Friday, August 11, 2017

Day 21 -- The Geneva Convention / Coltrane is Boolshit / Did I Ever Get A Recording of That Show?

My time in Geneva began at 11am when I finally woke up to see a dramatically aged americanino crippled dog looking at me in the mirror.

However that americanino crippled dog is never to old to learn some new information!

Just as farting on clothes folded on a bed as a good-morning, John Coltrane as a fuck-up is another foundational, oft repeated Jooklo trope that never ever gets worn out.

"Coltrane is boolshit"

"Something really wrong with that guy"

"Sloppy" (not to be confused with Milford Graves, who is also "sloppy")

"All surface"

"The same bebop groove from the beginning to the end"

Here's what boolshitter arounder americanino  Jackie Mclean had to say about that sloppy boolshit guy who is all surface:

Jackie McLean:  Right. Exactly. Here’s Trane coming in every night sick and drinking booze, as much as he can drink to get through this thing. And then when he gets on the stage, his clothes were all wrinkled up because he was sleeping in his same clothes. And this is about the 4th night now. They opened on like a Tuesday. Friday night, when the club is packed with people man, here comes Trane with the same clothes smelling like, you know…and Miles is looking at him…and I’m listening to him play and his pain and his physical discomfort in addition to whatever else…it was almost like Jesus….it was almost religious in the sense that it was like….the stone rolling away from the cave where Jesus’s body was…he was gonna rise up…I mean he was delirious. And they would play them tunes of Miles, you know the band. And he was sloppy, playing the melodies with Miles, it wasn’t smooth.

But when he got to his solo, and they had one tune where they corral him up in a mode for about 32 bars. [sings rhythm] “Dang—Dang–Dang…Dang—Dang–Dang…” Like that, you know. And he was…he was playing so much saxophone, man, it was like…and he couldn’t…what he couldn’t make he just kept going and it sounded like he made it anyway. I mean even when he hit bad notes…everything sounded like….there was nothing that he could do that was wrong…it was all out of tune….all…had nothing to do with changes and everything…but  swinging!…and then every now and then he’d get it back together and come back in on the changes, you know…and right back at it…oh man. I was sitting out there with my mouth hanging open. And people were coming up to me saying Man, why don’t Miles get Hank Mobley?”

And I was saying “What are you crazy? Don’t you see what’s going on here?”

“Aw man he’s up there all drunk.”

But I said “Man, are you listening to him?”

“Aw man he ain’t shit…he sounds…”

You know. I was like “Man, what is wrong with these cats?”

That was the time that John had me.

SL:  He kind of turned your head.

JM:  He had me. He got me. Because, I mean, he was playing what I was looking for. You know it’s like when I heard Bird the first time. Bird was playing what I wanted to hear. I didn’t like any altos…I didn’t like the alto.

Sloppy and swinging?   IMPOSSIBLE!  Someone exhume Jackie Mclean and tell him he's wrong! Out of pot piss as inspiration for Jackie Mclean?  HOW CAN THAT BE? And what's that?  Jackie McLean was an educator?  Like, a member of the Academy?  What's there to learn from "the Academy?"

And for your listening distress, below please listen to early John Coltrane v. late John Coltrane--and see if you can hear the difference, or if as posited, "it's the same be-bop grove from beginning to end"


End, which is totally identical to the beginning.

Maaaybe if you really squint your ear holes you can sort of make out some kind of an aesthetic developmental arc...but for the most part, 1957 might as well have been Tuesday and 1966 Thursday of the same week for all the samey same-ness and non-developmet of the "same be bop groove from beginning to end" of that "really fucked up guy."

?????       ?????

Oddly there aren't many notes for day 21 in my journal.

Some sort of something about the crazy notion that people might judge situations differently when drinking (maybe that's true for Americaninos, but c'mon now, these are Europeans....)

The show was recorded by a big fan of Frank Zappa.  He was a gentleman.  Not only did he know who Husker Du were, he might have loved them as much as he loved Frank Zappa!

