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| 7.29.2003 |



I've been playing with Ray Kurzweil's Cybertnetic poet and I am astounded at its potential as a text generator. The problem is you have to purchase it to use its full-features. The schedules been a little droopy-lately again, but I consider it a temporary bump. Mild. Not to be taken seriously. The next step, forward, always forward (never straight). Forcing langauge to spew is like trying to make an infant speak English by shaking it. It's such a strange and mysterious brew, inspiration. I know a few who employ bastardized forms of the 12-step model to invoke creative activity, I think this is about as unholy a thing as one can do. First off, "the critic" is your friend, not your enemy. The critic is what propells growth. Growth forward, growth to the next level. If you trying to tell yourself its wrong when you say something you've done is bad... That is... If your trying to smother the voice within you that tells you when what you're doing is shit your trying to kill your greatest ally. No. No. No. Schools of creative liberation which use this method as their (more-or-less) cure-all should take a lesson. Good work doesn't arise out of an inability to hate yourself. At least for me it doesn't. I would even go so far as to say it doesn't arise out of health, cleanliness or comfort of any kind. Routines (unless painfull ones of self-abuse). Little tricks. All these are just attempts at trying to ignore the true way. Bear in mind. We aren't talking about designing the packaging for a soap box or Kitty Litter, where talking about "real" work, whatever that means. And thats not say it isn't extremely difficult to make decent packaging for soap boxes. In and of itself something of that nature could be extremely difficult to accomplish.

Music. Music. Music. Music. You know my friends, of string theory. Yes. Yes. They got a bunch of clowns now saying that up, down, top, bottom, strange and charm quarks (along with the various other subatomic "mystery" particles) are made of vibrating strings. The strings you see, "vibrate" at a given "pitch" and the given "pitch" at which they vibrate determines what subatomic particle is manifests as. From what I understand, these strings, are made out of nothing and exist in 6 other dimensions besides our known-four space time. So folks, that means we are all just a bunch of vibrating nothing. We could definately trip on that, but lets go back to music. Music, at least the way I think most of us experience it, is analogous to many things. I've often understood the "contention" (if you could ever derive such a thing from him) of Deleuze's take on philosophy to be "philosophy is just like music." Thinkers are composers and you should read their language NOT as some kind of authorative understanding of absolute truth, rather, as a piece of interesting, singular and complex (or simple) music. I had no problem immediately applying this to Deleuze himself, in fact, its the only way I can read Deleuze, the BWO chapter in a Thousand Plataeus is like Joyce on... Its like if you took Joyce and crammed some kind of shit-plug into a hole in his eye that fed him pure "knowledge" as well as what cannonized literature will look like in 7,000 years and them told him to write what was on his mind. Something like that. The chapter in What is Philosophy on art, thats another one. Music. Music. Music. Neiztche, I would imagine, is allot like Wagner (to his dismay). Rosseau, Mill and those clowns... Just like Mozart, Hayden and the like. Wittgenstein's Tractus, fucking Babbitt... No. No. No. Thats tough. What is Wittgenstein? What music is he... Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Early Stockhausen or Milton Babbitt, I think thats pretty good. New ways of thinking... New ways of putting langauge together. New ways of arranging sound. Very exciting stuff. Its cold again. The A/C just kicked on. And whats the deal with Gravitons? Why do we neeeeeeeed them? We don't. We don't. I heard some of Morton Feldman's later stuff tonight, very unimpessive, relatively. It seems far to interested in the ideas of the next generation (Reich, Glass) while there was still so much to explore within the world he created in the 40's, 50's and 60's. I once had the immense pleasure of playing "Piano Four Hands" and I have to say, it was fucking incredible. But this stuff I heard tonight... Much like his very, very early stuff, like "Only," which is a "pretty" little piece for solo vocal... It lacks magnitude and wonder of mid Feldman. This guy I know, Lewis, I forget his last name, once summarized "For Philip Guston" style Feldman better than I've ever heard it done before, he said "I always knew there had to be music like this somewhere, I just hadn't heard it until Feldman."

