Eat lights; Become lights - Test Drive

Good morning. I’m going to start the day by listening to some Krautrock. It’s called Eat Lights; become lights. I like this name because it has a semi colon in it. This sort of music is quite good I think. I like it. It sounds like something good. I don’t know how to play the guitar but if I did I would try to play this. This band is from London. They aren’t touring at the moment which is a shame.

Budapest Klezmer Band

http://www.yiddishcursesforrepublicanjews.com

Set Fire To Flames - Telegraphs in Negative/Mouths Trapped In Static

Unlike some of the other conglomerations that appear on this ere blog this band is well known. I tend to avoid overstating the need for obscure bands. If something sounds good I listen to it. It could be an unfinished renaissance string quartet, or it could be the eighties. Thankfully this band sounds like neither. I think it falls under the category of 'shoegaze'. Ever the word that eludes me as people ask me what I enjoy listening to generally. Slower than post-rock but too edgy to be ambient. Hark at the thought of being labelled as 'one of those.' However, I can honestly vouch - hand on heart - that whenever I have attended one of such gigs, never have I witnessed someone gazing at their shoes. That would be hilarious. You'd have to hire someone whose sole purpose was to tempt people to look at the stage by poking them in the chin. Most are at any rate content to look aimlessly into their pint glass. Viewing it fondly you could argue they are contemplating every significant meaning of the universe whilst idly fiddling with hairgel/scarves/random phone apps.

Unknown Mortal Orchestra

I heard this band on the radio last night and thought I'd write about it. I'm not listening to them now. That would require moving and ...okay I might move. Now I'm listening to them. So far they sound decent. Not particularly orchestral. If I'm honest that was the only reason I picked them out. Maybe not the only reason. I don't like to seem like a music snob. Ultimately that is what I am. Not my fault. This song is called 'Funny Friends'. It has guitars in it and a steady four four drum beat. I suspect it is synthesised. Now I'm listening to 'How can you Luv Me'. It sounds the same as the last one. Possible mowtown influence? It still doesn't sound orchestral. False advertising that is. Should really turn it off. Aaaah...can't quite ...be bothered.... If this was the seventies it would sound like Fleetwood Mac and that would be awesome. I can't listen to Rumours by Fleetwood Mac because it frees the evil jazz demons. And then the evil jazz demons unleash their wily venom upon their victims and then there are too many evil jazz demons. It's a bit like a zombie attack only backwards. I think possibly I would like 'Second Hand News' to play at my funeral. I think that it would really sum my life up to a tee. This one is called 'Thought Ballune'. It's on their EP. I think it's the same song as the last one but with different words. Wait this tune sounds different: it's called 'Nerve Damage' and sounds like happy punk. I'm starting to feel afraid. I'm pretty sure this is different from the usual mantra. What's going on? Things are..changing...from..what I am used to hearing...cant quite adapt...aaaaaahhhhhh!!!!! Stop changing!!! Everything must stay the same forever!!!!!!!!!!!!

That Fucking Tank

That Fucking Tank. It made me feel as if I had a tiny beautiful ( yet deadly) creature living in my stomach. Upon the commencement of the set the creature immediately began to struggle as if it greatly desired escape from the depths of my loins much akin to this: . Thus I was actually obliged to temporarily leave the venue in order to assuage the screaming demands of an imaginary beautiful yet deadly creature living in my stomach that there was no need to feel anxious: it's only That Fucking Tank. This was brought to you by the mutual disdain at a poster that had disgracefully and shamelessly placed frivolous apostrophes all over the place. In the future anti graffiti movement, all wasteful use of apostrophes shall be obliterated using industrial tip-ex pens. Apostrophes will be used in a sustainable environment and punishment for misuse of the apostrophe shall be branding using an apostrophe shaped poker.