I wonder...did the other 3/4ts of the ensemble get a copy of this recording?  It sure seemed meticulously recorded and the equipment seemed to be top notch.  When I asked for 2 microphones, no one (in a position to do anything) looked at me like a crippled dog.  Ah well, easy come easy go.  I'm sure I'll get my copy eventually, along with the rest of the ruined by-my-out-of-pot-piss recordings from the tour.

The show was attended by an even bigger Frank Zappa fan than the sound engineer who recorded the show of which I have yet to receive a, a Zappanale attending, friends with Jimmy Carl Black level of Zappa fan.  He had some interesting factoids and anecdotes to share, some not about Frank Zappa, but about his home of Slovenia.  I have since lost in the the rubbish pit that is my barely covered with hair mind.  Does that surprise anyone?

The venue was as delightful and Euro-superior as promised.

The food and hospitality were top notch.

They made a groovy poster.  Maybe there were even a few people in the audience?

After the show, David asked for a "big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big big beer" and received it quickly with a smile.

And yet, for some strange reason, I just wasn't feeling it. 

The last entry in the journal for Day 21:

D & V seem pleased...I am not.  Funny how that works.

In bed, 3am.

Thursday, August 10, 2017

Day 22 -- LISTEN UP! The Nordic Delight of 5th trimester Ultra Precise Pot Pissing and More!

Today we had a day off in jolly olde Stockholm. Since idyll hands are the devil's play thing, our very kind and gracious host "invited" us to hear some music at the ultra hip FASCHING club. By "invited" I mean it was suggested we all pay our own goddamn way to behold the goings on.

A text message was sent by not-me to the major domo of the evening, the one and only Mats Gustafsson.  Before you (or I) knew it, we were on the guest list.

The performance that evening was part of Mr. Gustafsson "Listen up" series. Perhaps you have seen this jaunty logo, bespoke for this series

Said logo would also look great on a 14-year-old's skateboard, or as a Halloween decoration, or something against whom a robot might battle, don't you think?

The venue was a "nice" one--matching chairs and tables, a small balcony, a strangely situated stage, dark stained wood...I dunno, it looked nice to me--but then I'm judging it against the fourth world shit holes of New York City where only boolshitting arounding happens. And there again, I only know the worst of the worst of said fourth world shit hole emporiums of boolshittery and, occasionally, savage retardica. Squats on 13th and B (before the stock brokers took it over), ABC No Rio, CBGB's and so forth. I did go to Sweet Basil's once to see Mal Waldron. Piano, drums and two saxophones. Torrents of piss everywhere except in the pot . But that's Americanino boolshitter arounder Mal Waldron for you.

Back to FASCHING, the place was packed!  I managed find a seat in the very furthest corner of the venue. Even there the sound was good.

Eventually, a molecule of unrelenting excitement passed through the large intestine shaped club. The cow-boy booted nucleus of the excitement was Mr. Gustafsson himself, with none other than Mr. Raymond Strid as neutron.  Before I knew it, said nucleus was surrounded by numerous weightless electrons, spinning furiously, held in taut orbit from shell 1 to 8 by his charismatic magnetisim (charismagnetisim?).

I met Mats at VCMI many years back. For those of you who are ignorant of VCMI (dont' worry, your ignorance does not equal stupidity...only mine) all you need to know it was, by-in-large a good thing that only looked like some kind of Nordic money laundering scheme. I also met Mr. Strid at that same VCMI. Mr. Strid actually taught for the week while Mr. Gustafsson made a quick cameo and delivered a "talk". Here are my notes from Mr. Gustafsson's lecture:

"Zen, after zee show vee drink some beers..."

Mr. Strid gave a bit of a lecture at one point as well, wherein he exalted the audio-fidelity of the i-Pod, calling it the "best Walkman [he's] ever owned."

Totally worth zee time and zee money. Tell me again why VCMI went tits up?