Adorno's music (not literally the "music" he wrote, which I haven't heard and would love to) is very much like Schoenberg. Obviously. All-of-Schoenberg. From trasnfigured night through untill Survivor From Warsaw. Intelligent. Negative. With twinges of Romantic. I haven't come across any Philosophers who remind of Ive's. Deleuze doesn't have the balls. Deleuze is more like early to middle Stockhausen Kontacke, Momente, Hymnen... No. No. No, Charles Ive's type thinkers. God damn, he was singular. Lets document my Ive's rant, shall we?

In the late 19th and early 20th century, as far as I know, you've really only got two players (to be reductive) competing in the serious music arena. Schoenberg and Stravinsky. Stravinsky, the trutle-looking slov was doing crazy ass shit with rhythm like "La Scare du Printemps" (1913). Schonberg, a blad fucking hun, who painted pictures of himself all the time and was afraid of the number 13 and any date or thing that added up to it was doing crazy ass shit with harmony and Melody like Pierrot Lunaire.

In Europe, since Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun (c.1890) and pieces like that, the Law of accelerated returns was in full motion. Nobody, I think, really gave a fuck about the disgusting puritans and cowboys in this big praire land shithole America. For good reason, we were listening to Stephen Foster and goofy shit like that. Those European composers got an "exotic" curiosity from our nergroe based "hyms" and "jazz." But thats pretty much were it stopped.

Almost. There was this guy, in America... Who sold insurance. Very well. He made a fortune off of it and is, still today, known in the insuarnace world. The thing is when he was perhaps 19 (in 1893) he was produced psalm settings that exploited polytonality and other unusual procedures. By 1920, this gangly AMerican fuck... This cowboy... This Ultra-modernist, Nationalist, amateur, primitive, atavist, neurotic, outsider... Who was also a documented homophobe, Ives and misogynist had allready written the Concord Sonata... Which makes use of, (some say for the first time ever) tone clusters, polytonality, polyrhythm, free dissonance, aleatoricism, and collage effects. This rowdy ass yankee-doodle dandee, qouted as saying "People that can't handle dissonance have sissy ears (he dismissed any men he did not like as sissies or lilies or just girls)." Of course Americans at that time assumed that his music was either a bad joke or the work of a crank, but since, we've come to realize how incredibly significant it is.

Posted by John | 6:22 AM | Comments

| 7.28.2003 |



Computers are the future of art. Not humans. We humans, are bold enough I hope, to admit if something "better" can do the job... And if so, we should let it. I.E. quantum-powered quasi conscious machines capable of many thousand+ petaflops taking into account the entire history of all music through both audio input and OCR score analysis. Every book. Every poem. Every painting. Every sculpture. Uploaded in a few weeks. Implementation of genetic and or other algorhithims slash programs to "predict" or "gather" an evolution and expedite it... Worlds and galaxies beyond the chromaticism and subsequent minimalism of 20th century music... Aware of the limitations, NONE, i.e. 4:33, i.e. R. Mutt's Urinal, i.e. Tristan Tzaras poems... Not only could a computer copy Beethoven as has been done allready... It could do what Beethoven did and initiate the turn events which dictated the course of Western music for the next two centuries... And it could do it again and again and again.

Secret worlds will open up. Temporal confinement will no-longer be an issue as our machines will "play for us" the music of the 27th century whilst simueltaneously showing us their art. The presence and expotential proliferation of ideas and concepts will be astounding... A free play between past present and future will truly erradicate any lingering notions of progress in favor of the "new" progress.

BGM, Brain Generated Music technology will quickly be developed by these intelligent machines. Gather data. An each mind will merely be a single line sounding in the polyphony of the neural net. The end of art as we know it? I hope so.

It seems to me that part of where the secret to artificial intelligence lies is in teaching machines to read and talk about what they've read. Teaching a machine to "think" in a given natural langauge.

