Monthly Archives: August 2012

Hallelujah Mars Angel: Magma’s Köhntarkösz Anteria (2004)

I am a musician, but I’m another type of musician

-Sun Ra

The fanfare here in some way a reminder, The Check Engine Light Is On, America; choir seems to be chanting Harrison Ford, and maybe it is time to wonder about questions of archeology.

I find it may be easiest to describe this expedition in the alien progressive case, that from here, you are no longer merely strumming along, you are floating, weightless momentarily, the nausea will subside, you will see. In these broadcasts we have inverted languages and an orb spinning the similingling-lahng repeated in choir of some strange and highly evolved kinds of creatures. Paranoia inducing repetitions, hypnotic in their insistence and then. Spaces. A frantic energy always evolving in and around the fact that it never ends, it is never ending, but just evolving, changing shapes, the winding around themselves lines, as if tied to one another. In modulation and variation, waxing rhapsodic these are Kind and Gentle Folk, the selfsame you heard tell about in the Sagas of your tribe. Consider their simple invective: soønsoøndoveresang chameleons asking us, pleading us, the audience of one, in the head phones, to just listen. The, shall we say God-like Listener. Well she thinks that an album can be a love letter to the apocalypse, to the concept of infinity, and he to the fact that there is only so much time for these matters. Egregious Self Aware And Thereby Kind of Annoying Digression: Stevie Wonder’s first record is called Recorded Live: The 12 Year Old Genius. A warm welcome from many humans follows. I would play Köhntarkösz to Stevie Wonder and ask him what he thinks. If I had the vinyl. 

 

This is best seen as a kind of voyage, you see, maybe it always is with Magma, or must have been. But it’s a voyage inside the parenthesis, you know, your parenthesis (the mind. The mind, your own mind, you can hold it and it holds nothing, it holds everything, there will be an epic poem, you are thinking in your mind, an epic poem for multiple voices, in multiples, to adopt a kind of ambitious scope your mind is then also a sprint towards infinity and to know how to have written this, to hold that key change, that threatening ooh that compelling ahh. Each a ship you can sail. It is hardly surprising, then, that I have entirely lost track of the time, has it been 11 minutes or 44. A broken chromometer, isn’t that what you call it in your solar system? And, since I’ve got you here, yes, it sounds like it’s coming from the inside of a goddamn volcanic mountain, a hollow mountain, I suppose, recorded, and it came from a book, a very special book, a very special ancient book with calligraphy and illustrations, the choir all suddenly fi-fi-fa-fa set-ah and neither you nor I even know what they look like, but picture hooded types, robes, funky and zany outer space chic, the tallest one the least interesting, the tallest one the most interesting. Riding the equivalent of horses, into swirling unrest, into storms, it is certainly raining.

-Mark Gurarie


Everything Is Inebriated

“I have always thought of myself as very potent and generative”

–Jonathan Safran Foer

You can go ahead and call me whatever you can talk to the paint chips in your cocktail. You can have another miniature sandwich actually go ahead have one they’re Handmade in Brooklyn © they’re someone else’s effortlessnessness. You want to listen to 999 to drown in the seventeen infinite possibilities of drive pedal the fuzzing kick drums. I have often gone without fur hat Jonathan you are quick to point out a victim of your own propensity to surf or engage in surfing like behavior. The thoughtwethoughtwe’dneverencounter requires us to uncomfortably sip creates spaces in conversation where there were none before. ‘A call to harm’s way’ is another way to say it with of course an adequate level of guard up. We remember to have mercy on one another sometimes yet perhaps not enough. We believe in Homicide. I have been on many a crowded boulevard and we are doing very nicely indeed excuse me excuse us. As if married to a modulating meaning or to an emotion or a history which evokes emotion which modulates. I can only think in intervals when I am lucky. The music is already in a can in speakers and health supplements. I have lost the thread said the user but I have a needle. Shifting electricity she sweats only when she is upset. I’ve seen your sentences and they were not blinding. You are already closing the cabinet and you have sit for a while yes some time. We are nowhere to be seen in the descriptions we are uncredited we are the wall paper that saw the potential for growth. We ordered another and tried to shock ourselves.

-Mark Gurarie


Alex Crowley takes on TV Personalities, and their post-apocalyptic sound scrapes

avian architext

Television PersonalitiesMummy Your Not Watching Me (WHAAM! Records #3)
Bulleit Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey
fuckyeahbrutalism.tumblr.com
weed

———SIDE A———

howl through brutalist tower architecture & the realization that the record player was still on 45 from all the reggae singles
the jangle must have been so harsh at the time do you ever start start to wonder who comes up with these ideas
says an adventure playground what it is you want and the expectations pouring up stalagtite-like from the sidewalks
they’re fine with trees and nooks & context
fading out

bang bang slow stutter & ring
dip dip call in from disembodied man on accordion
the steps up this house, the cubist ziggurat
wants to be an actress
wants a heart-shaped swimming pool
& a set of ray guns
I’m infatuated with the stains weather-beaten into
béton brut my lucky number’s seven, too
an echoplex from whichever perspective

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The Parable of the Friendly Scorpion

Of late I find myself unable to complete sentences, you might say I have a scorpion waiting at the end.

There will then be at last and in a kind of hopeful light a tail, pincers, the trees are moving.

To begin again is to remember the scorpion prefers cool and dark places, some escape from the inferno of the every day.

If for no other reason than we appreciate form, fluid motions of the hills, downstream the run off is itself a connectivity; the faces are not necessarily scowling.

Across a cross out and rewrite, two scorpions at play, casually chic because, of course it comes off as effortless.

Fill our lines, almost every part of the scorpion resists imagination when seen in yes moonlight and yes it was being sucked into his jacket.

I have as many friends as I have scorpions in a cup, spoke the father to his daughter

To which she was all what.

Endeavoring to combat what she sees as a plague, a malignant tumor on that which she calls the framework of a just and equitable society.

A scorpion in the throat is better than two in the band.

The spiders build webs near outdoor lamps to attract moths; the scorpions switch them on.

Behind every exceptionalistic view of history, consider Garibaldi in San Marco, shot in the foot, defeated but escaping, his love dying.

A hollowed out scorpion, carried in a sling, a garnish in a dish, the hologram-like impression of almost memory, the constellation.

A cluster of scorpions, seen as a good omen, for the traveller that is uneasy, that has lost his wits, that never had them, that must consider weight, the weight unequally distributed.

-Mark Gurarie