Though my interactions with Mr. Strid and Gustafsson left a deep and lasting impression, clearly that was not a two way phenomena. Partially because I don't give a shit about hockey, not one bit, partially because I am an americanino shitter arounder crippled dog who lives in a rubbish house filled with rubbish.

Foolish me, I was hoping that there would be a moment of quiet whereupon musicians (or philosophers) could speak to one another in our special, secret musician (or philosopher) language. Short of that, I was hoping to less ask and more hector Mr. Gustafsson about what the fuck is up with the post-post modern "Zappa" de-and-re construction?

So long as you can suck the butt
Of the contractor who calls you up
Your career could take a thud
Unless you kneel and scarf his pud
And when the dates come rolling in
You can wipe your lips and flash a grin

Questions thought of, but obviously not asked, (because I am an americanino man  out of pot pisser who won't/can't learn from a "girl"), randomly and hypothetically addressed to the memebers of the Nu-Ensemble include:

Mats Olaf Gustafsson--How many times have you seen Frank Zappa live?

Sten Standel--When was the last time you smoked a carton of cigarettes and drank 3 gallons of coffee over the course of a rehearsal?

Raymond Strid--let's talk about gear!

Nate Wooley-- Batman or Boy wonder?

Anders Nyqvist--were you ever made an honorary member of the Hells Angels?

Jaap Blonk--have you ever spent time in jail?

Julien Desprez--Have you ever lived on a military base where chemical warfare (poison gas and the like) was the primary area of human-on-human research?

Ken Vandermark -- When was the last time you subsisted on "burnt weenie sandwiches" for more than a week?

If they're lucky they'll get famous
For a week or two perhaps
They'll buy some ugly clothes to wear
And hope the business don't collapse
Before some stupid magazine
Decides they're really good..........

Mette Rasmussen--What are your feelings about Johnny "Guitar"Watson?  How about Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown?  How would you compare and/or contrast?

Jamie Saft-- Have you ever broken your leg or neck after being thrown off a stage?

Ingebrigt Haker Flaten -- With how many people other than your spouse or significant other have you enjoyed the majestic glory of intercourse after a performance?

Morgan Agren-- Jesus Christ, dood, haven't you had enough already?

Hedvig Mollestad-- How many years and hundreds of thousands of dollars have you spent fighting a major media conglomerate?

Then there are those questions best suited for the philosophers and not the musicians in the group(s):

Why Frank Zappa now?

How can you tell if your "re-arrangement" of Frank Zappa's music was a "success?" Is it by your feelings immediately after the performance while the audience is still applauding? By volume of audience applause?  By what others tell you?  By what you tell you?

What are you hoping to achieve by deconstructing the music of Frank Zappa that Frank Zappa did not achieve by constructing the music of Frank Zappa?

Who is your target audience? Are they fans of Frank Zappa? Are they fans of the musicians in the ensemble? Are they fans of going out to drink in the fantastic art-glow of such a multi-national petro-chemical dependant all star ensemble of experts, regardless of what they are playing?

If there was any content, let alone "political" content in Frank Zappa's lyrics, does their de-construction strengthen that political content, or does it diffuse said political content? 

And so on and so on and so on and so...Where's Ben Watson when you need him?

Getting back to the musical evening at hand, we were privileged to witness three acts.

The first act was "old white guy butoh." That wasn't their real name, mind you, but a factual reading of the actual reality.

Now maybe some of you are familiar with a drummer known by expert philosophers simply as "Sloppy." Naturally, all of you know who Min Tanaka is. However if you are ignorant as to who Min Tanaka is, worry thee not--you are not dumb.  Only Americaninos who don't know which civilization preceded the Romans are dumb.

Anyhow, "Sloppy" and Min Tanaka have performed together over the years, sometimes in Japan, sometimes in the United States.