You will never ever, ever catch me whining about the USA and Sadam and all that pointless nonsense... People are dying? Fuck em. It is, however, cause for woe that in the next couple of decades the 100+ teraflop super computers they are making now are going to be used primarly if not solely for Military bullshit instead of above mentioned art generation. Blue Gene/L or Purple ASCI could probably whip up some very interesting music given enough time and some creative programmers.

Posted by John | 10:24 AM | Comments

| 7.27.2003 |



We've been gone... But now we're back (and ((almost)) better then ever). The new server 0catch seems to hbave a few clitches, pages aren't available on request, and when you get an "error 404" all sorts of obnoxious pop-ups bombard you.

So what happened? Ipower web, our previous host, didn't think it was nice of us to send out our "come and visit our site" emails. Fuck em. Because of them, 7,000+ people a month were deprived of The Space Lady, Ariel Pink, rants about Artificial Intelligence and much, much more.

I've said my piece. In the meantime, I took a big chunk out of the "script" I've been working on as well as my community service. DemoBoot recently purchased an old movie theatre as well. This well soon be host to the best new music, pop music and performance in Los Angeles. Its in Eagle Rock, details will be up shortly.

So, so, so, so where to start. you could start here or perhaps here. They're a few interesting surprises for you I've come across while surfing along, surfing about, various, various places like here. But that last one is only if you want to watch live video of MIT professors talking about "hidden dimensions."

Shit. Shit. Shit. Right here you will find a list of every tone row used by the second viennese school, and you will be amazed at how hard good rows are to come by and how amazing it is that good ol' Webern never failed at choosing a good one. I love Webern. If you want to actually HEAR the rows in MIDI format go here. And if your looking for some dodecaphonic music software that can calculate combinatoriality go here.

I love writing 12 tone. First of all, you have a gauranteed (more or less) inhexautably wonderful yet themetically consistent pitch and harmony vocabulary at your disposal. While I certainly appreciate intergral, or "total" serialism, I think dodecaphonic composition can be a vehicle for complete subjective expression realized in how you manipulate and play with your tone row. I wrote a couple of 12 tone pop songs a year or so back. Less Talk More Action and Lost. Most people who hear them agree it kind-of-works-out. They are STRICT as well. All harmonies are arrived at (in both of them) from carefull use of cambonitoriality. The first, the melody is spoken, and the second I sing different notes of the sonorities which arise from the composition. I'm not sure what the "12 tone" rules are about non-pitched percussion are-- but both have drum beats.

Since I'm feeling "poppy" here is another song I did a few years back based on he harmonies which arise in Josquin's Missa La sol fa re mi. Its called Love Letters from Hell. And finally, here is a song that proves Ariel Pink is a better song writer than all-of-us. Every Night I Die at Miagi's.

Ariel. Ariel. Ariel. Let me give you the dirt on Ariel. Ariel is geniunely a pop fanatic. When he's not writing music or making lists of music he's written or he likes (i.e. "list of my saddest songs" "list of my craziest songs" "list of songs to give to Harry Hartog" etc. etc.) he is researching on the internet for more music. Ariel IS the quentesential romantic musician, he is always "working on four or five songs in his head" or "searching for something that can make the sounds he wants." It would be pathetic if it was a lie, the thing is, its NOT. Not only is the proof in the music, but his lifestyle is also consistant with his constitution. "They just wanna play all day."

When I met Ariel in 1999, it was a short while before he composed and recorded the songs Crying Young Pilot Astray and Don't Think Twice. This period is astounding to both us still today, and while he has moved onto the "immune to emotion" and "Jules lost his Jules" style-of-song-writing he speaks of this time period with a fondness of heart.

The impact these songs had on my musical path, in general, and insofar as pop was concerned is incalculable. They epitomize to me the wealth of inspiration and creativity which is Ariel Pink. Love him or hate him you must concede he is of the pop song writers ever. Of course, this is subjective banter, and I'm at a loss to even guess why. Perhaps boring political nonsense, its more-or-less "original" it doesn't succumb to the banality of convention. Convention amongst the pseudo-individual that is... I'm not talking about "it doesn't succumb to the conventions" of Weezer, or some mindless thing like that... I'm talking it doesn't succumb to the convention of Nautical Atlas or something like that.

