Monday, July 17, 2017

Nietzsche Break! And Fun Videos!

Mind you, I'm no philosopher.  I'm but a dumb shit americanino out of pot pissing man saxophonist shitter arounder crippled dog who lives in a rubbish house filled with rubbish.  However that doesn't mean I can't continually bow, scrape and cater to those "philosophers" and not musicians out there with my own personal boolshit selection of Nietzsche's maxims and aphorisms each and all having nothing to do with anything. And fun videos!!!

The Wanderer and His Shadow

297:  Not to wish to see too soon.-- As long as one lives through an experience, one must surrender to the experience and shut one's eyes instead of becoming an observer immediately.  For that would disturb the good digestion of the experience: instead of wisdom one would acquire indigestion. [like when you eat mayonnaise for breakfast]

307:  When taking leave is needed. -- From what you would know and measure, you must take leave, at least for a time.  Only after having left town, you see how high its towers rise above the houses.

317:  Opinions and fish.-- Possessing opinions is like possessing fish, assuming one has a fish pond.  One has to go fishing and needs some luck--then one has one's own fish, one's own opinions.  I am speaking of live opinions, of live fish.  Others are satisfied if they own a cabinet of fossils--and in their heads, "convictions." [what are your rules for music? he asked...]

323:  Remorse.-- Never give way to remorse, but immediately say to yourself: that would merely mean adding a second stupidity to the first.--If you have done harm, see how you can do good.--If you are punished for your actions, bear the punishment with the feeling that you are doing good--by deterring others from falling prey to the same [out of pot pissing americanino boolshitting arounding] folly.  Every evildoer who is punished may feel that he is a benefactor of humanity.  [You're welcome.]

The Gay Science

15:  Rust. -- You need some rust; sharpness does not suffice:
                    Else you will seem to young and too precise.

89:  Now and formerly.-- What good is all the art of our works of art if we lost that higher art, the art of festivals?  Formerly, all works of art adorned the great festival road of humanity, to commemorate high and happy moments.  Now one uses works of art to lure aside from the great via dolorosa of humanity those who are wretched, exhausted, and sick, and to offer them a brief lustful moment--a little intoxication and madness.

93:  But who do you write? --
    A:  I am not one of those who think with an inky pen in their hand, much less one of those who in front of an open inkwell abandon themselves to their passions while they sit in a chair and stare at the paper.  I am annoyed by and ashamed of my writing; writing is for me a pressing and embarrassing need, and to speak of it even in a parable disgusts me
    B:  But why, then do you write?
    A:  Well, my friend, to be quite frank:  so far, I have not discovered any other way of getting rid of my thoughts.
    B:  And why do you want to get rid of them?
    A:  Why I want to?  Do I want to?  I must.
    B:  Enough!  Enough!

[feel free to change "write" to "play the saxophone like an americanino cripple shitter arounder"]

130:  A dangerous resolve.-- The Christian resolve to find the world ugly and bad has made the world ugly and bad. [and music?]

187:  Offensive presentation.-- This artist offends me by the manner in which he presents his ideas, although they are very good; his presentation is so broad and emphatic and depends on such crude artifices of persuasion, [cf. "crippled dog"] as if he addressed a mob.  Whenever we give some time to his art we are soon as if "in bad company."

208.  Great man.-- From the fact that somebody is "a big man" we cannot infer that he is a man; perhaps he is merely a boy, or a chameleon of all the ages of life, or a bewitched little girl.

[this dog is neither crippled nor boolshit]

Human All Too Human

86: The eyes with which we behold the ideal. -- Every proficient man is stuck in his proficiency and cannot see freely beyond it.  If he were not very imperfect in other respects his virtue would prevent him from attaining to any spiritual and moral freedom  at all.  Our deficiencies are the eyes with which we behold the ideal.

110: The robber-genius. -- The robber-genius in the arts, who knows how to deceive even discriminating spirits, originates when anyone has from his youth on naively regarded every good thing not expressly the legal property of some particular person as free for all to plunder.  Now, all the good things of past ages and masters lie freely about, hedged round and guarded by the reverential awe of the few who know them: by virtue of the lack of this feeling in him, the robber-genius is able to bid these few defiance and to accumulate for himself an abundance of riches that itself evokes reverence and awe in its turn

151:  How metre beautifies. -- Metre lays a veil over reality: it effectuates a certain artificiality of speech and unclarity of thinking; by means of the shadows it throws over thoughts it now conceals, now brings into prominence.  As beautification requires shadows, so clarification requires "vagueness'. -- Art makes the sight of life bearable by laying over it the veil of unclear thinking

152:  Art of the ugly soul. -- One imposes far too narrow limitations on art when one demands that only well-ordered, morally balanced souls may express themselves in it.  As in the plastic arts, so in music and poetry too there is an art of the ugly soul beside the art of the beautiful soul; and the mightiest effects of art, that which tames souls, moves stones and humanizes the beast, have perhaps been mostly achieved by precisely that art.

185: Author's paradoxes. -- The so-called paradoxes of an author to which a reader takes exception very often stand not at all in the author's book but in the reader's head. [or the listeners head?  or the "band mate's" head?]

198: Marksmen and thinkers. -- There are curious marksmen who, though they miss the target [like the toilet], depart from the range  complacently proud of the fact that their bullet did at any rate fly a great distance (well beyond the target in any event), or that, though they did not hit the target, the did at any rate hit something.  And there are thinkers [and boolshitter arounder musicians] like this.

206: Lack of Confidence. -- Lack of confidence among friends is a fault that cannot be reprimanded without becoming incurable.

