 of the 7 aforementioned albums), “Downtown Castles Can Never Block The Sun” is our effort to channel the rainbow of sonic expressions, art & poetry beaming from the ark of his unreleased catalogue into a cohesive & communicable compilation.’ — International Anthem

 

_______________
Morphoex Constante Cosmologique
‘Morphoex is the project of Isthmael Baudry, a musician and photographer based in Rouen, France. Beautiful synth soundscapes that fluctuate between -on one hand- the icy synthpop edge of early Mute, yet build into ominously darker, beat driven, industrial rhythms that recall Throbbing Gristle and early Cabs; though with a succinct French flavour that tips its hat towards some of the work of Heldon/Richard Pinhas via the revered sounds emanating from the Berlin School.’ — Sonic Rendezvous DCM

 

________________
INTER ARMA Howling Lands
‘From the beginning, Inter Arma have been interested in grand statements: Their songs are complicated and their albums are long, and their ambition sometimes seems limited to the sprawling tone shifts in their material. So while Sulphur English is their least welcoming album, it is also their most rewarding. Standout tracks like “The Atavist’s Meridian” and the gothic, percussive “Howling Lands” indicate a band able to capture its passing moods—helplessness, rage, devotion—and shape them into something whole, merciless yet refined. With Sulphur English, they’ve delivered a cohesive vision of internal destruction, all the more explosive for everything they’ve left behind.’ — Sam Sodomsky

 

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Kukangendai Singou
‘Kukangendai is a kick ass rock trio from Kyoto (Tokyo transplants). When I first hear this band live I was instantly transfixed by their minimalist yet illusory primitive, polyrythmic and structural, memory evoking rock narratives. Their energy is completely and transparently palpable yet handled with restraint of the pleasure of a disciplined form dealing with time and articulation. They are a power trio of bass, drums and guitar but the music they play is as much the limbic system of a forest than it is a geode. They started in 2006. They left Tokyo to Kyoto and started the cult venue Soto (“Outside”) “to listen to music they hadn’t heard yet” a few years later. They collaborated with Ryuichi Sakamoto last year. They reminded me of James Brown on a heavy binge of Bastro, there’s a deep current of both archaic musical tastes and the human desire for articulating that archaism in there, but you shake your ass and get the shouting in… in a punk basement … 13th century version of Breadwinner, the bare soul version.’ — Stephen O’Malley,

 

_________________
Lost Souls Of Saturn The Awakening
‘Epic in scope, time and space, this multidimensional mind trip is for fans of Mark Leckey’s ‘Fiorucci Made Me Hardcore’, David Morales’ Red Zone dubs, Don Cherry’s ‘Organic Music Society’, The Orb’s ‘Ultraworld’ and KLF’s ‘Space’ and much more besides. This ambient house masterpiece combines flavours gathered from across the galaxy, stewing them up into a delicious primordial soup. Old sci-fi soundtracks, acid, free jazz, avant garde, musique concrete, world music and more all whirl around an underground-dance-music axis.’ — R&S

 

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Kevin Richard Martin Too Much
‘In 2015, Kevin and I book-ended a series of concerts at Berghain for CTM festival. For his performance, Kevin debuted a new work I’d heard very little about called ’Sirens’. I remember two things distinctly about the performance. The first thing is he opened the set with a blazing passage of bass and dub sirens that instantly transported me back to those initial moments of encountering his work. The second was the feeling of absolute, crushing bass. Not before, or since, have I felt a sense of sound pressure like this. Unlike his other work with The Bug for example, the consistent bass carrying in the space was literally breathtaking and there were moments when it seemed difficult to see clearly as my eye sockets were vibrating in a way I’d never experienced.’ — Lawrence English

 

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MSYLMA Dhil un Taht Shajaret Al Zaqqum
‘It is a rare that an album is as immediately arresting as Dhil-un Taht Shajarat Al-Zaqum, especially given how mysterious it is. The Mecca, Saudi Arabia-based producer MSYLMA leaves few traces across the internet and, aside from a notable vocal on Zuli’s Terminal album, one of the highlights of last year, there’s not much out there to know what drives this singular release, apart from a vague notion that it’s something of a coming-of-age tale that takes in pre-Islamic and Quranic poetry and culture and melds them to modern electronic and grime sensibilities. With repeated listens, it transforms into a deliriously narcotic ear-worm that can’t be avoided.’ — Joseph Burnett

 