Hey, at the very least, it speaks from the heart, and when the heart speaks the heart listens. Anyway. I think thats enough for tonight. Getting back online was tough. But we have a Gig now and can afford to push it with the mp3's.

Before you go check out this . The new generation of supercomputer is knocking on our shit-hole-door-steps! ASCI Purple is expected to clock in at 100 teraflops. Blue Gene/L will clock in at 367 teraflops! Combined they are faster than the top ten supercomputers in existence put together! A human brain's probable processing power is around 100-350 teraflops, so these things will be (theoretically) the first machines ever created which have the calculating power of the human mind.

Posted by John | 5:19 AM | Comments

| 7.8.2003 |



An excellent performance of King Lear, where the audience is "moved around" and the production is filled with fantastic effects, sound, make-up and costumes is still ONLY an excellent performance of King Lear. There have been many excellent performances of King Lear throughout history and we are NOT interested in adding another turd to the shit heap. We spit. We spit. We shit. Though we would NEVER use actual SHIT in a performance. That is boring to us. The popular cinema, television and perhaps even life itself is filled with effective uses of "naturalism" as well as "intelligible conversation". These langauges are common langauges, we are not interested in common languages, rather, in new languages or the closest we can get to new langauges. These common langauges are also the reason "acting" as an artform gets little-to-no respect from real artists as often this common language masccarades as "acting."

The unspeakable repulsion evoked by self-indulgent theatricality is nauseating. Do you have chops actor? Did you learn how to do that in a class? You speak very well actor. It is stupid to allow one's talent to be burdened with the weight of technique that anyone (even an imbecile) can acquire by study, practice, and patience. Perhaps a parrellel could be drawn between a computer machine-performance of a Bach MIDI file and a Glenn Gould performance of the same thing... The difference being that the computer machine (unlike the actor machine) isn't proud of its pseudo-achievement. The computer doesn't play the MIDI file while simueltaneously exuding a blinding hubris. Blinding in that it makes it impossible for any half-witted spectator to SEEEEE anything. Shank. Shank. Shank them in the throat.

Archetypal psychology does not interest us, though we may be subject to it, we are interested not in archetypes, rather in xenotypes. Adhering to the long since dead romantic notions of autonomy-- only bastardized and reconstructed piece by piece from the fall-out of the Post Modern Hollocaust (worse in many ways than the ACTUAL hollacaust, though undeniably related and therefore impossible to differentiate, for instead of people dying, sense of direction and meaning died). Autonomous, alogical, unreal. Our theatrical synthesis will not be subject to logic, will pay no attention to photography; it will be autonomous, will resemble nothing but itself, although it will take elements from reality and combine them as its whim dictates.

We don't want to tell old stories: Hermes, Dionysis, Cronos, Gilgamesh, Macbeth... We don't want to tell new stories. We don't want to tell our stories. We want something novel to happen. Synthetic expressions of cerebral energy that have the absolute value of novelty.

This is goal. We are not interested in man or beast. Vegitable, animal or mineral. In fowl. In shell fish. In Lobsters. In Trees. These "forms" do not interest us. Nor do any ridiculous identifiable combination of these forms. Man-beast, man-vegitable, man-animal, man-mineral, man-fowl, man-shell fish, man-lobster, man-tree, beast-vegitable, beast-animal, beast-mineral, beast-fowl... This includes multiple combinations: man- beast- vegitable- animal- mineral- fowl-, etc. etc. We are not interested in any of these forms, subjects or objects... Nor in their petty relations with eachother.

