Klima Klima. Who remembers Petr Klima? Don Cherry used to assail him for wearing a bucket on his head instead of a "good Canadian" helmet. Petr had a mullet, he was trapped behind the iron curtain, he must have secretly believed he was outrageously adept with his brillo curls hanging out above his collar. Was he worth the covert cold war action and KGB defying? Not really. When I was in high school he and Bob Probert went out and tied one on before the big game and then slept walked through said big game. He may have murdered Jacques Demers, Metaphorically. Later he played for the Edmonton Oilers and won a Stanley Cup. Bully. This Klima is french. That Klima was Czechoslovakian. This Klima is lovely. That Klima, not so much. It's a bit reminiscent of Bows. Close your eyes and seal them shut, stick your head inside a 3/4 moonlit sky and dream of Ruth Emond and Signe Hoirrup and you might come up with an image of the first song In The City in your mind. It is certainly more reminiscent of those glory days than A Heart and Two Stars. Second song Fluorescent Stars. More minimal, a few guitar lines contrapuntal guitars, a beautiful Cloudboy-esque vocal. Breathy, but from the earth, a bellows instead of a soft breeze, reluctantly stoking the night. Soft, warm, skillful. It's been produced by Guy Fixsen. What has become of Laika? When Margret started to believe that she could sing then the wheels fell off. There is a 3/4 moon out this evening. There are football fans out this evening. When I run I run late in the evening. I arrive home from work almost around 8PM and I must eat. Who can run after eating? Maybe Mary Decker Slaney can but I can not. So I must sit and watch Mad Money for an hour then go running when the evning is beginning to crest. Darkness is complete. I could not actually identify anything contrapuntal, people, strings, opinions, etc...but I can identify agastache rupestris. Could you? Could you? Say it in your Alec Baldwin voice. Third song. So Bows. Drum programming, twinkles, multi-tracked hushed echoey vocals. Strings. Gloriousness. It's an unbelievably fantastic song, if you could hear this now your day would without doubt be made brighter, my day is made ecstatic and it is almost over. it would be, If I could sleep. But I am not tired. I wake up tired, I go to bed awake. I had a breakthrough on my "novel". I wrote the first page. I could write loads of the nonsense in the middle but how to begin a book, it's a great deal of pressure. It would be, if anyone were ever to read it. But I found a perfect opening. I should frame it. I spend all of my hours that I am not meant to b thinking about my vocational duties thinking of ideas for books and then forgetting them. I had a brilliant idea this afternoon while driving home from Fort Collins with a stopover in Mead, Colorado and yes I have forgotten it. Mead is barely anywhere at all. Mead is subdivisions filled with fugitives from the city. They may all be big fans of Klima. Perhaps there are enclaves of Klima fans cloistered in Parisian suburbia, in thatch roof homes with flat panel televisions and an itch to vote for Olivier Besancenot after a fit of rational exposition. Fourth song has been on for some time, repetition, multi-tracked whispers, by turn disoriented and unfinished. Ending is building confusion upon confusion. Nice, a touch insignificant. FIfth song, tinkles, steel drums made out of zinc. Demarnia vocals. Name your next child Demarnia, name your next child after that Jodi and he'll become a Maori rapper. I played golf with a Maori non-rapper. I have no idea if he was truly Maori. he was from California but his accent did not place him from the Inland Empire. Possibly Redding or Sacramento? I insist that he be Maori even if he is Indian for no good reason at all. This song is gorgeous. I am trying to convince my friend who is anti-breathy sultry voices that this is exceedingly lovely but she is not easily convinced. She doesn't need to be. I still haven't read Kavalier and Clay. The problem may be that I would never read it on my own. I am finishing Orlando at the moment. Another Bows-y song now. Neverending this is similar to the ones that Luke would have sung in Bows. I spotted a Long Fin Killie on YouTube. It was uploaded off of a VH-1 channel somewhere. Long Fin Killie on VH-1. The mind boggles. The video is an abomination. Luke looks elegant, urbane and decidedly pretentious. A dream. My goal is to appear to be all of those things to certain sorts of people and to be human to the rest. There is someone now who answers in my head to "splendid butterfly", I have decided that I need to create a character in my Dargeresque escapade named Splendid Butterfly, she will have blonde hair and blue eyes an offer a punch in the face for free. It will turn the entire endeavour into marvelous literature. I am positive of this. More drum programming, some fracture, some over exposed electronics, the sorts that Guy used