213: Pleasure in nonsense. [boolshit?]-- How can man take pleasure in nonsense?  For wherever in the world there is laughter this is the case; one can say, indeed, that almost everywhere there is happiness there is pleasure in nonsense.  the overturning of experience into its opposite, of the purposive into the purposeless, of the necessary into the arbitrary, but in such a way that this event causes no harm and is imagined as occasioned by high shirts, delights us, for it momentarily liberates us from the constraint of the necessary, the purposive and that which corresponds to our experience, which we usually see as our inexorable masters; we play and laugh when the expected (which usually makes us fearful and tense) discharges itself harmlessly.  It is the pleasure of the slave at the Saturnalia.
[does humour belong in music?]

233: For the despisers of 'herd humanity' -- He who regards men as a herd and flees from them as fast as he can will certainly be overtaken by them and gored by their horns.

300: Two kinds of equality. -- The thirst for equality can express itself either as a desire to draw everyone down to oneself (through diminishing them, spying on them, tripping them up) or to raise oneself and everyone else up (through recognizing their virtues, helping them, rejoicing in their success).

340: To one who is praised. -- So long as you are praised think only that you are not yet on your own path but on that of another. [freejazz blog is the Downbeat of today...the more stars, the worse the recording]

347: The water-drinker speaks.  -- Go on drinking the wine that has refreshed you all your life -- what is it to you that I have to be a water-drinker?  Are wine and water not peaceable, fraternal elements which dwell side by side in harmony? [ps, Italian men don't get drunk, no matter how much they drink...only americanino shitter arounders]

353: Worms. -- It says nothing against the ripeness of a spirit that it has a few worms. [is the same true for music?]

Twilight of the Idols

8:  Toward a psychology of the artist If there is to be art, if there is to be any aesthetic doing and seeing, one psychological condition is indispensable: frenzy.  Frenzy must first have enhanced the excitability of the whole machine [and augmented the ability to piss in the pot?]; else there is no art.  All kinds of frenzy, however diversely conditioned, have the strength to accomplish this: above all, the frenzy of sexual excitement, this most ancient and original form of frenzy.  Also the frenzy that follows all great cravings, all strong affects; the frenzy of feasts, contests, feats of daring, victory, all extreme movement; the frenzy of cruelty; the frenzy in destruction; the frenzy under certain meteorological influences, as for example the frenzy of spring; or under the influence of narcotics; and finally the frenzy of will, the frenzy of an overcharged and swollen will.  What is essential in such frenzy is the feeling of increased strength and fullness.  Out of this feeling one lends to things, one forces them to accept from us, one violates them--this process is called idealizing.  Let us get rid of a prejudice here:  idealizing does not consist, as is commonly held, in subtracting or discounting the petty and inconsequential.  What is decisive is rather a tremendous drive to bring out the main features so that the others disappear in the process.

26:  I mistrust all systematizers and I avoid them.  The will to a system is a lack of integrity. [boring ass repeating patterns suck as well.]

37:  You run ahead?  Are you doing it as a shepherd?  Or as an exception?  A third case would be the fugitive.  First question of conscience.

38:  Are you genuine?  Or merely an actor?  A representative?  Or that which is represented?  In the end, perhaps you are merely a copy of an actor.  Second question of conscience.

40:  Are you one who looks on?  Or one who lends a hand?  Or one who looks away and walks off?  Third question of conscience.

41:  Do you want to walk along?  Or walk ahead?  Or walk by yourself?  One must know what one wants and that one wants.  Fourth question of conscience.


186:  Business people.-- Your business - is your greatest prejudice: it ties you to your locality, to the company you keep, to the inclinations you feel.  Diligent in business - but indolent in spirit, content with your inadequacy, and with the cloak of duty hung over this contentment: that is how you live, that is how you want your children to live! ["Don't fuck with the formula, Brian" said Murray, and then he slapped the shit out of Brian until Brian was deaf in one ear.  "Good Vibrations!"]

236: Punishment. -- A strange thing, our kind of punishment!  It does not cleanse the offender, it is no expiation: on the contrary, it defiles more than the offence itself. [cf. Murray wilson]

318: Beware of systematisers! - Systematisers practise a kind of play-acting in as much as they want to fill out a system and round off its horizon, they have to try to present their weaker qualities in the same style as their stronger--they try to impersonate whole and uniformly strong natures.

376:  Plenty of sleep. - What can one do to arouse oneself when one is tired and has had enough of oneself?  One person recommends the casino, another Christianity, a third electricity.  The best thing, however, my melancholy friend, is plenty of sleep, real and metaphorical!  Thus one will again awake to a new morning!  The art in the wisdom of life lies in knowing how to fall asleep in either sense at the proper time.

361.  Ugly-looking. -- Moderation sees itself as beautiful; it is unaware that in the eye of the immoderate [out of pot pisser] it appears black and sober, and consequently ugly-looking 

[and very fucking boring to listen to.]

And now back to our regularly scheduled americanino boolshit out of pot piss non-programming!

Thursday, July 13, 2017

day 24 -- Hold up, is that a Jimmy Lyons Quintet Record?

Wait, hold that two Jimmy Lyons Quintet records?

Am I really in some guy's apartment with a bunch of Finnish dudes, two of whom are carrying Jimmy Lyon's records?

I won't bore you with how much I love these records.  I'll bore you with other things!

What's crazy is both of these recordings were released on an Italian label--a label which, like many labels, might not excel at paying royalties (not especially avant-garde in that respect).  This is the same label that released many of Bill Dixon's records.  Bill Dixon or "who?" as he was known in the Europe I experienced was not even a peripheral figure in anyone's listening consciousness, which is and isn't a surprise. 

Anyhow, These were two of Bill Dixon's (or who?) favourite records. "Who?" though very highly of Jimmy Lyons.  Of course you have all read L'Opera, and as such, have read the letter "Who?" wrote to Jimmy Lyons after he was Who?'s sabbatical replacement, telling him how great it was to have him up at a certain all girl's drama academy.  But then again, he (who?) was quite close with everyone on both recordings--personally and musically.