We don't want symbols, accent symbols, symbols in the collective unconcious -- the holy grail, water --though they may exist; we want to symoblize nothing but the symbol and in doing so symbolize what we think is closest to the truth... As Kurt Schwitters said "Dedesnn nn rrrrr, Ii Ee, mpiff tillff toooo." and Hugo Ball concurs "higo bloiko russula huju." This is language we are interested in.

Politics are no no interest to us... Though inevitably we agree there are political implications to anything we do, we prefer to be lazy, boring and childish and ignore these implications. Words like Mexican, African, Women-- Equal but seperate. They are political words, signs for a political system-- they are boring to us. They are atually offensive to us. We place them at the same level of scum as taboos, mores, folkways and laws. You will never see us concerned with taboos. No "cocks" will be be involved in our reasearch. No "donkey shows." We liken this to holding snakes in a babies face. Slapping your cock on a babies face has no interest to us. It is boring. Boring. Boring. People that want to pander to the primitivism of the crowd can use these cliche devices-- but smashing of the inards on stump is best left to that ridiculous faggot Artaud, who is rotting in his grave right now while I AM ALIVE! I AM ALIVE! It is stupid to write a hundred pages where one would do.

DRAMATIZE ALL DISCOVERIES (no matter how weird, unlikely, and antitheatrical)

We don't want sensitive performaners. We don't want stupid or smart performers. We don't even respect the performer and therein we give the performer liberties and freedoms previously unimmagenable to them. What if it is the performers job to step aside and let something happen. To stand completely still. To relax. To open their mouths and not say anything. To stand silent for hours, and hours and hours. What if the performer doesn't think this will work? Is it the performers place to ask? Mike Pisaro says: "In the silence, the stillness, there is room for anyone. The silence of the listener is the same as the silence of the composer or the performer: here we are on the same plain, experiencing what is most important by saying nothing at all." Dynamic, simultaneous. That is, born of improvisation, lightning-like intuition, from suggestive and reavealing actuality. We believe that a thing is valuable to the extent that it is improvised (hours, minutes, seconds), not extensively prepared (months, years, centuries). We feel an unconquearable repugnance for desk work, a priori, that fails to respect the ambience of the theatre itself.

Explosion through excessive derision of subjectivity. Subjectivity undermined and simueltaneously opened up-- truly exposed to the subject, through lack of control and complete control, at once does the performer seee seee seee the opening space. Feldman writes: "My whole generation was hung up on the 20 to 25 minute piece. It was our clock. We all got to know it, and how to handle it. As soon as you leave the 20-25 minute piece behind, in a one-movement work, different problems arise. Up to one hour you think about form, but after an hour and a half it's scale. Form is easy - just the division of things into parts. But scale is another matter. You have to have control of the piece - it requires a heightened kind of concentration. Before, my pieces were like objects; now, they're like evolving things." A living performance -- perhaps this crude language, but for us, it suffices.

We disclaim that we know nothing. That we do not take ourselves seriously inasmuch as we take ourselves more seriously than anything. We boast of shattering confines while lyrically we are aware of our own limitations, limitations to which the shackle is confined.

Grotowski says:
The actor's act -- discarding half measures, revealing, opening up, emerging from himself as opposed to closing up -- is an invitation to the spectator. This act could be compared to an act of te most deeply rooted, genuine love between two human beings -- this is just a comparison since we can only refer to this 'emergence from oneself' through analogy.

It is true that the actor accomplishes this act, but he can only do so through an encounter with the spectator -- intimately, visibly, not hiding behind a cameraman, wardrobe mistress, stage designer or make-up girl -- in direct confrontation with him, and somehow 'instead of him.'

Theatre only has a meaning if it allows us to transcend our stereotyped vision, our conventional feelings and customs, or standards of judgement -- not just for the sake of doing so, but so that we may experience what is real and, having allready given up all daily escapes and pretenses, in a state of complete defenselessness unviel, give, discover ourselves. In this way -- through shock, through the shudder which causes us to drop our daily masks and mannerisms -- we are able, without hiding anything, to entrust ourselves to something we cannot name.