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UCC Harlo Áve Giove
‘One of the most striking debuts we’ve heard recently, ‘United’ introduces a patently gifted composer blossoming after many years playing on other people’s records, from early music ensembles to contemporaries such as Bill Kouligas, Caterina Barbieri and Holly Herndon. In her first solo LP Annie Garlid reconciles these opposing poles of her work without making any concessions to her art, rendering a stellar set that ties up medieval baroque, deconstructed dance music, vaulted kosmische and hauntological ambient-pop in a measured, stately and quietly breathtaking style. To us it sounds like a baroque take on Arthur Russell’s ‘World Of Echo’ treated with choral riffs.’ — boomkat

 

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Quelle Chris Obamacare
‘“Obamacare came together just as organically as everything else on Guns. I’d been sitting on a few arrangements of two samples for a couple months. While in Oakland I was working with Chris Keys and Sean 5ill (Roger Billagio from Being You Is Great). Keys was doing an unintentional bit as an angry drum instructor that led to some amazing breaks. Once the drums existed the homeless samples basically feel into place. Keys then added his amazing piano but the real star of the song (besides my bars), the real cherry on top, the Vanjie Drag Race exit was the final edition. The bass line laid down by Keys. The rest is history. Plus I’d like to think of my music as free healthcare for all.’ — Quelle Chris

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. ** David Ehrenstein, Hi. Indeed. Happy one day late birthday to Fats Waller. Boy, was and is he great! ** Sypha, Hey, James. Nothing like a relatable artist, I think? Well, ha ha, Cherbourg might not be worth the journey — 3 1/2 hours by train from Paris — unless you either like constant rainy weather or are fond of ports. But if you ever do, Zac and I can make you special ‘PGL’ tour map. ** Steve Erickson, ‘Crowd’ plays BAM next year sometime. Spring? I can’t remember. I’ll find out. But it’s not for a while. Ah, I look forward to your review of the new Tyler album. I’m really into the album, I must say. Everyone, Mr. Erickson reviews the new Tyler the Creator album, which, if you want my two cents, is very good. Anyway, here’s his take. Webster Hall! That’s a nice venue or used to be back when. Huh. So Halsey’s either slumming or already over, I guess? ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, B. Cool, yes, Crevel does kind of qualify, and the book’s a goodie, so … sweet. ** Huh, so quiet. Okay. Here’s my latest gig full of things I’ve been listening to and am into enough to recommend. As always, I hope you’ll test it out at the very least. Thank you. See you tomorrow.

Spotlight on … Rene Crevel Putting My Foot in It (1933)

May 21, 2019 / / 4 Comments

—-

“Crevel was born rebellious the way others are born with blue eyes.”
—Philippe Soupault

 

“Crevel actually wrote only a single sentence: the long sentence of a feverish monologue from the pen of a Proust who dipped his biscuit laced with LSD into his tea, instead of the unctuous madeleine.”
—Angelo Rinaldi, L’Express

 

“He will be read more and more as the wind carries away the ashes of the ‘great names’ that preceded him. “
—Ezra Pound

 

 

‘René Crevel (1900-35) was French Surrealist who initiated experiments with hypnotic sleep. His greatest contribution to the movement, however, was to demonstrate that Surrealism and the novel could be reconciled. Whether texts such as Détours (1924), La Mort difficile (1926), Babylone (1927), Êtes-vous fous? (1929), and Les Pieds dans le plat (1933) are called ‘romans’ or ‘fictions’, the role of language itself in their elaboration is arguably the key element. Mon corps et moi (1925) is a confessional monologue and L’Esprit contre la raison (1927) is his Surrealist manifesto.

‘Crevel was born in Paris to a family of Parisian bourgeoisie. He had a traumatic religious upbringing. At the age of fourteen, during a difficult stage of his life, his father committed suicide by hanging himself. Crevel studied English at the University of Paris. He met André Breton and joined the surrealist movement in 1921, from which he would be excluded in October 1923 due to Crevel’s homosexuality and Breton’s belief that the movement had been corrupted. During this period, Crevel wrote novels such as Mon corps et moi (“My Body and Me”). In 1926, he was diagnosed with tuberculosis which made him start using morphine. The 1929 exile of Léon Trotsky persuaded him to rejoin the surrealists. Remaining faithful to André Breton, he struggled to bring communists and surrealists closer together. Much of Crevel’s work deals with his inner turmoil at being bisexual.