"Sloppy" and Min Tanaka's reading of Butoh is arresting. "Old white guy butoh" was curious. To be clear, "curious" is neither a pejorative nor does it signify anything lasting.  Nevertheless, it was a welcome start to what we all hoped would be an engaging evening of music.

The next group, a veritable "super group" of "all stars" and "experts", featured Mr. Gustafsson on about $30,000 worth of saxophones, including a beautiful, two-metal bass saxophone. Truly and honestly a thing of musical and engineering beauty. Though "saxophones are boolshit" I, as saxophonist man boolshitter, would have loved to hear Mr. Gustafsson give a rundown of the pedigree and unique qualities of each horn (not to mention mouthpiece and ligature choices). That kind of thing fascinates me--more proof that I am an americanino out of pot pissing crippled dog man-idiot.

For better or worse, when at a concert, I actually attempt to listen to the music.  (I know, I know, more americanino bool shitting arounding.)  I usually do so with eyes closed. This is for two reasons. Reason one is because closing my eyes makes my listening holes work better. Reason two is because closing my eyes protects me from the affected, horrendous grimaces (or "jazz faces") those musicians more concerned with the visual tend to make as a way of underscoring the "intensity" of that particular musical gesture within the whole.

Verily there is nothing more vulgar than the "jazz face"--except of course for the "Jazz  Shout"--indeed there is nothing in the entire goddamn universe more vulgar and completely fucking bool-shit than a fake ass affected very silly never ever ever convincing "Jazz Shout."  Holy Sweet Mother of Jesus Christ in Heaven will someone please give me a mother fucking break, mother fucking "jazz shout." 


And so it was, with eyes closed, I listened to Mr. Gustafsson play the horns (plural) and, quite often, I couldn't tell which one he was using. Though Mr. Guffasston switched from horn to horn, rarely did he exploit the horn in question's  unique qualities. Did Mr. Gustafsson ever grunt out a fff low Bb? How about a mf (mother fucking) D below middle C? Not that I recall.

Visual pizzaz aside, was there a musical / functional / strategic / aesthetic difference between the Bass and the Baritone? Or the Bass and the other smaller horn for that matter? The obviously excellent musical reason and the subtle differences between each horn played in the same range was (surprise surprise) lost on this shitter arounder know nothing out of pot pisser crippled dog man who can't be taught anything from a "girl." Everyone else in the audience seemed to be gobbling it up like applekaka soaked in glogg.

Part of the Gustafsson situation featured recitation in a number of languages. Fortunately for me I don't speak any languages--and so I could with great ease listen to the "words" from a tonal vantage, not knowing what any of them "meant", least of all the ones in English. 

Our host, however, speaks all the languages, and so understood every word in every language dutifully read from a dramatically large sheet of paper. For all I know, he was simultaneously translating them in to Finnish, Spanish, Italian, German, Dutch, English, Etruscian and who knows what else. He mentioned the reading being his least favourite aspect of the performance. 

Understanding what people say is a burdeon.  Understanding what the majority of what white people on earth are saying at any given moment must be a crippling burdeon

Finally, the show for which "we" have all been waiting began.  A "rock" group!  Two ladies and a man who dresses like a lady!  WOW!  Is that zany or what?  Like, he's a man, and he's wearing woman's clothes!  HOLD UP, am I on upside-down world or something?

The guitar player in the group was 13 months pregnant.  This added an, uh, unexpected (?) element to the performance--namely the constant fear that madame’s water was going to break at any moment, leaving a mess far more sinister and difficult to clean than any amount of out of pot piddle I could ever hope to spray with my little crippled americanino man-horn.

Hopefully madame has, by now, enjoyed a successful and painless child birth.  Further, we all hope that the newborn's head isn't mishapen from madame's guitar bumping against the womb as she carefully hopped from one foot to another through out the show.