The point of this boring narcissist americanino boolshit story is ultimately a question:  why is it an Italian label would waste their time and resources on Americaninos?  "Free Jazz" Americaninos at that?  Free Jazz!  The music that gives malas to listeners near and far!  Furthermore, it's easy to make the argument that the Jimmy Lyons Quintet is THE ESSENCE OF AMERICANINO BOOLSHIT--AND TWO UNWITTING FINNS ARE CARRYING IT AROUND WITH THE INTENT OF LISTENING TO THIS BOOLSHIT AMERICANINO-NO-ONE-CARES SO-CALLED "MUSIC"!

Holy crap...someone do something about something!

And hold up...what's that?  The drummer in the Finnish house of Jimmy Lyons Record carriers has been to Jamaica, Queens to study with Milford Graves (or "sloppy" as he is known)?

European Blond Jesus Christ!  This poor fuck crossed the so-called "globe" so he could become a boolshitter arounder under the tutelage of "sloppy", in Jamacia Queens no less?  SOMEONE STEP IN AND HELP THIS POOR LAD!  SOMEONE TURN ON A VERY NOT SLOPPY MIKE CLARK INSTRUCTIONAL VIDEO...STAT!!!

Totally rad, right?  Like a never ending Steely Dan record without all the fucking saxophones that no one cares about because saxophones are boolshit.

And really, heaven forbid anyone find interest in (let alone cross the globe in order to get closer to) this boring, uninteresting, clearly not funky get-down-shake-your-fucking-booty sloppiness.

Ol' "Sloppy"--that ol' boring, uninteresting, historically insignificant, americanino boolshitter, shitting around, right?  Why anyone would want to get with that loser when there's Mike Clark videos on the TV is a mystery for the ages and evidence of the cunning, baffling and powerful ability of the americanino boolshitter to distract us from the glory of white, European interpretations, distillation, corrective re-readings and ultimately, perfection of this clearly sloppy not interesting male americanino boolshitting arounding.

If there was one thing "Who?" and "Sloppy" agreed upon--and they didn't agree upon much--it was that Jimmy Lyons was a motherfucker on the saxophone (like anyone cares about the saxophone), that these records and the groups on them were among the strongest This Music has ever known and that without Jimmy Lyon's, much of Cecil Taylors earier works wouldn't have nearly the vibrancy they did--provided you find the music of Cecil Taylor vibrant, and not more of the same male free jazz male americanino boolshit free-jazz shitter around music.

But hey, maybe they were taking the records and their grant application to study with Milford to Onkalo? 

Regardless of the destiny of said utterly fantastic recordings of Americanino boolshit male saxophone shitter arounder music, I did, for that moment, feel a kinship with the other, united in This Music.  All this in a suburb of Helsinki, that looked a lot like Edina Minnesota no less (if one can compare any place in the old world with the forth world boolshit of the new world.)  Didn't see that one coming.

The performance was at a place called the Hard Rock House--don't call it the Hard Rock Cafe, because the Hard Rock Cafe sucks corporate ass.  The Hard Rock House, on the other hand, was/is fantastic.  A local place for locals--and (to the chagrin of all) Americanino shitter arounders with pot-pissing issues.  After the disorienting experience with the Jimmy Lyons records, we all walked to the venue, a whopping 3 blocks away.  How awesome is that?

Each and everyone one of the proprietors of the Hard Rock House were large, strapping handsome men of Indian (the sub continent) descent.  Maybe they were born in India and remember those Indian winters when it got down to 32 degrees Celsius as they defend against death in the 32 degrees Celsius below zero Finnish winter.   They were all completely friendly, totally helpful and more enthusiastic about the music than all the other venue owners I met in Europe combined.

This, like the Jimmy Lyons record thing was also quite disorienting.  Americanino's are used to the disdain and abuse from all the earth's people--and rightly so.  Maybe they didn't know they had an Americanino shitter arounder out of pot pissing crippled dog in their midst?

The first band--the Sami Pekkola Jazz Band consisted of Jooklo friends from way back--including the drummer who studies with "sloppy" and the two fellows walking around with Jimmy Lyons' records. I for one knew they were doing the right thing when, in the middle of their set, a Finnish woman (who was not drunk--only Americaninos get drunk in Europe) began hollering at the top of her lungs, wondering if the music was "supposed to sound this way" and other pertinent questions related to the sustained maintenance of her musical reality, only a few of which were translated for my amusement and horror.  Sadly, said woman left before I could spray her with my Americanino out of pot piss and all around boolshittery.  Oh the hollering we would have heard in that tragic instance.

Because I am a know nothing Americanino shitter arounder crippled dog who doesn't even own a turntable, my inclination is to say that the opening group owed some of their sound strategies and compositional methodologies to the music of the 60's--the African-American music of the 60's.  Like the New York Contemporary 5 for example (a group with whom "Who?" did a great deal of written work)

...or the New York Art Quartet (an otherwise excellent group save for the out-of-pot sloppy drumming of "sloppy.")

(if you look, you'll see the know-nothing who soiled the Internet by uploading this americanino boolshit has the idiot audacity to write "the drumming is breathtaking".....well, if by "breathtaking" you mean sloppy...)

Later I was informed/corrected (and maybe a little bit scolded?) that the music of the Sami Pekkola Jazz Band actually sounded like music from the 80's.

What the fuck do I know?  (answer = 0.00)

My know nothingness can be proven, as there was an official Jooklo video made (though not yet uploaded) of the the Sami Pekkola Jazz Band.  Smart!

There was no official Jooklo video made of our set.  Even Smarter!  Lo tho I was only reminded a mere eleven times I had lost the camera charger, no effort was made to press the "on" button on the video camera that is not owned by me but owned by those who are not shitter arounders who do not live in a rubbish house, a camera that was already set up and ready to go.  Probably for the best--heaven forbid a border guard check the footage only to see (and worse, hear) me spraying male, saxophone, Americanino, crippled dog out of pot piss from my pitiful little americanino piss horn with the sticking G# key.