‘Crevel killed himself by turning on the gas on his kitchen stove the night of June 18, 1935, several weeks before his 35th birthday. There were at least two direct reasons: (1) There was a conflict between Breton and Ilya Ehrenburg during the first “International Congress of Writers for the Defense of Culture” which opened in Paris in June 1935. Breton, who like all fellow surrealists, had been insulted by Ehrenburg in a pamphlet which said – among other things – that surrealists were pederasts, slapped Ehrenburg several times on the street, which led to surrealists being expelled from the Congress. Crevel, who according to Salvador Dalí, was “the only serious communist among surrealists” (and was facing more and more solitude as the real face of Soviet socialism started to occur), spent a whole day trying to persuade the other delegates to allow surrealists back, but he was not successful and left the Congress at 11pm, totally exhausted. (2) Crevel reportedly had learned that he suffered from renal tuberculosis right upon leaving the Congress. He left a note which read “Please cremate my body. Loathing.”‘ — Wikipedia

 

 

René Crevel, dandy révolutionnaire
“Si je ne réussis rien, je me tuerai”: René Crevel inédit
Rene Crevel @ goodreads
RENÉ CREVEL AU SOMMET DE SA MONTAGNE MAGIQUE
Elle ne suffit pas l’éloquence, René Crevel
Lettre de René Crevel à Gertrude Stein
Portrait of René Crevel by Salvador Dalí
Portrait de René Crevel (1900-1935), écrivain
SOLITUDE DE RENé CREVEL
The Paris of René Crevel
Podcast: Tours et détours de René Crevel
“La Mysticité Charnelle de René Crevel”
Prolégomènes À Un Suicide (La Mort Difficile, De René Crevel)
THE MAID DRINKS KEROSENE

 


(l. to r.) André Breton, Salvador Dali, René Crevel and Paul Eluard

 

‘Rene Crevel’s 1933 novel Putting My Foot in It (Les Pieds dans le plat) has long been considered a classic of the surrealist period. Loosely structured around a luncheon attended by thirteen guests, the novel is a surrealistic critique of the intellectual corruption of post-World War I France, especially the capitalist bourgeoisie and its supporter, the Catholic Church. The novel begins with an account of the family of the major character, known as the “Prince of Journalists.” This bizarre family—the grandparents a soldier and a sodomized woman, the parents an orphaned epileptic and a hunchback—is matched by Crevel’s bizarre syntax and vocabulary: nouns that initially appear legitimate, intact, and respectable, soon decompose into obscene epithets, making other nouns, both common and proper, suspect.’ — DA

 

 

Excerpt:

Sun and tradition. A dazzling light and the firm intention not to let yourself be blinded, etc., etc.

Symbols need not limit their scope to this pendulum swing of images. But a well-balanced mind won’t try and roost on a swing of antithesis that, at the height of its arc, would only look down on treacherous metaphors and promenades strewn with wolf traps that snare innocent beige fawns in flight, rather than large carnivores.

Here, today, the herd of cavorting ideas would hardly seem threatened. Fog-toothed melancholy can only sink its teeth into moonlight. And presently, it is high noon. So much for time. As for place, the Roman Empire passed through. It even stayed, blended with the dirt on this hillside, disciplined it, militarized it, metamorphosing amorphous terrain into terraces.

One of the mighty of this earth, one of the opinion makers whose sense of order takes pleasure in evoking the grand classical past, not for vain regrets but for quite virile resolutions, is jaunting merrily along — although there is nothing merry about the thoroughfare in question—snuggly ensconced in a motorcar worthy of the Roman road. This brand-new car is French-made, for if the ear of the Caesars, including the subsequent period, was the age of hippic locomotion, it is important, when purchasing motor vehicles, to observe a certain solidarity which, if not specifically French, is Latin, or at the very least, European, but strictly European, for after all of the tricks they have played on us, those sons of Uncle Sam with their Bonus Armies, their gangsters, their crashing and crashed millionaires—they can go hang themselves elsewhere.

With a light breeze tickling the white hairs on his chest and those which serve as a nest for a certain bird and its septuagenarian eggs (fresh as a daisy, moreover, thanks to Voronoff), the man who rejoices in the title of the Prince of Journalists savors the joy of living.