Listen to Alvin Lucier's sounds. An investiagtion which opens up worlds. This is what we are interested in. It is stupid to renounce the dynamic leap in the void of total creation, beyond the range of territory previously explored.

Posted by John | 10:43 PM | Comments

| 7.7.2003 |



The anonymous commentor who said I should "climb a tree" was fucking right. I should just "climb a tree" and "just shut up and fucking climb the fucking tree." I came to realization that I am a ridiculous idiot. I mean, I knew it allready, but I really know it now. Submission. Submission to the fact that there is no grand narrative which can sum-up and explain the totality of things-- therefore, there are no absolutes only relative absolutes (which I thought I knew, but my language did not reflect this) whether its relegion, Focault, the Frankfurt School, Baudrilliard or Deleuze (even though they all say there is no absolutes ((for the most part, Baudrilliard maybe the exception)) thats even an absolute)... SO even the absolute that there are no absolutes ins't an absolute only a relative absolute, (i realize how middle-school I sound right now, believe me, if you want me to die I understand, I understannnnnnnd).

I was an insistant modernist of some sort, for the longest time... I refused accepting that there wasn't a better or worse. I believed in exploding. In explosion. I'm tired... I made my hands glow this weekend... It caused problems... Glass in my hands... Glass. Phosphorus. "We're all gonna go to hell." "It's so true." "Cause we're thinkin' about whores, thats a go to hell offensive?" "Yes. It is." Hippocrital. There is a lot of things I don't like, I don't like Fischerspooner. Relative Absolutes. The Dominant Conversation. Coefficent of Obstacles. THE PROOF IS ON THE DANCE FLOOR. Though wait, wait, wait my friend its fun to speak of these things? Is JS Bach better than Miss E? Who cares? Who cares what you think? What a stupid comparison to make in the first place. How misguided I've been. Oh, how misguided. Is this better than that? Is Warhol good. It doesn't matter what YOU think of Warhol. It doesn't matter what YOU think of Matthew Barney... Yeah, but thecannon thecannon thecannon and Beethoven is a genius... He's a genius... Then comes' Brahms, Then Mahler, Then Schoenberg, Then Webern, Then Stockahusen, Then not-matthew-barney.... Childish, uneducated... Whereof one cannot speak thereof one should shake his hands madly and spit like a crazy fool... Hands above his head, "ALBAN BERG! ALBAN BERG!" Just say "Wozzeck" a bunch of times "Wozzeck had balls." "Wozzeck changed everything." Its gauranteed to makesure they don't knwi its whereof you can't speak...

I like to hate though, there isn't enough hate. Whether self-hate, or hate of others... But the problem was I was hating wrong... I don't know why she bothers with me sometimes... Hating all stupidly like that. Everyone has a higherarchy. right? A lot can be gained through vocal hating. But she was right all along, "don't use archaic, flimsy, mutable, dominant conversations, validation through consensus, subjective, subjective, stupidly-subjective parading as objective, subjective constructs to back up your hating because it makes you look dumb and it makes me not want to make art." Make art beautiful beautiful. I was wrong... A bollywoogiling idiot (word-carefully-chosen). Everyones entitled to their opinion. And likewise I still hold to-the-explosion of language as the definition of art (though I would be at a loss ((and presumptious)) to define exactly what the "explosion of language" means and what the "definition" of "definition" is.

