Stereophonic Chronic

I would like to announce the introduction of a new menu on this blog. It’s that one up there that says “Stereophonic Chronic.”

It is a collection of musical recordings and experiments in sound I have done over the years. Most of them were recorded while I was in highschool, five or so years ago, but I plan to add more – maybe more mature – recordings soon, once I get my software up and running.

Here’s some of the instruments I’ve used: electric and acoustic guitar, electric bass, banjo, mandolin, fruity loops software, keyboards, synthesizers, various pedals, pots & pans, my voice, harmonica, turntables and some others.

The songs are in no particular order and come from an array of influences (Tom Waits, Frank Zappa, Aphex Twin, John Zorn, Dmitri Shostakovich, Jurassic 5 and other related artists), some being a little on the strange side. I hope to add some recent acoustic pieces soon. Anyway, the menu will always be up there on the blog, so take a look… or listen.

Literary Cannibalism Can Lead to Creative Kuru

This is an older poem. It fell into my head after listening to an episode of NPR’s “Radiolab” that talked about the origins of the muse. In it, there was a short monologue by a man who would definitely fall into my list of top ten human beings, Tom Waits. He said that he approaches each of his songs as if they were living creatures. He talks to them; tries to understand their habits; their inner workings. Almost like spirits that wrestle his attention until he gives in and turns them into music. Sometimes though, Waits said, they show up unexpectedly at the wrong moments and then never return. I think anyone who attempts to harness their own creative energy as a means to live without personal insanity, which I believe is a large sum of people, including EVERYONE who blogs, can relate to that.

Literary Cannibalism Can Lead to
Creative Kuru

No use in searching for a poem –
It will find you and make itself known.

Unannounced, unintended, untimely, unexpected
It crudely intrudes while you’re uncollected.

It finds you soaking, standing in the shower,
Or far from freedom, frozen in rush-hour;

When you’re without aid of paper or pen
You shout, “Leave me alone, but come back again!”

Yet only the former request is respected,
And the poem again becomes undetected.