Here, in the hollow of a small valley, is a ruin used to transport water before the birth of Christ. Thus, to the paradoxical and nearly imperceptible accompaniment of an almighty motor, thoughts can let themselves float along. It won’t be long before they reach the banks of reverie. They won’t, moreover, lose any of their moderation in the process. Mustn’t forget that, if Fragonard and Hubert Robert measured up to this landscape, then any French mind worthy of the name can and must, out of the greatest disorder, out of a certain shambles, indeed out of a complete mess, compose a garden, a French garden, to be exact.

And to think that the great redheaded barbarians sung (though not in earnest) by Verlaine dare to return to our countryside, to our beaches, to attack our spas, to talk about how old this country is, and even spend their money on the rags that insinuate, with each venture undertaken by the Prince of Journalists, that this time it could be his swan song. A Prince of Journalists’ song, if he is aware of his national rights and duties, can only come out as a cock’s crow. The Gallic cockerel’s. His head is bursting with bugles. He is always ready to sound the charge. Even his dreams are dedicated to his country—only last night, he dreamt he was the Unknown Soldier’s widow! Ah, that cadaveric stiffness!

But to be aware of one’s rights and duties as a Frenchman is first of all to be liberal. Thus, the Prince of Journalists agreed to have lunch today with an Austrian woman. An archduchess, of course. And if other compatriots of our former enemies should try to slip in behind the grand dame, he will take care of them. And above all, watch out for so-called philosophers, poets, and filmmakers from Central Europe. Each morning, the director of a large daily dutifully reminds the editor of his Arts and Letters column that an intellectual invasion never fails to foreshadow the other kind. So guard and watch all frontiers—the frontiers of the mind no less than those in the north and the east. Defend the moral heritage of France, French culture, the culture of French thought, French gardens, French-style gardens, the French woman’s gardens, with boxwood-lined paths, the wood itself being carved into a darning egg; for the owner, the Frenchwoman, the bourgeoisie Frenchwoman (any Frenchwoman worthy of the name being a bourgeoisie), even athletic or a touch brainy, is and will remain, until the end of time, thrifty enough to keep both the wooden stocking, wherein lies the family nest egg, and her own nylons from unraveling, mending them as soon as they begin to run.

Sitting at her window, with a song on her lips, a flower in her bosom, but never with a fire down below, this guardian of traditions, next to a table adorned with the tastiest fruits of her orchard—isn’t it something out of Chardin?

The Prince of Journalists is moved. He melts. And not only from the midsummer heat but from the warmth, far more touching, of memory. In his mind’s eye, he sees his father, his mother, the decent people who spent their lives growing old. By the time they procreated him they were in their twilight years, hoping that very solid experience would compensate for certain congenial and perhaps hereditary handicaps. The good souls had no reason to worry. Their son, although he is short and lively tempered, holds himself straight as a ruler, and, at bottom, always masters his reflexes. Actually he turned out well enough, both mentally and physically, to savor with his utmost gratitude, in the scene before him, the memory of the ruin which had been built, on his father’s orders, near a pond whose waters were confined by exquisite little banks. The wise old man, after having asked the valet who never left him for a second to set up his folding stool and cover his shoulders with a Scottish plaid, was ready to sit down, aim, shoot (wasn’t this firearmed fisherman an expert on refraction?) one, two, three, four times. He killed the father, the mother, the little boy, the little girl bleak-fish.

Only the most genuinely French virtues had caused this carbine fisherman to become an Olympian statue of warm fabrics at the edge of autumn’s waters. Beneath such majesty he was hiding a painful secret. Our firearmed fisherman’s mother, in the days when she was carrying him, had been assaulted on a dark night and, before she even had time to catch her breath, got hosed—and, what’s worse, from the flip side. How could the unborn child have possibly avoided the repercussion of this heinous violence? Expecting his offspring to bear a double original sin which no amount of baptism would wash away, the husband of the woman sodomized in spite of herself, a great friend of Cambronne, used his connections to get enlisted and heroically killed immediately, at the head of a small troop which had only recently bestowed upon him the proud title of commander.

Every sin, even unintentional, can be forgiven. Of course, the orphan paid for this forgiveness with congenital epilepsy. He was all but deprived of the joys of childhood. He can still remember his mother’s mustached nieces sitting in a circle all around her, the woman sodomized in spite of herself. These cousins, if distant memory serves him well, were neither fish nor foul, neither hide nor hair, but salt and pepper and more bitter than sweet. They were going to prevent a further accident at all costs, which is why they lived on the plains of Beauce.