After we finished our situation, it was decided that we mix the chocolate and the peanut-butter to make a whole greater than the sum of the parts.  This usually is my most favourite part of the improvised performance reality--when after the show, after each group get a good huff of one another, an actual improvisation.  I know I had no (zero, 0.00) idea what aural shape this improvisation was going to take place--and I love that.

Mind you, while it is possibly true that I and I alone ruined not only the music, but the musical experience for audience and performer alike, it is absolutely true that I had a most enjoyable time doing so.

Of all the places the Jooklo-Zappa Irie Circus of Respect and Open Mindedness travelled, the Helsinki situation struck me as the most sensible and sustainable.  Walk to the gig at a club where the owners are kind and helpful, perform for an audience who at the very least pretended to enjoy the goings on, walk home and wait outside for 40 or so minutes until someone finally opens the door and lets us in so we can go to bed, in silence.

Without much help, I could envision myself in Helsinki for a month, performing once a week with this same group, rehearsing the other five days, with one day off to do laundry and check the the latest in global atrocities on internet (which are easy enough to need to "to review the agendas of every venue and organization that invites me to perform" (your poor beleaguered thing) just don't go to Dixie!)

But then Americanino Boolshitter arounder Savage Retards are to be contained like Zika infested mosquitos or malicious code.

Kiss kiss love you Helsinki!!!  Hope to see you again (in the summer, that is)!

Friday, July 7, 2017

Day 25 -- "Good Morning Rimasteira, You are Old Crippled Man"

Well now!  A good morning to you, friend!  And thank you for only mentioning the missing camera charger a mere four times!

Because really what good is a camera charger in a place like Copenhagen where you can get all the pictures you want off the web?  It's not like we visited that open air Marijuana market in Christiania I heard so much about--besides, there was a closed record store that needed to be hunt down.

As such, this rimasteira old crippled man too American crippled dog boolshitter arounder decided to return to the hotel and delight in some hygiene and sleep--once it was determined the record store in question was closed, that is.

Being reimasteira and, as such, needing (and enjoying) more sleep than is polite by European standards, in light of the fact that the pesky bite on my chest wasn't becoming a less defined ring with a semi purulent centre, maybe a little soap and water followed by some regenerative sleep might slow the necrosis?

The performance was at a venue that I, as a know nothing never been anywhere rimasteira old crippled man, can not begin to understand, let alone explain.  However, if I were to try, I'd say it was originally an industrial park?  Small factories?  A few 2 story buildings?  All in their own "complex?"

If you told me it used to be a college campus, or former minimum security prision, I would believe that, too.

Anyhow, a bunch of buildings, covered in graffitti , inside an out (mind you, Graffitti, is a European invention, and owes nothing to the Americanino experience, least of all the Americanino experience in that 4th world shit hole that has contributed nothing to anyone or anything ever), lots of bicycles, enough cigarette butts on the floor to give one the impression of being in Rome...Are you getting the picture?

If you are a know nothing Americanino shitter arounder, you probably are not getting the picture.

Not only are too-American Americanino crippled dogs afraid of their own shadow, but they are also fascinated--(infatuated maybe?)--with money.  A stark difference from the good people of the EU who know money is just a contrivance and construct about which only boolshit americanino worry (except when it comes to getting their money back from the Greeks).

Even a shitter arounder like my self was able to come to grips with the Euro signature of opposites--namely, what ever and whenever I, Americanino loser, was inclined to say or ask anything I knew THAT was the time to keep my mouth shut, lest even more too-Americanino stupidities (in English, no less) come gushing out.  This is an old multiple choice test taking strategy taught to me in high school...if you think the answer is "c", then you can be assured the answer is most certainly not "c"--guess the answer from the remaining 3 choices....

As such, I didn't button-hole either the two delightful principals of the space into dialectic regarding finances and co-operation with the state (or city.)  If I had, I'd ask questions like
  1. does everyone in this complex pay rent?  If so, to whom is this rent paid?
  2. is rent stabilized?
  3. how does one get a space in this large complex of cigarette butt and broken bicycles?
  4. how did this property get into the hands of artists?
  5. is there a "one person" who "manages" the property, or is it a situation of independent buildings and proprietors
  6. is there any risk or notion that the city will take this property back, raze it, and turn it into a Lulu Lemon sweatshop?
  7. How well do you know your neighbours, and is there ever any events where all the buildings get involved?
  8. do you have to pay insurance for the events?
  9. what happens when the toilet gets clogged beyond civilian repair...who pays for the plumber? 
  10. How much money did you lose on this show?
You know, that sort of Americanino crippled dog nonsense about which no one cares except americanino shitter arounders .

To further out myself as a Savage Retard, I just have to say that in North America (4th world shit hole) buildings aren't often given over to artists, let alone entire building complexes.  And when they are, it often ends up in some kind of Ghost Ship nightmare.  Americanino's can't do anything right!

Perhaps Americanino savage retard shitter arounders aren't ready for such an embarrassment of riches in the form of affordable artist work spaces.  Back to your parents basements with ya, Americanino know-nothing boolshitters!

One thing about which this Americanino crippled dog could not help but ask multiple questions was the BASS SAXOPHONE owned by one of the principals of the space.  That makes the second owner of a BASS SAXOPHONE with whom I came in distant contact within the space of a week.  Both in the Nordic countries.  As if you needed more proof that they got it going on in the Nordic lands!

(Not only am I a too-american americanino crippled dog boolshitter arounder, I'm also an out, open, unashamed saxophone nerd geek who loves the saxophone.)

Of considerable interest was news from said BASS SAXOPHONE owner that many of the horn's tuning and intonation problems were solved by a metal mouthpiece made by the one and only, the super great, please sponsor me, Eppelsheim instrument makers.  Said BASS SAXOPHONE owner gestured that the mouthpiece--custom made from a chunk of metal--was almost as much as the damn horn!  And further more, worth every penny!