to be able to conjure for a Laika album, whirrs and whistles and tiny earnest vocals from a poor french milkmaid from the countryside. Next song, a classy dance number, could be an entry in the Andre Rieu catalog someday. Sultry vocals. One of these songs is about the suicide of a friend. I have only known one suicide victim. Mrs. Beiser, the mother of my friend Joe. A knife to the chest. A discovery by her children. Sadness and grief enveloped the neighbourhood, my mother made food, she surrendered it anonymously, watched and prayed. Later they had a new Corvette. I don't know if it was related. Even later he fell in love with this girl named Tera. I lost touch, he was squat and an alcoholic. I was shy and a dreamer. "It's not the end of the world", so says Klima. Her real name is not Klima. She's reaching down for the bottom of her heart welled up. It's earnest, again, it's almost the most sophisticated singer-songwriter record ever made. She's in Piano Magic some days, I am not a fan of Piano Magic. Does she make them lovely? Next song. Why Does Everything Have to End?, so Demarnia. A lone guitar, some Hawaiian vibes, long distance vocals bedded beneath the main vocal line, whooshes and streams of kind hearted sentiments. It's a small record, surely it was recorded in hers or in Guy Fixsen's bedroom. Was Margret Fiedler home making porridge for the two of them to allow them to endure the creative peaks? Nice military marching drums. Who does this remind of? Cloudboy. Yes! but there is someone else. A bit Slowdive perhaps, it is very Blue Day in the willowy vocals. If I am ever to marry I will play Slowdive Avalyn for the first dance. You can't dance to Slowdive Avalyn but you can fall in love to it over and over and over. Everyone around me is getting married. I am not writing this to say thank you but no, I hope I don't live my life as I will eventually die....aaaaaaalone. That would be horrible. Fort Collins has a different vibe than Denver. It feels midwestern. Denver not so much. Denver is caught somewhere indefinably between wannabeism and cowtown. I can still buy a nice pair of boots here. Crocs is being sued because some stupid kid hurt himself on an escalator. I am all for the abolition of the croc blight from the fashion landscape but seaweed does not maim, poor parenting maims. Next song, epic in its magnificence. The Third Man. Graham Greene? Orson Welles? I can't really make out the plot. Some distorted effects on the instruments, seemingly guitars, pattered electronics, fuzzed out vocals, distance. Again. her warmth comes from the enveloping ambience. Now a fall out to guitar and voice, so tender and elegant. "Will you still be my friend next week...even remember me", the last bit evermore softly. She's on to making another record already. I am so terribly excited to hear it. I could put a character in my "novel" named Klima, she could sing madrigals and play a casio SK-1 for the infirm and then read Highlights magazine on her breaks. I read Maldoror on my breaks and talked rudely of Quentin Tarantino on the same breaks. I had just seen Swoon, I wasn't yet convinced that most independent films are rubbish. Next to last song, Your Game is Over, a bit more playful, roller dance party, ringing chords chime in about a minute in, wordless accompaniment, so petite and delicate. It feels sub-tropical in its outlook, it could be ethereal and glacial but instead there is a sunniness to the affair that draws you into the heart of the song. It isn't some grand unknowable experience, the confidence comes from the fact that these could be played on a ukulele on a sandy beach in front of an approving pig on a spit and you wouldn't have sand kicked in your face. I think I need to live near the ocean. I am overwhelmed by nostalgia with the sea air scents. So many happy childhood memories in the sand, away from home, away from the disappointments on parade. Apparently my childhood home has recently been razed. Demolished to make room for progress. There are ripples in the collective consciousness I share with all of the memories I cannot forget, all of the ones I carry with me in a quiver to shoot at the oscillating waves of interest in a conversation. I can kill dead any conversation with a pointless non-sequitur. It must be obvious from my writing style. i find it difficult to stay on one topic for very long. When I had a blind date recently with someone's sister I asked one thousand and eleven questions and had to answer but two. My answers were flatly intoned and uninspiring, I am a failure at human communication. I write for the gladiator bugs, they require a strong voice, I hold them so dear in my heart. I have yet to see the gladiator genus or that palm that blooms once every 50 years. Have you? Have you? Alec Baldwin voice, once more. Last song. Acoustic guitar, her voice, a bit Golden Palominos, multi-tracked loveliness. Broken hearts, wounded voices, uneasy stirrings, romance.