On the horizon, there wasn’t a single grove that could conceal a satyr. As soon as the wheat reached a certain height, the young widow was confined to the house until the last row had been gleaned.

As a result of her adventure, she had become prone to melancholy. The sweet, desperate automatism of certain gestures which she repeated indefinitely made her guardians conclude that she was eccentric or even obsessed. For days upon end she would caress her hair, which was naturally wavy, but straightened each morning. She hardly ever opened her mouth. On one exceptional evening, however, she was talking a great deal when, perhaps, she was frightened by a reproving stare from one of the old women? In any event she jumped up and took off running. Since one of the jailers had just made sure that all the doors and windows were securely locked, none of them bothered to follow her. The young woman didn’t get far, of course, no farther than the dining room; but there, out of a Dutch candelabra she pulled a purplish candle (everything was mourning and half-mourning in her charming little interior) and, in pious kiss, brushed her lips against its wax, which was softer than the softest human skin.

 

 


teporingos bubonicos “Rene Crevel”


Une Vie, une œuvre : René Crevel (1900-1935)


Intervallo di Antonio Syxty: René Crevel

 

 

 

p.s. Hey. ** David Ehrenstein, Hi. I’ve heard about that ex-World’s Fair venue. It sounds dreamy. I think they mostly want the loud music adrenaline rush and to consequently lose their inhibitions and not think/worry about the shit in their lives? Why not more women? That’s a question I’ve been asking myself since I first started going to concerts in my early teens. ** Sypha, Hi, James. Aw, thank you, man. I’m so happy you liked PGL. It was filmed in a French city called Cherbourg, which I think is best known outside of France due to the famous film ‘Umbrellas of Cherbourg’. Seaside city, but we erased the ocean in our film to make the buildings seem more lost and purposeless. ** Count Reeshard, Hey, Count! Very good to see you! I’ve heard of/about Grande Ballroom. Its legend carries. I’m not sure why it isn’t in the post. I accidentally bypassed it, I guess. You good? I sure hope so. ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, Ben. I actually went to Crobar once too on a Chicago visit. Nice. Exciting that you’re onto Issue 2. 404 Ink looks interesting. I don’t know about it. I’ll investigate. ** Kyler, Hi, K. I never managed to enter any of the Fillmores, which is strange. The kind of LA equivalent in the late 60s/early 70s was the Shrine Exposition Hall where I saw many of the best shows ever, and which still exists as a music venue, strangely enough. My Bloody Valentine played there just recently. ** Misanthrope, Yeah, it was such a good pic in general that I begrudgingly used it even with the Lizard King plunked down in the middle. Kidding. ‘Crowd’, oh, … yes, it’s playing in London and also in NYC at BAM. It’s a dance piece, about 14 dancers. Among them are Sylvain who plays ‘Guillaume’ in PGL and Katia who plays ‘Roman’s older sister’ in PGL. The stage is an after hours club, the dancers are people at the club. They enter, dance, do all kinds of shit, weird and cool, involving inebriation, lust, anger, blah blah, all of which is the stuff I devised, and all of which is kind of semi-hidden by the fact that they’re dancing. The club closes, almost everyone leaves. The score is mostly 90s techno/trance/ambient tracks. People seem to really like the piece. It’s been our biggest hit so far. You should see it, if you can, I think. Well, here’s hoping LPS gets the Taco Bell job. That would be a start. Hope you got what sleep you craved. ** Steve Erickson, Ah, you went to the Channel. That was legendary even outside of its turf. I see the Rammstein comparison, sure. But I guess I also see something cheesier in the works, early Ke$ha-like or something. I like Rammstein when they’re funny, albeit inadvertently seemingly. ** Corey Heiferman, Hey. C. Rav Hen Cinema has a really nice building there, yeah. Sad movie theaters. I think I did a dead movie theaters post. But I don’t think I managed to catch any of those. Sad. Yes, very interested to see your redeems re: Eurovision. I blame my own grump for my own experience. Wow, haha, that’s a novel looking way to adapt Blake. Your friend’s thing. I like it. I think the problem with the Blake adapts I’ve seen are they’re too fucking reverent. Same problem that happens with most bad film adaptations of, say, novels. Thanks for the three links. I’ll hit them in just a minute. Bon day! ** Right. I feel like people don’t talk or write much about Rene Crevel these days, and that’s kind of a shame because he’s quite interesting, for instance in the case of the novel I’m spotlighting today. See you tomorrow.

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