Neurosis

I'm hopeless at games. The only time I remember winning a board game was back in 2005 when by some fluke I won a game of Monopoly. Unfortunately that is probably the least preferred game to win if by aspiring to win you were hoping to gain some shred of credibility. I think I take it too seriously. Alas I lack the mindset to rise above the onslaught of critters that thwart my plans. I'm thoughtful and clever, but not particularly cunning. Part of me wishes that I had a degree in cunningness. If a course in cunningness does not yet exist, someone should invent it. Or maybe there should be a school of cunningness where pupils are taught to fend themselves from bad advice and false friends. Instead of reporting bullies to the head, a personal advisor would appear donning a catapult. They'd then show you to the best vantage perch, and tell you to give it your best shot. The only advantage there is to being a miserable loser is that after a while you are desensitised. Your enemies will be astounded at your resilience and bloody mindedness in the face of danger. What they fail to recognise is that rather than it representing a highly skilled and shrewd player, it merely means that you're just an average player who isn't that bothered about winning. What does a few more coins or glory mean to someone who started with nothing? Very little. Indeed, the pleasant thing about it is that us poor losers are able to recognise that nasty greed streak that lies in the depths of everyone like a coiled snake, before it gets too boisterous. It creeps up on you. You're happily floating along, occasionally managing to just clamber out of last position by the skin of your teeth, and suddenly this horrible urge takes hold. You MUST get that coin. You MUST gain an extra plot of land on the field. And you think, 'What?' Because that wasn't you a minute ago. Just before you didn't even care. And there's that real divisive moment of, should I let rip and just be the most selfish, horrid, miserly bitch that I can, or do I let it pass?

Metamorphic

This is a band that I played with in Spring of this year. Should I be sharing this yet? Is it some kind of secret? I assume I have permission as super writer conductor lady has sent me whole album. I'm not really 'playing' on it to speak of - save some token cello bass notes on the last track 'Light Up Yourself'. Thus I feel I have the right to dissect it a bit without seeming scathing/arrogant/as if I'm blowing my own trumpet, which by the way, I cannot anyhow as my playing was dreadful. It took me ages to read the music and even when I had painstakingly worked out where the notes were it was all too fast and I only realised too late that the notes on the second line of the arco section were 'f' not 'b'. Disaster. No really. The writer conductor lady shall remain unnamed for now. Let's call her Mrs Mighty. So Mrs Mighty comes up to me and says "Do you read music?" and I said "It has been known." Thus around three weeks later a ton of orchestral jazz script music lands on my doorstep from Leeds. It's for the cello. I place the music on the top of my to do pile, but for the next week it remains there. Untouched and unloved. Part of me thinks "It's not possible." I ponder the merit of sending an email asking her to find someone else. Then I clear a space on my desk and look up the bass clef. I don't stop until I have written all the notes above the stave. Now to figure out where on Earth they are on the cello. Surprisingly the main problem didn't arise from the notes (except the aforementioned f/b calamity). The real PITA came from the bizarre snake like rhythms and the time signatures which changed approximately every three bars. Which, by the way, were NEVER in normal 4/4. So I practised. I played to the recording. I played without. Sometimes even playing the same four notes over and over until I felt I could bridge the gap. I hardly bridged the gap. But I reckon in some form I did manage to pole vault over some really nasty rocks. https://www.dropbox.com/s/7yl6lkyfra8ml6a/Metamorphic%202nd%20Album%20Mastered%20mp3s.zip Recorded in Spring sometime thereabouts, 2012, Leeds and London

Diamanda Galás - Live - Meltdown - Royal Festival Hall

There is little point trying to deconstruct or criticise. Anyone who tries shall likely be smote down. Suffice to say I left the venue feeling humbled and oddly sorrowful. I mentioned this feeling to my friend, who informed me that previously he had involuntarily burst into tears at the end of her performance. The venue was nigh on sold out. Not completely, but considering the size of the hall --this was no little pub venue - it was a packed out concert. In true classical style latecomers were not permitted to enter the hall once the performance had started and had to wait for an appropriate wave of applause. I found myself barely able to breathe, let alone talk or move. Good artist - crowd respect there. The clientèle was surprisingly mixed. Obviously there were the die hards and the down and out goth subculture freaks. Then there were the intellectual studenty types (pretty sure my friend and I fell into that one) and a small smattering of punks and normal looking folk. I like to think that Diamanda was in some form pleased to see us. She offered a small favourable smile of gratitude at our standing ovation. I'm pretty sure the rest of the time she just wanted us to go away and die. Aaaah. I love her. Death Will Come and Will Wear Your Eyes 1950 Cesare Pavese. Translation: Marco Sonzogni, David Whitely. Performed by Diamanda Galás, 01/08/2012, London, Royal Festival Hall. Death will come and will wear your eyes - the death that is with us from morning to evening, sleepless, deaf. like and old regret or an absurd vice. Your eyes will be a futile word, a cry kept silent, a silence. Thus you see them every morning when alone you stoop over yourself in the mirror. O dear hope, that day we too will know that you are life and nothingness. Death keeps an eye on each of us. Death will come and have your eyes. It will be like giving up a vice, like watching a dead face re-emerge in the mirror, like listening to closed lips. We will go down into the vortex mute.