Du Pt.3 “DUNE” mixtape
GOBBY! GOBBY! GOBBY! This Gobby guy is totally insane. Here, he’s got a loopy, fractured, surprising, altogether jaw-dropping mix that mirrors the innovative fucked-upery of his own radical productions (last heard on this year’s Wakng Thrst for Seeping Banhee). Inscrutable song titles represent the music well, a chaotic mash as random and as intriguing as the jam-packed city streets of UNO’s NYC denizens. Chipmunk vocals, stretched rappers, even fucking Owl City for God’s sake (just to make you wonder if you are actually the one who is hanging loose in terms of sanity) all make an appearance on this nutso mixtape.
Check it out here:
“ANYTHING OR EVERYTHING GOES”
Don’t you just love cat videos? I know I do. Whether they’re trying to avoid taking a bath, or playing with a ball of yarn, or just being generally goofy — whatever they’re doing, I always love it! The video above is my current favorite cat video. I don’t like the background music very much (I’m more a Brooks & Dunn man myself), and everything that leads up to the cat isn’t really my cup of tea either (what does it all mean?), but when that little feline pops up on my internet computer screen, I sound just like a Full House audience member during a touching moment. I just can’t help myself!
Put on Pronunciation and prepare yourself for nothing.
Do not prepare. Nothing to prepare.
“Here goes nothing.”
Press play and enter the room in which Gabi Losoncy and Allen Mozek made it. Hear its corners and its open spaces in the mix. They were sitting (standing) in a room, different than the one you are in now. They were recording the sounds of their speaking voices, guitar, previously recorded cassette tapes, cornet, drum machine.
Time moves and Good Area moves between sound sources. You can’t tell time. You are left in your room, or outside, in the kitchen, in your own area, and you are scratching your head. Your loved one looks askance across the bed, not knowing what to make of you, but you do not turn down the sound.
How “progressive” can music be without technique? Good Area laughs at the question. A voice from a tape deck says: “This much.”
How “free” can music be without caring? As the limit of fucks given [f(g)] approaches zero, the asymptote labeled [ ƒ®∈∈ ] shoots across the plane toward infinity. Freedom fills the room. You imagine you can smell the freedom. No one has the heart to tell you that what you actually smell is turpentine. Ignorance is hiss.
Good Area’s Pronunciation cassette came out on Hanson Records. You can buy it here. You will no longer be able to find their LP on Kye Records called French Antarctica anywhere for, like, cheap, if you live in the United States, but this doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.
• Hanson Records: http://hansonrecords.bigcartel.com
A couple months back, I felt a dread set into me around 1AM while walking my dog on a Tuesday night toward the end of winter, when the cold makes everyone feel like, “Yo, enough is enough, it’s like 40, but it feels like single-digits.” Since then, I’ve sworn off my cellphone, because it’s too distracting during my daily life, but the events occurred as such (within a single evening):
— Walked across the street (not on my phone) IN A FOUR-WAY STOP SIGN CROSS WALK and almost got hit by a car, which I spat on, they stopped and they started yelling at me, my dog began howling back, and I began to gag myself to vomit, which weirds people out, so they left.
— While we were next to the fence, two raccoons scurried up a tree inches from my face to flee my hound dog, and all I could feel was the force of their gusto drying out my eyes in terror of them being clawed to bits.
— In the school parking lot across the street, a few minutes later, in private, and I’m lip deep on a blunt, an [animal] starts banshie screeching and running out of the woods toward us walking on the gravel, and it couldn’t be a pig, was too big to be a possum, but too white to be anything else, so we fled that scene like a drive by.
— Got back to the house after messaging people about what just happened and realized I wasn’t watching my dog, as she had something in her mouth, which I thought was (the typical) frozen cat shit, but it was really a frozen dead bird, as I realized when touching its beak with my hand, then took a doody-bag to grip it out of her locked mouth, and ended up with bird feet and head and spine in a bag; as i tired the bag with two thirds of a bird, my dog crunched down on the ribs and guts, puked it out and I just left it there for the next morning (which it froze to the porch).
Recently, I was reminded of this dreadful series of events while being introduced to Bemônio and listening to their newest piece of rawness, Lodo. There’s even a few street lights that make buzzing, hissing, and clicking noises similar to Bemônio’s sounds and the wind pretty much whispers to me nightly, and these Lodo vocals are eerily exact in that natural respect. So, I’m somewhat terrified by Bemônio as a clairvoyant unit of my life. That is, outside their general music being horrific in aptitude. And Lodo is proof. Stream it below and feel that desolate Brazilian doom:
M AX NOI MACH
Much Like Blake’s “The Tiger,” plenty is left unanswered in “Creeper Sits.” Who is the Creeper? What’s his name? “Why is the man so gentle and quiet?” What’s in the garbage bag?
However, the mysteries of this brief character study need not be solved or elaborated upon, for M AX NOI MACH’s lyrics satisfy as they stir the listener with their brevity and salt. His night poetry glows in the dark at vaudevillian three-sheet size; it peels off from the steel under Market-Frankford’s El.
Where does the Creeper sit “looking at the girls in dresses?” At a bus stop? On a park bench? His front stoop? Behind a home computer? A television set? In the “Other Side of a Mirror” (where we find Coleridge’s Creeper: “ And in her lurid eyes there shone / The dying flame of life’s desire”)?
No more time for questions. We’re hooked, not only by the lyrics and red rhythm, but by the stark setting and choreography of this music video. In a bare basement, with force and animation, sometimes shirtless and always sincere, our narrator and his shadow interpret, sing, stomp, flail, and flex in sync with the dingy industrial and darkly merry music. When we are informed of the Creeper’s “squinting eyes,” we ourselves must squint to see the narrator, as he leans behind video8 grain and lo-watt lighting.
The masterful visuals, harmoniously in-tune with the music, are as nude as anatomy on a disk spinning in a zoopraxiscope. The editing keeps pace with the song’s throb; the zombie convulsions are captured and looped, cut with the shadowy singer’s recitation.
We see, we feel, but we never know.
Stuck in it; not knowing how to get out of it. Loaded up docks and packaged parcels might as well be past thoughts. How told can a story be before it loses meaning? Gettin’ good and lost with this one. Let those snaps snap and that buried kick kick. Hued like a two-toned shadow, these burnt snow globes eat polished dust for breakfast. Sorry, I just sniffed some glue. Anywho, what I was saying is this is goody goody, all drenched in the transformative power of loops, gutted of TRUE surprise, replaced with the comfort of familiarity and all the glory of minor shifts. Type of shit to remind you of being reminded. Water erodes the outer layer, but still leaves signs and traces. Memories collect. Hard to escape.
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past…
Edition of 15 cassettes on Scenic Rhythms.