Speaking of carefully hopping from one foot to another, so moving and movement-inspiring was the Hedvig Mollestad trio's performance that a certain goalie was seen also carefully hopping from one foot to another, (a drink was in hand after all) staring blankly into white space, grooving to the in-the-pot-piss sounds of what felt like a never ending geyser of precise, metric, groove, diatonic in-the-pot piss.

Mind you, pissing in the pot is of double importance in Norway.  One speck of boolshitting arounding errant crippled dog piddle not sprayed directly into the tonal, metric, diatonic well proportioned toilet hole could easily freeze and make slippery conditions in the toilet paper room.  A woman in her 5th trimester could easily slip on that frozen man-pee!  And then what?  Appear on stage at Listen Up with an ugly bruise showing through his or her fish-nets? 

Heaven forbid.

The music was sort of like Black Sabbath mixed with Band of Gypsies mixed with Laurence Welk mixed with a Lamaze class mixed with Clonipin mixed with dinner at a nursing home mixed with matching outfits mixed with super high-end gear mixed with a super high-end standard of living mixed with super high self esteem mixed with that aspect of Nordic Culture that is NOT about Cracked Cop Skulls or licking shit.

Aaaand after that, things get blurry.  We obviously went home.  Maybe the philosopher men stayed up to talk important and clearly not boolshit talk about their important feelings on really important topics?  Perhaps they spun a 12" vinyl (ooooh ahhhh) of Ceremonial African Pygmy music as played by a bronze age tribe in the Andes recorded on a fucking cassette deck?  Who knows, maybe they listened to a cassette copy of the vinyl?  I can assure you they didn't listen to any Joe Maneri. 

I went to bed, because I am an old crippled dog with a "plaza".

Ignore me. 

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

a picture from Stockholm is worth 1000 boolshit americanino words

 Fuck this place, I'm going home

 It's like applause...

You know goddamn well what time it is 

Life skills training at an elementary school.  Ready for your future, kids?

kindly painted on the outside of a seminary by the respectful 

what else is there to do when it's winter 10 months out of the year? 

Back-up cam and GPS extra

Just about sums it up wouldn't you say?

The wages of a mayonnaise breakfast?

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Day 23 -- The Plan

The Plan.

What's the plan?

"The best plan is no plan" said know-nothing "chinese" Masanobu Fukuoka.  Absolutely no parallels between his philosophy and music--especially the "broadcasting seeds" part.  Not that I know anything about philosophy, what with being an americanino male out of pot pissing saxophonist.

Because, I mean, like, this is a really nice venue, and there are well put together white people here to see the singer songwriter who checks her phone between each song.  Ah, no matter, they will all leave once she finishes singing about "love" and what not.

(It really was a very nice venue)

Even so, that doesn't mean I can spray my piss (play the saxophone) higgledy piggeldy!  In fact, now, more than ever, I must hold my water and let it dribble out in metric, measured, repeating pattern amounts.  Maybe I should sit down when I pee?  Sitting down seems to be a thing in music nowadays.  Isn't that great news?

Of the innumerable americanino shitter arounders who have soiled "our" beloved western culture with their know nothing boooshit antics, Charles W. Hawthorne and his little americanino book of boolshitting arounding have been constant companions while I sit on the toilet, passing americanino savage retard so-called "food" in a nearly indistinguishable state, laboriously going out as it was going in.

One of the things Mr. Hawthorne says is "never try and repeat a success".

Mind you, Mr. Hawthorne was speaking of art, and not commodities, vaudeville or that keystone of capitalism, repeatability.

Unfortunately, Mr. Hawthorn says nothing about trying or not trying to repeat failures.  I for one repeat failures incessantly (unable to learn, least of all from a "girl") and as such I am personally and entirely responsible in totality for all said failures, what with my out of pot pissing and too americanino-ness and savage retardica.  I'm also a man and a saxophone player, so wear your golashas when entering the toilet paper room.