Unfortunately, said BASS SAXOPHONE owner was too busy putting on a great show and being a fantastic host to schlepp his BASS SAXOPHONE to the gig--another instance where "time is a beast bastard."  I would have loved to have made an Americanino Savage Retard nuisance of my self, asking even more questions about the horn, the mouthpiece.  It would also have been a mitzva to have heard the gentleman in question play said horn.

Perhaps said gentleman will endure a head injury, lose half of his I.Q., and as a result, find himself and his Bass Saxophone in Western Canada?  A girl can dream...

About the actual performance my notes merely say "Orchestra night" and that the totality of the post-performance dialect was from one, a quick and curt "strange" and from the other, "did you like?" (as if one shit was given about what I do and don't like).

Because I have no discernment, I like all of the music making.  This performance included.  This is because the opportunity to make music is a precious gift from the Most High, not to be squandered or debased with the temporary, petty concerns of "culture"--we are all well aware, other options include months of inpatient chemotherapy, huffing piss in a fourth world shit hole like New York City and/or countless other indignities in pursuit of horrendous wages.

Let us never forget the horrors of life are infinite and never ending

I liked (well, didn't mind) the other two performances.  Both were heavily dependent upon the lap top.  The first lap top situation attracted a hand full of well put together professional white ladies with blond hair wearing foundation, blouses and slacks and such.  Surprisingly, they didn't stick around to get sprayed with my out-of-pot piss from my tiny flappy crippled little americanino horn hose.  I don't blame them.  Hard to get that out-of-pot-piss (especially that frustrating, americanino relentless boolshit flavour) out of one's blouse, blond hair, etc...

The second lap top centric performance included vocals.  Italian vocals.  Italian Catholic Mass vocals.  As vocalised by someone from Brussels.  Ooooh Italy!  So hotttttt right now!

I believe their set was distinguished by some not-drunk young people* looking for "the party."  Apparently ours was not the party they were looking for, and so they left quickly.

Once the music died and the four or five people remaining got bored with clapping, pleasantries and packing followed.  Tak for de gode tider, Kobenhavn.

In bed at 1:30 am.

(* as you know Europeans, especially Italian men, don't get drunk...only no class having, know nothing Americanino rubbish booolshitters)

Saturday, July 1, 2017

Day 26 -- Mayonnaise for Breakfast

B E R L I N ! ! !

Getting to Berlin was extra special fun.  A ferry!  A beautiful day!  Sail boats sailing!  mayonnaise for breakfast!  Sure there was granola, yogurt, schintzel, all likely boiled in a bag somewhere in the berth of ship...but who wants to eat any of that crap when there's mayonnaise?

Yes there were "fritz"--which were their own disaster...but in the presence of that white jiggling mound the fritz were secondary.  We are all secondary in the presence of that white jiggling mound.

And what's that you say?  You never eat mayonnaise for breakfast but today you ate the mayonnaise available on the ferry?  And what's that you say?  You have a "mala"And you think it's from the mayonnaise?

Very fucking strange!  And SUPER interesting!  Tell us more!!!

For all the fun, fresh air, mayonnaise and wonderful beauty of the ferry ride, I for one had no defence against the inescapable notion that mankind does not belong on top of or underneath the water.  If Fukushima is any indication, mankind does not even belong close to the water.  Then there are (were) the coral reefs.  And of course all of us still have Outrage at Valdez, right?

Berlin!  What ever you do, don't call it "Brooklyn with better trees."  That will cause wincing in the audience!  And besides, how dare anyone, least of all an Americanino ignorant = dumb know nothing shitter arounder, never been anywhere idiot, compare anywhere in Europe to anywhere in the United States?  Even if the stench of piss is identical from the piss stench of the Lower East side of that "fourth world shit hole" we all love to hate so much.

In addition, people were out in numbers...walking in between traffic, waking beneath traffic (there was an elevated roadway near the venue)...till 2am!  Berlin is a city!

However it appeared that not one poster advertising the show was posted anywhere in the entire city of Berlin--least of all the for-other-gigs poster covered door of the venue.  According to the promoter "posters don't work" and are "a waste of paper" (just like my resume.)

This sentiment was not shared unanimously.  The part about the posters, that is.  There is unanimous sentiment as to the uselessness of my resume.

Like I give a fuck!  About any of it!  300 people, 13 people...all look same dot com to me!  Just 287 less audience members to horrify with my Americanino out of pot pissing booolshittery.

If memory serves correct, there was a recording made of the performance.  I for one have not received a copy of said recording.  But then again, I am a non-share holder to whom delivery of recordings is not compulsory, not to mention an out of pot pissing Americanino know-nothing ignorant=dumb crippled dog.  Maybe the good gentleman at the venue destroyed the recording once the performance was over?  Maybe he erased my track?  You can do that with science nowadays.

That said, If anyone has a copy of said recording, I probably won't love hearing it, but it might be a good reminder of what a horrendous person/musician/pisser I am and, in that instance, might make me think twice about recklessly ruining everything with my inability to assess what is appropriate in any given musical situation to say nothing of my inability to execute those wrong, boolshit americanino non-ideas.

Sadly, as with most places, there wasn't much time to take in all the joys of Berlin--save for Turkish pastries at midnight.  We did manage to see a large airfield where a still beloved German leader most famous for his jaunty moustache used to do "things".  In the 18 or so hours we were there, I did not manage to learn how to speak German.  A pity, because what possibly could be gayer that reading The Gay Science in it's original language? 

Of the vanity of artists. -- I believe that artists often do not know what they can do best, because they are too vain and have fixed their minds on something prouder than those small plants seem to be that really can grow on their soil to perfection and are new, strange and beautiful.  They do not think much of what is actually good in their own garden or vineyard; and their love and insight are not of the same order.
 The Gay Science, #87

Then of course there are those Americanino artists who can do nothing not only because of vanity, but because they have no mind to fix on anything, an errant pissing mechanism and the inability to love or have any insight what so ever.  They are worse.  The worst?