Its the hope, I guess, who am I to say what is. I don't know. Ideas still muddled. Muddled with the grease of the road. Just off an 8-hour stretch of the 101. A northern California tour that included discussions with a Berkley Proffessor about Sarte, performance art, a concert of a Schuman piece, a small town called "Hay Fork" with 1,800 people in it. Roads at night. Fog in a canyon. The absence of my love. Stars. Somebody giving me their definition of "sublime" when I didn't want it. And lastly and most importantly the realization... Which of course, I had allready realized, but I really realized, that no critical theory can explain anything. I never thought it could. I would justify my small, small, small, pathetic interest in it by claiming "it was fun" "like a crossword puzzle" the accident was I began to believe and take it seriously... I began to think it was real... Degrees of perfection... Platonic Ideas... Its not the language its the Ideas behind the language... Right... Are the ideas new and interesting are they foward looking... I was in a small town called Chico. I went to a bar there... I went to a house filled with idiots who had given up their-dreams of commerical acting and were putting on performances of Beckett plays on a make-shift stage they had set up in the bar. It was quite sad. One man lived in a trailer in the woods and called a womens vagina "sweet meat." and kept talking about "Sweet meat" in front of a gay guy I was with until finally his talk of "sweet meat" made the gay guy walk away in sheer boredom... Of course there is no better or worse... I never thought there was. Or did I? I can't tell....

Lets go back... Okay. Lets go back. I think I'm not so interested in music right now. I think I could go without music. Anyway, anyway... I used to insist that Shoenberg was better than Chris Ophelie... And she would say, "Why do you have to insist Schoenberg is better than Chris Ophelie." and I would say "Adorno! Adorno! Adorno! Habermas! Habermas! Horkemier! " The only way to change the dominant language is to explode it, by creating "new" signs... This is what art does... High-Blood-Pressure nonsense... I'll always be-guilty to some degree of that-kind-of-regressive thinking... But what I've realized in the mountains is, who cares? Why waste any energy comparing. Yes I like Schoenberg. No, Chris Ophelie is not interesting to me. Leave it at that. If somebody wants to take it further... Perhaps we could learn... The idiocy I've exhibited... The fact is the proof is on the dance floor. All the talk in the world doesn't change that... Non-productive talk. Non-non-non-non productive... Reductive... Regressive... I'm guilty, I'm guilty, I'm guilty, I'm guilty, I'm Guilty. Has Mahler withstood' the test of time? Is that why he was canonized? Exactly what new-ways of seeing did the Kindertotenlieder open up? I'm a retard... One time a little-art-kid with a Chiuawa asked me "If I realized how moronic I sounded when I talked like that?" The answer is, No, at the time I didn't, but I do now... Oh, how shamefull.... So whats the solution? Whats the solution to years wasted and people wronged? A space... A space with two performers who open their mouths in unison with an electronic pitch, (at least one of them does, one performer opens their mouth for one-pitch, the other for another) They stand there... Dressed nicely... In suits, facing the audience... This continues for three hours.... (roundabouts)... Silence... Interpsersed with moments of action... New "new" music.... A film... Writings... Paintings... Poetry... Tristan Tzara... (My favorite Playwrites right now, are Francesco Cangiullo and Marinetti) Maybe some more music??? Where does it all end? Hopefully with happiness. The mountains are always better with love. This I know.

We give the meaning right? I don't like Artaud. I don't like the meaning I give him so I try to give him another and I don't like that... In fact no-matter-what meaning I seem to try and give "an army of scorpions crawling on a mans penis" and "whores"... Boring... So is Myth, to me me at least. I'm not interested in archetypes. If I want archetypes I'll watch "Star Wars" or "Terminator 3" (which I like, and am not judging retardly, I'm just saying insofar as some of my projects are concerned, particularly the ones of relevance to my on-going rant Myth does not concern me). Myth only concerns me insofar as I am able to develope "new" archetypes. Undreamed of "archetypes." This is done so well in much of our abstract art... Good show abstract artists... By abtract I don't mean 30's, 40's, 50's etc... I simply mean those that choose to employ figures... THat reminds me, I was recently reading this thing Hugo Ball said about abstract art, he said it arose out of our disgust and revulsion towards the figures around us. Isn't that cool!! Maybe he's right.

