That the printer
To a time of 5/4;
The most savage
So I’m switching gears to music for a bit. I’ll be posting recordings and experiments in sound I’ve done over the past 8 years or so.
This one is from last year. For a while I was naming my songs after books I was reading at the time, so this is called “Cosmic Trigger” after the Robert Anton Wilson novel. The noise makers used in this song are (in order of appearance):
gong, mandolin, acoustic guitar, djembe, service bell, electric guitar, electric bass guitar, glockenspiel, keyboard (with sitar effect), and Andy Spring’s voice.
I recorded a jam with a friend recently. This is what we looked like:
This is what we sounded like (after slowing the tempo down to an audible speed):
This is a song I wrote for my girlfriend while she was away for a month. This is what we look like when we pose for pictures:
The instruments I use are: classical guitar and banjo
I recorded it on: crappy Sony recording software
It sounds like this:
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
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.