No pictures, as the camera batter charger is lost, a fact of which I was only reminded 3 times.

In bed, 3:30 am.

Monday, June 26, 2017

Day 27 -- "I Have To Kick Your Ass a Little Bit"

Typically, Savage Retards and Americanino booolshitter arounder crippled dogs are no strangers to violence.  As a consequence, when someone says "I have to kick your ass a little bit" the natural reaction of the savage retard americanino boolshitter arounder crippled dog is to knock that person's teeth deep down their throat, savage-retard hockey-fight style, by the time they get to "I need to kick yo..."

Then, once on the ground, knee on wind pipe, gouge out eyes and rip off ears (they're barely attached)--the hand to hand combat equivalent of a "double tap". You are not done until the enemy is neutralized.

"Half measures avail us nothing", as the Big Book says.

This was the advice given to me on a number of occasions as a young elementary school aged child from my father, a "professional" who later was on "the cutting edge" in one of, if not the greatest terror organizations the world has ever known.  The same guiding hand who would, on sunny days, lower the blinds in my room while I was doing my homework--"never give them a clear shot, son."

Which is perhaps why I abhor violence.  Even when I shouldn't abhor it--when instead I should embrace it as a part of human biology there to provide a natural "punctuation" to run on sentences--I am instead inclined to let all kinds of things pass under the "figure of speech" clause; a central tenant of my over arching personal philosophy of "remember to keep it Irie." 

(As an aside, I've found in those fourth world shit hole Americanino places where concealed carry is permitted, people simply don't say to one another "I need to kick your ass".  Strange.)

However, this is Europe we are talking about, and not some Americanino fourth world shit hole or savage retard barren stretch of nothing in the middle of nowhere.  In Europe, Amercaninos are always in the wrong, as are Savage Retards (Canadians).  Further, it is the obligation of the old world to first explain, second correct and third scold all new world errant out-of-pot-pissing sftanza know nothing crippled dog shitter-arounders.  And really, the sooner and more humiliatingly so, the better.  And if the threat of physical violence must be invoked, because that is the only language that the Americanino know nothing crippled dog understands, then so be it.  Who the cap fit let them wear it, as it were. Irie.

And so it was while the audience was still clapping (betraying their ignorance = dumbness for enjoying one second of the music that I had ruined to the point where I was in line for a bit of an ass kicking), the explanation and correction part was forgone in the rush to scold.  Because really how can anything be explained to a "too American" Americanino savage retard boolshitter arounder out of pot pisser-- least of all anything regarding the aesthetics of improvised music--an entirely European creation in which, from inception to the present, all the major innovators (and lets face it, perfectors) have been white Europeans?   If all the rules and parameters weren't understood upon exit from my mother's hairy-scary Americanino boolshitter crippled dog womb, let alone in all the dialectic rich rehearsals leading up to this tour, then what is left to do other than scold and "kick ass" a little bit?

The promoter of the show, who clearly had the wool pulled over his eyes vis a vis the "merits" and/or "success" of our performance, which I had ruined to the point where I needed to be told I needed an "ass kicking", made a point of coming over to tell me how "great" the performance was.  (More proof feelings aren't facts, except those feelings felt after a night of adequate sleep, excellent nutrition through out the day, sensible alcohol intake atop a solid food base, seconds after a performance, while the audience is still clapping.  Those feelings are always spot on.  Important too!)

Silly me, I thought the yen to explain/correct/scold was a pan-national inclination among the Europeans.  Oddly, the urge to correct the promoter for his false feelings about the performance (due to his ignorance = dumbness?) was no where near as pressing as it is to explain/correct/scold out of pot pissers and even worse fuckers arounders with the formula.  When I brought the promoter to hear from the ultimate arbitrator of what is and isn't "good" as to why the show was a failure and why I needed an "ass kicking", the will to explain/correct/scold was not there.

"I'm sorry, I have to pack up now"

was all we got.  Quite different than "I have to kick your ass a little bit."

Then again, I am but an Americanino out of pot pissing boolshitting arounder junkie crippled dog, and not a promoter who put on an expensive, elaborate festival in the truly wonderful and lovely town of Galdakao.  Because there are at least two classes of humans, there are (and clearly should be) at least two distinct modes of expression and dialectic reserved for and carefully apportioned to said different classes of human.  After all, who puts good kibbles in good china for crippled dogs who piss out of the pot?  Save that shit for those who have done and who again could potentially do for you in the future.  This is business we're talking about.  What the fuck is your problem?

Though no footage of the event has been sent to me, the festival was heavily documented.  Perhaps the festival organizers came to their senses and destroyed the footage of me wantonly spraying piss hither and yon, ruining everything?  We can only hope.

That said, there does seems to be a minority amount of footage from the festival out there on that internet thing.  Mostly of the other musicians pissing perfectly into the pot.  (Boy oh boy, that never gets boring...just ask the Norwegians...)

However, for those of you sick fucks who like being splashed with Americanino boolshitter arounder crippled dog errant out of pot piss, I urge you to look for said few seconds of footage on your own time, and not while at work.

In Galdakao and Spain in general, there seems to be an unlimited amount of beauty, culture, history, courtesy, decency, sensible marijuana laws, spectacular ham and other pork products awaiting those who wisely by their own efforts (or in my case, by the grace of Virginia Genta and her supernatural powers of booking shows) make the journey to that most delightful part of the world. 

Hopefully I did not disgrace myself, the festival, the festival sponsors, the Jooklos, the other performers or the medium of music such that I cannot return to this delightful locale in the future, in an entirely silent capacity.  Besides, I was told I spoke Spanish like a Mexican.

Thank you I'm sorry.