Speaking of the toilet paper room, it was there that I was instructed to leave all my "free jazz americanino boolshit"--presumably in perpetuity, as there are a number of dates left in this tour and enough piss has been sprayed hither and yon to last a funky good vibe Euro lifetimeLord knows how boring that "free jazz americanino boolshit" inevitably (invariably?) is, how it has inspired nothing and no one and inexplicably continues to be a practised expressive modality despite the unanimously boolshit results that clearly flawed approach to music make can not help but create.

Pigmy music from Africa on the other hand speaks to all of us directly; approachable by and speaking to all, it is a music for everyone, everywhere. Feel free to bang along on the breakfast table with what ever implement you wish!

Once Pigmy vibe time was over, it was off to the Subcontinent.  Time to get down with Raga Mangeya Bushan.

"Indian vibe--enough of this americanino boolshit!" was the announcement before the wooden flute came out and Raga Mangeya Bushan assumed the roll of Jamey Aebersold play along.

"But I am americanino boolshit" I said.  What the fuck else could I say?

"Well, leave it in the toilet paper room"  (that's where that one came from)

(and furthermore)

"What, you want us to play tarantella?"

 (and furthermore still)

"When you set up a tour with nice places, you can tell me what to do and you can play free jazz boolshit"

(and, moments before the gig)

"No free jazz.  No American music"

This raised several questions I had the good sense to keep to myself.  Questions like:

What would "people" think if the Mandolin Sisters (oooh aaah) decided "enough of this Indian boolshit...tonight we play tarantella!"


What exactly (or even vaguely) is the difference between "Improv" and "free jazz", and does that distinction have anything to do with race or class?


What makes something "art" and what makes something "stylized crap?"


When does collaboration end and employment begin?


What is American music?   


What contemporary music is free from American influence?


What music has not been taken and corrupted (boolshitted arounded) by the American culture machine--to the glee and delight of the entire western world?

Oh the things know-nothing too-american male americanino shitter arounders think when not in their rubbish house made of rubbish.

Before the gig, we went for a walk in a near by wooded pond type scene.  Rather than spend the time "playing the game called silence", it turned into an opportunity to try and teach me how to speak Italian.  This was done by repeating the same phrase over and over and over and over again.  Sometimes the phrase was repeated as if the repeater somehow managed to get a mound of shit in his mouth after having a stroke.  This, I am given to understand is how the Sicilians talk.

On the one hand it will come as a surprise that listening to the same Italian phrase over and over again didn't result in me obtaining total fluency in Italian.  On the other, it will come as no surprise as I am but a garden variety americanino man saxophone player out of pot pisser who doesn't speak any languages.  That said, appreciation is in order for the effort made to educate me by repeating the same phrase over and over again for just about the entire walk.

I say "just about" as mid way through the walk we (along with our host) took a brief break to sit down and watch the ducks.  At this time an impromptu meeting of the We Hate Marijuana because it is sooo dangerous club was brought to order.  Oh the very important ground covered in that meeting!  Really really deep dialectic.  Experience!  Strength!  Hope!  A wee dram 'round noon, no biggie, but oh that Marijuana!  The gate way drug to masturbation, communism, and out of pot pissing americanino male saxophonia!  One puff and you're a junkie!  Marijuana--a society demolishing plague!  Marijuana--that cripple-making cripple crutch for cripples that has benefited no one in the arts (or the cancer ward) unlike drinking, which has a long history of strengthening the artist, both in terms of their physical and mental health, their own work and their place in society.

My memory of the performance itself is eclipsed by memory of those rules and constraints placed upon my toilet paper room activities (playing of the saxophone and clarinet).  Nevertheless, I do recall the sound guy (who had one heck of a sense of humour) mentioning something to one of the principals that audio (and maybe video?) had been taken.  Naturally I did not get a copy of said recording.  Delivering digital files is really really hard.  Oh well, easy come, easy go--ideally in the pot.

Stay tuned for some pictures from dear old Stockholm.  In the meantime, enjoy some shitting around by a "really fucked up" guy on saxophone "who is all surface."

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)