Posted by John | 3:58 AM | Comments

| 7.3.2003 |



So this is more stuff I love... and appropriately, I belive, so should all alll alla llalal. Can't talk... Crumpled. Crumple horse. Babbitts Partitions and Post-Partitions are fantastic.... I remember when I first heard them I was amazed at how alive and colorfull they were. Quick. True vrtuosity. Berio is a madmen... A fucking people hissing and shit. His fucking Sinfonia, the Mahler Ressurection bite, out-of-control, with the whole Beckett "Keep Going" thing. I know Feldman loved Beckett, but, I think Berio nailed the spirit of Beckett much more than Feldman with Sinfonia.... Not Feldman with SInfonia, but Berio's SInfonia.. Feldman never wrote a sinfonia... Have you ever seen a picture of George Crumb... WELL-- THATS HIM-- I think the stupid packaging of most performances of "Black Angels" that you find (including the Kronos Quartet) would be much-more-appropriate to the music if they just showed a picture of Crumb. I got into in argument once with the flute player (note I say flute player as opposed to flautist) Rachel Rudich as to whether or not Crumb was "beautiful." Crumb is "beautiful" the same way death metal is "beautiful" and "beautiful" isn't an adjective I'd used to describe Norwegian Black Metal... But, hey, thats subjective right?

I think most of the Lou Harrison I've heard I could give-or-take... But Hovahness... God Damn I have a soft-spot for Hovahness... Just about everything I hear of his I like despite its "tonal" handicap. The Mount Saint Helens Symphony, Tryptych. The guy was fucking incredibly prolific too. I love his-whole concentrated rennaisance modality thing. Like Debussy without the fucking romantic influences... Not that Hovahness is anywhere near Debussy, but you know what I'm saying. Legeti makes me shit my pants. Atmospheres. The first one to sound all twelve chromatice pitches simueltaneously for a long time... I dig his sound world. I don't know much Partch, but what I do know doesn't interest me that much. James Tenney (whose written some amazing music ((like Night, and his electronic string quartet piece))) loves the guy. James Tenney is cool... He can play the Concord, that instantly makes the most uncool person cool, not that James Tenney was ever uncool. JAmes sits around listening to Ives and Schoenberg and he can tell story after story about them. Ive's first played "Variations on America" in church, and they didn't like it. Stravinsky heard schoenberg rehearsing Pierrot Lunaire and it changed his life. I love Penderecki Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima , his concertos, Stabat Mater. It should be federal law that anytime any group of twnety-somethings get together and drink beer at some house in Silver lake, they must blast the Thernody... Shit. Varese is celebrated... Rightfully so, though you wonder why he is SO celebrated when they are guys like Xenakis who not-that-manny-people know. I dig the shit out-of-Varese... Which reminds me, I dig the shit out of ALvin Lucier to... Queen of the South, sitting in a room, I remember... Fatty fatty fatty fatty.

Posted by John | 10:50 AM | Comments

| 7.2.2003 |



Going to bed early. Getting up before 10:00. Good levels in the blood. Good balance of the brain. Balance. Balance. Balance. Neurons not "all" firing. Not "all." Slows things down. Slows the writing down. Love is mysterious. God is mysterious. Love can be like a grey washington day. Love can be like washingtons coast... Sublime... Water crashing... Fear of God... Seals Screaming... Sun setting... Wind Howling... Love can be like The Chills or like or like The Sensations Fix. It can be like Ariel Pink or even Myself. Sometimes... When you've had a lot of Speed, or Coffee, or Soda, or whatever your thing is it can be like Harry Merry. At Demoboot we believe in love. We believe in THE SOUND. I'm trying to think about new-great ideas like listing every galaxies name. I'm trying to do something with the most ridiculous art-form of all, "theatre." I mean... I've talked shit on art (and maybe I've even said the exact opposite of this before) but at least artists are smart enough to not do theatre. Maybe because its so hard though-shit-to do well I mean. But then again, anything is hard to do well, but what I'm saying is its harder to make a good piece of theatre (it seems) than to take a good photograph. Even to make a good song. Maybe Sculpture could compete... I don't know... What a stupid debate I'm having with myself. Soon the masterpiece will be complete. Eytomolgy. The most common word in English is "The"

Posted by John | 6:27 PM | Comments

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