Sunday, August 16, 2009

Diving With Andy Sugar. I had forgotten that I had *ahem* acquired this record. When did I acquire it then? I don't remember. The death of music as a fetish article. I am moving into a house soon. A nice person I work with has offered to help me to move. I wonder if she has heard on the street that I don't have anything. Is word going around on the street that I travel lean? This first song is just terrific. I have had a succession of purges of my Itunes library and this survived, it may have been camouflaged as it resides in the same neighbourhood as the Divine Comedy and Dolly Mixture. Stalwarts. It's a bit like a french pop band. Are they french? It is slickly produced, right now there's a cornucopia of dissonances and disaffected voices and now a slow burn trumpet outro. Pretty awesome actually. I went to see Deadgirl the other night. It's excellent. Decidedly twisted and unhinged but wholly entertaining. Interesting that the dream figure of the male lead or at least the real life analog that the big screen character was based on was sitting but two rows in front of us. It was a loud row. Two obnoxious girls and bald men and a muse. I sat next to a muse. A muse for the gentle heart. The fragile thinly filmed thought bubbles swim through the air around her filled with clever thoughts and doubts and anger that never breaks the surface. It's a difficult world. The person that has offered to help me move is engaged. Not to me. I had had thoughts of engagement but that's all it is with me, thoughts of engagement, thoughts of disengagement, thoughts of estrangement, thoughts of derangement. or thoughts that lead to derangement. Second song is also fantastic, her voice wan, the music charming and rote, canned strings, sophistication, polish, now a bit of Gallic sonic gallantry. Her voice is the female equivalent of crooning. What is the female equivalent of crooning. I don't much like the female equivalent of crooning as a speaking device but it works in song. The muse next to me, she didn't belong to my muse seeking inner slacker but to a greater world that requires the presence of those who step softly on pavements and leaves and around the oil swirls in thrift store parking lots. I gave her a copy of The Roaches Have No King. It's a quick read. I am reading a book on John Snow and the great Cholera outbreak of 1849. It's a quick read. I'd love to write a book about Cholera in 2009. Ether is not a efficacious remedy. Are Peter Snow and Dan Snow descended from John Snow? I really like this song that's playing now. Coulour Blind. A female Fugu? They are French, I've confirmed this, but three French people making big, polished pop. It's so lovely. Peter Snow has the voice of someone whose beaten up people who wring their hearts out in the rain waiting for their muse to come to the window, a soft silhouette, sustenance for the soul, a "gentle" infusion into the near night air, waft down three floors to the streetscape filled with the lonely and forlornly decadent. I read my book on Cholera in a Subway. I have decided to stop going to chain restaurants, well except for Subway. It's relatively inexpensive, I like the tuna sandwich. I could make my own tuna. I will make my own tuna again. In my new kitchen, with hardwood floors and stainless steel appliances and airplanes leaving contrails in the shapes of engorged boa constrictors and seal intestines. My muse lives in jars of maraschino cherries in the loneliest aisles of the super market. My favorite supermarket is a large chain super market, altered slightly to appeal to their upscale clientele, the Organic aisles are loneliest of all, the Indian frozen food section lies in the suburbs of this alienated nation within a nation. Next song, jazz, ugh, not fondly reminiscing about my time in Paris at jazz clubs and screenings of Scream 3 with young american high school girls to be impressed with my trivial pursuit abilities. This is not so horrible actually. Your greater muse, the spirit of Denver, the gossamer light of the spent breath shuddering able hearts the night has disowned, left alone to its demise on the curbside, alongside 32 gallon rubbish bins. Uplift. Now to The Greatest Stories. There are many people getting married where I work. Some in the shadows and others in the sunlight. Some will play Diving With Andy. I lied, none will play Diving With Andy. I love Diving With Andy, I would not play them at my hypothetical wedding that is destined to occur sometime to someone better than I am, my wedding has taken leave of me, disgusted by my timid flailings against the buffeting winds of mediocrity. But mediocre people that I work with are already married. I subscribe to the idea that I am the victim of my own cowardice. if only I had a muse to overcome my cowardice. Cowardice has been prompted by the lyrics of this song. It is difficult to sleep when your stomach churns over the physical deprivations of imaginary romance. The perils of having a ken imagination and the curse of remembering every word she ever said. Next song, piano, Anna May, very pretty. Very Very pretty. When I have a home I could buy a stereo and listen to this at volume, in my basement. there is a workshop in the basement. I will use it to build an enclosure for the gas line that snakes across the basement ceiling. The only thing that unsettled me. What if I raise my hands in triumph when I hear a new Napoleon record and blow myself into smithereens because I struck the gas line and the fierceness of my blows cause spontaneous combustion. Cutaneous combustion. My face had skin cancer. He's had it since I was a young man. I recall taking him to one of his myriad surgeries. he was in a anesthetic coma and he longed for a McDonald's Big Mac. I drove him to McDonalds, in his Cutlass Cierra. The gutless. It was candy apple red. Now he's without his left eye, I walk around when I can with my left eye closed in sympathy, I wish I had sympathy with his spirit. I live in fear of a young woman at the corner desk and he's bravely charging into the world with Cancer dripping from his left temple. I drive a black vehicle, better to disguise the shadow over my head. How unpoetically vulgar. My apologies. I could get a girlfriend, easy. Tell me, are there dilapidated Mental Hospitals nearby to my new home? I don't know. Rabid dogs and undead naked women under visqueen, probably 4 mils. Industrial material. Love at first deprivation. The hooligans in Deadgirl were portrayed brilliantly as equal parts vile fornicators and lonely outcasts. This song was a tad saggy and plodding and now it has turned lithe and agile. Marvelous. The strings are very french, it is all very French. Well except for the singing, it is very English as in English. A relief, at least I have my anglo-american cultural chauvinism to fall back on. But all kidding aside this the flower of youth. The sort that is trampled on by large booted people who can't feel the souls that cling to the underside of their feet the ethereal sprites that exist all around them unless they are stepping over them to ruin the world on purpose. There are those who would chose to abandon hopefulness for despair, it saddens me, a tender shoot taken to a tannery and molded out of shape nto another grizzled panel on the unfeeling superficial skin of the world. I will warn someone before they read this, the obscene incoherency. It's typing by sense, eyes in the dark, exultations into the vacuum. I can't speak. I don't speak enough, I am losing my ability to speak. I could sing. Meet people I love and sing them love songs from french trios unaccompanied. But then I remember that I am afraid. Next song, some fabulous electric piano. Rather awesome! Rather! Big strings, her voice is key. it sounds the same on every track, but we don't mind. Last one, another piano ballad. This is a marvelous marvelous rcord. Is it from this year? There aren't many released this year that are better. Are they unheralded because of the protectionist clauses embedded in national stimulus programs? A retaliation against the refusal to buy asphalt from asphalt conglomerates in Sudbury. I spent a summer in Sudbury. Underground. Buried alive. Escaped all but dead, born to receive the word from Diving with Andy, 'no matter what i do, no matter what i say...i'll always be 20 for you'.