Mentions of missing charger:  3

In (a very comfortable) bed 1:30 am.

Monday, June 19, 2017

Day 28 - Now I Give You Skills

Somewhere in the mist and glitter from the night before, there was a bit of a bus ticket snafu.  If we had to spend another day or two or three in the Basque country, I'm sure we would have survived, despite the savage money shit kicking we would have taken.

Fortunately, a caring Basque father came to the rescue and gave us and our luggage a delightfully comfortable ride to the airport.  Eskerrak Jainkoari!!!

The flight out was yet another dehumanizing experience brought to us care of an industry given a huge cash award for their complicity in that 9-11 thing.

After we landed, we got on a bus.  Once we got off the bus, I was given a tutorial on how to behave in cities, which is good, never having been to or lived in a city, least of all a "fourth world shit hole" like New York.

"Now I give you skills!  Look down!  Don't look stoned!"

Ha ha HAAAAAAAA!  In Rome?  AS IF!!!

ROME!  What happened?

Pick pockets!  (Virgil)  Gypsy stabbings!  (Ovid)  Luggage theft at knife point then a stabbing!  (Seneca)  Mega Filth (Cicero)

Can you see the trajectory?  Can you feel the trajectory? Can you stop the trajectory?  Can you reverse the trajectory? 

(a heart warming story goes along with the picture, if you're interested...)

In the running for one of the least Irie places in the world, Rome did have it's charms.  Civic pride sadly was not one of them.  While it may be a "skill" to look at the ground when you walk, the damage that does to one's hope for human civilization, what with all the cigarette butts, dog shit, broken glass and soiled clothes covering those quaint cobble stone streets is a given, a known, and apparently, an inevitability--a pre-ordained destiny.  A gypsy stabbing pick pocketing and luggage theft (preceded by a pepper spraying, followed by stabbing) is not a given, nor is it a known.  It's a pretty sure bet, but not a certainty.  I am a living testimony of this fact. Maybe I should have looked up more often?  But then why bother?  No camera, of which I was only reminded a mere 3 times.

And while heavy on the late-capital, fourth-world amenities, Lemon trees, undeniable Italian design, 24 hour sfogliatelle and very old Roman things--from their trains to their ruins--can be placed in the charm column.

Though I might not want to ever spend any time there ever again for any reason, the (impotent and ineffectual against the gypsy menace) cops at the train station carried their guns in white holsters.  Snazzy! 

Ethnic Chinese women sat at a pic-nic table laughing and smoking.  (guess what they did with the cigarettes once they were done smoking them?)  Multi-culti!

Lemon trees in front yards!  Palm Trees growing through sidewalks!  Plants ascending!

Fanfulla!  A pretty great venue, and furthermore, a tremendous sound-man worth of the superman tee-shirt he wore!  Not only did the sound check take 8 minutes and 42 seconds, he also bought us....Pizza!

Tremendous sound-man was also able to procure a keyboard for Virginia--something not everyone was able to do, despite promises to the contrary (and snazzy haircut).

On this night, Virginia played a "Rodeo 23", similar in appearance to the "Rodeo 49"

Again, what with my camera charger being carelessly lost by me (sftanza americanino boolshitter arounder) I had to take these pictures from the web.  As for the device which takes many pictures in rapid sequence, so as to give a moving quality to the image, owned by not me, said device I believe was kept safe in a bag.  Because I am a sftanza americanino boolshitter-arounder crippled dog, it may have been set up and put into action, but I can't say for sure.  There is no mention of a video in my notes, but yet there is a vague memory of a camera on the corner of the most excellent and capable sound-guy's table.

Perhaps someone else was pointing a cellphone?  Maybe one day it will appear on youtube?  Alas, never in the history of human "civilization" have we been so powerless over our own documentation.

And then again, maybe I ruined the entire evening of music with some errant splish of piddle...I don't remember.  However, I imagine there are a few people who do.  Please feel free to castigate me in the comments section if you were a victim of my errant piddle spray.

Music over, the evening continued to soften and blur.  People hanging out, listening to what was, for the americanino ignorant = dumb, a perplexing DJ set.  No one else found it perplexing (perhaps because they all spoke the language of the guy prattling relentlessly on the 12"), everyone was chill, no one was on steroids, no one was in a hockey fight earlier that day...a real local, clubhouse sort of vibe.

While my hope is that similar establishments exist all over Rome, I was led to believe that this was one of the last places in that fair city where people can go and get their freak on.

Will Rome (or any number of other cities actively stomping down on the creative class like roaches) be a better place once all weirdo-friendly haunts have been removed and replaced by super classy steroids and botox bars where all music is chosen (if not made) by a computer algorithm?

The night ended with an appreciation of and for the brave artistic vision of this record cover:

Pretty great, right?

In bed at 3am, on the floor of the patio, simply because there were a few cats living inside.  Not that I have anything against cats per se--it's just some of them are able of choking me to death with their hair.  I cared not one bit.  Sleeping on the floor keeps you humble (and who knows, maybe it helps the pissing out of pot thing?) Besides, it was a lovely evening with cool breezes under a canopy of stars, next to the police station.  One pillow for my hip, one for my head and see you in the morning!

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Day 29 -- Best Venue Saved For Last? -- The Obvious Advantage being Frank Zappa's Nephew Has Given Me in Music and Life Upon Which I Have Capitalized Mightily

You can't outsmart the Angel of Death, sing coo-coo sing (Death is coming in)

Up at 7, 8, 9, 10 and eventually 11am.  Breakfast? sfogliatelle, pistachio cannoli and pizza.  That's what you call a King's Life!

A visit to a record store was involved before getting on the bus.  There on the wall was a Wipers patch and a Dead Moon patch available for 4 Euro each, which I believe is like $29 CDN.  Regardless of the price, it's odd to see PNW (Pacific North West) rock (Americanino) memorabilia for sale in an Italian record store.  I don't know why that gave me moment for pause any more than a Charles Mingus or Mark Lanegan record. Probably because the patch was made in China, or Sri Lanka.  So many layers of global exploitation!  Dizzying!

But the lasting question was "Don't they know it's all Americanino boolshit?  If so, why are they peddling it to their fellow citizens?  If not, how long before David tells them?

Mercifully we made it out of Rome without being maced, robbed and shanked by gypsies.  While the Italian people may totally impotent in the face of the gypsie menace, no one is so impotent they can't drag a broom across their tiny bit of sidewalk.  Is there a plastic bag in the tree outside your door?  Not only can you take it down (it's easy!) you can also use that plastic bag to collect the cigarette butts, dog (?) faeces, and soiled garments that litter your personal part of the street, from the police department all the way to Radiation Records and back again.  A broom!  So simple!  Design geniuses of Italy--put your mighty thought-form toward making sweeping the litter and detritus from your sidewalk sexy and fun!  PLEASE.  Rome will never regain its past glory unless this first, simple step is taken!

Murderous gypsies and filth strewn streets aside, Rome did have its charm.  Like 24 hour a day sfogliatelle, just a mere 3 death-and-menace filled blocks from the venue.

Perugia has a certain civilized vibe that Rome does not.  Bar Chupito...perfect?  I couldn't find fault--not that I go through life looking for venue faults, but after a while, you do develop a preference.  The venue had posters--thoughtful, well done posters--from past and future performances proudly displayed.  They did their share of publicity:


the local news something something

another local news something something

and here's a bit of video I hope you can see

The bar was small, yet...and there's no other word to use...perfect.  The stage was downstairs from the bar--but you didn't have to schlepp your gear down the stairs, as there was a driveway leading down to the back of the stage for your loading in and out convenience.

The size of the performance space wasn't particularly large, but was just right, at least it was for our needs.

We were fed like champions, with flawless vegetarian fare.  Espresso flowed freely.  For those able to experience the feeling of comfort and belonging, Bar Chupito is your place.  Even if you are immune to such feelings, Bar Chupito is also your place, even on a Monday night!  Perugia turned out!  When was the last time you went to see a show on a Monday night, and the venue was packed with people grooving, drinking, eating and having a good time?  When was the last time you did that on any night of the week?

My notes don't indicate any severe punishment or praise regarding my accuracy vis a vis pot-pissing.  My notes and my visits to their facebook page do indicate that Bar Chupito's chosen image is that of a child pissing (accurately) into the pot

What is etched in my mind was one (of many) interaction I had with a gentleman who, if Italians could get drunk, was definitely drunk.  However Italians (especially Italian men) don't get drunk, and lord knows they never get hung over.  So this man, though he had most certainly been drinking, was not drunk.

He was comfortable enough to approach me and let me know that Frank Zappa owed him 30 Euro.

"If that's all he owes you, then you got off easy"

Not Drunk gentleman then says something to me in Italian.  David kindly translates and tells me "he just challenged you to a fight"

"no no, no fight, let me pick up the tab for Frank Zappa, let me get you that 30 Euro..."

As I reach for my wallet, Not Drunk gentleman stops me, looks me in the eyes as best he can, with as much purpose as he could muster and says

"Frank Zappa"

"yes, Frank Zappa"

"Frank Zappa saved Mel Gibson"

"he did what?"

"Frank Zappa"

"Yes, Frank Zappa...he saved who now?"

"Frank Zappa saved Mel Gibson"

"How?  When?"

"In a helicopter"

"Mel Gibson was in a Helicopter and Frank Zappa saved him?"

(this pissed him off)

"NO.  Frank Zappa was flying the helicopter and he saved Mel Gibson"

"I dunno dude...I'm not sure Frank Zappa could operate a car, let alone a helicopter...helicopters are really hard to op..."


"Mad Max?"

"Frank Zappa saved Mad Max in a helicopter.  Mel Gibson is Mad Max."

"So what you're saying is that Frank Zappa was in the movie _Mad Max_ and in that movie, Frank Zappa's Character saved Mad Max, the character played by Mel Gibson"


Because I hate to hurt peoples feelings, I tried the best I could to softly suggest the potential for untruth in what he was saying.  Meanwhile, by now, a few people were working their cell phones trying to get to the bottom of things.

As it  turned out, William Zappa was in the _Road Warrior_.  He may or may not have saved Mel Gibson in a helicopter.  It's been a while since I've seen the movie.

This did not convince Not Drunk gentleman, who grabbed his cell phone and began looking.  As the operation of a cell phone proved too difficult, he passed his phone to his lady friend instructing her to get to the bottom of things. She obliged and while scrolling about, turned to me and said "I feel sorry for you."

After this, Not Drunk gentleman delivered a monologue in Italian.  According to David he said that I was a "a skinny southern guy, just out of rehab, pretending to speak English just to get a meal."

Which isn't totally false, and, also, could have been nothing something Drunk gentleman said, but instead, something entirely fabricated by David.  Those sentiments were quite similar to the ones David had shared repeatedly over the last 29 days.

The evening ended with no final conclusion regarding why Frank Zappa owed Not Drunk Gentleman 30 Euro nor Frank Zappa's role in Mel Gibson's safety, on or off the screen.  If you have any answers, feel free to put them in the comments part of the Blog.

After the antics, (In Peruguia, they sure do serve grappa in tall glasses to the ladies) we were driven to where we were staying.  To get there we went through a warren of tiny streets and pre-Christian buildings to our place for the evening.  Those pre-Christians knew a thing or two about building comfortable dwellings even if they couldn't think 2000 years into the our beautiful car filled future.  Then again, I could have been offered a mostly clean floor and I would not have minded at all.  I mean, I didn't mind in Rome, and I didn't mind in Berlin, and I had a great night at Bar Chupito, so....

In bed at 2:30am