fake empire

The National might be a bit big for this little bindle, but if you don’t mind, I don’t either.  Boxer and Alligator were both excellent albums– They got big for a reason.  Here: have

something easy, and gentle, and wonderful.

“No thinking for a little while…”

the last belief

It was nearly a decade ago at Bobwundaye, in its old location in Taipei, in the middle of a typhoon.  Katrina Ku dragged me up there, got up on a chair, and yelled at everyone to shut up and listen.  Then she offered me a shot, which I had to refuse because I was about to throw up.  When it was over I believed, if only for the night, that I was an artist.  Whatever bridge I end up under, whatever bottle I drown in, I’ll be forever grateful to her for that.

The packed bar was silent, the typhoon raged outside.  Everyone looked at me.  I said this:

willow tree

Every time Chad Vangaalen comes on while I’m driving I think I must put him on the bindle immediately.  He’s really weird, and weirdly dark, and darkly beautiful.  But then there’s other songs by other artists, then there’s getting home, then there’s dropping everything where it goes and changing clothes, then there’s opening an exciting new beer, then finally there’s sitting down to write, and by then, inevitably, it’s gone.

Well not this time, Chad.

I got you, you fucker.

Did I mention he’s also an illustrator and animator, who won a Prism Prize for a Timber Timbre video?  Sort of a Ralph Steadman vibe:

This guy…

just didn’t need to know

St. Louis was going to save me.  I was going to plant the fragile seedling of my flowering mental health there and ride its rising growth up out of myself.  Instead the stalk was trampled in a wild ride of debauchery and loneliness and barbecue and insanity and music and despair.  I learned so much.  What I didn’t learn was how to save myself.  This song was playing.

“And I could blame it all on you my dear, but really who’s to blame?”

retrograde

Gorgeous voice, piano-based hip-hop beat, synths, and a little 808 clapper in the background.  I wish the rest of his work was less plain R&B, and more this.  As far as I can tell, it’s either about someone who’s been dumped and is now back in fashion, like a hipster beard, with a cynical sneer grown across the wound– Oh, now you want me again?  That kind of cynicism– Else it’s about the loneliness of a co-dependent relationship, where your friendships wither and die on the vine, and it’s just the two of you, alone, together.  Both readings work, and both make me smile, sadly.

“Suddenly I’m hip…”

oogum boogum

4AM, coming down, wasted in a dorm room, passing a glass jug of Carlo Rossi rosé.  Fuck it.

Oogum Boogum.

“Now go on with your bad self…”

the cure

He pulled his little skiff up on the shore and shipped the oars.  It was a small island like all the others, but in the middle there was a little forest.  He walked up from the beach and found himself in a beautiful grotto.  Soft, filtered sunlight trickled through the leaves and a brook gurgled crisp and clear beneath his feet.  In the middle of the clearing there was a large rock, and seated cross-legged upon this rock was a wrinkled old man.

“Hey!” he said to the man.

“Hello,” the old man said.

“…Hey!” he said again.  The man raised a bushy white eyebrow.  “Are there any peacocks on this island?”

“Yes,” the old man said, “there’s one over there.”  He followed the man’s gaze and indeed, there was a sleek green peacock drinking from the stream across the clearing.  He strode over to the creature and gripped it by the head.

“Don’t do it,” the old man offered.  He looked at the man, then the bird, which was now looking at him.  Then the man again, then the bird.  He took out his knife.  “I’m telling you,” the old man offered again, “don’t do it.”  He cut its throat.

The peacock gurgled and went slack beneath his hand.  He pulled its slit neck to his mouth and drank as much of the gushing blood as he could, pausing for breaths.  Then he stopped and looked at the old man.  He was covered in blood.

“I don’t feel anything.”

“Of course not.”

“Are there any more peacocks?”

“That was the last one.”

“How do you know?”

“I killed the others.”

“Oh.”  He looked down and let the dead peacock fall to the grass.  “Well I need more blood, that’s the cure.”

“Who told you that?”

He scratched the back of his neck with the tip of his knife.  “You know?  I can’t remember.”

“What’s the cure for?”

“I… don’t actually know.”  He hazarded a quick glance at the dead bird.  His mouth went flat and he let go a little sigh.  “This is a dream, isn’t it.”

“What do you think?”

“Well then who am I?”

“That’s the first intelligent question you’ve asked.

“Yeah, but who am I, really?  I have to know.”

“Have you learned anything?”

“No, to be honest, I’m very confused.  All of this is very confusing.  What’s wrong with me?  Why do I need a cure?  Why did I think it was blood?”

The old man raised a bushy eyebrow, stroked his chin, and nodded.

“No, wait, please—“

He woke up and there she was.  He watched her chest rise and fall evenly in her sleep.  Outside their little house, the rising winds of a great storm blew trash across the yard.  He eased himself out of bed and looked down at her.  He saw her then as he had first seen her all those years ago, laughing, dancing, smiling—smiling at him.  Choosing him.  He should never have killed that bird.

Somewhere inside him a crack split his ball of anger. First one, then many, until spidering in all directions they covered the whole hardened mass.  Then it broke. He laid his anger down in pieces and in its place found only sadness — she was his best friend.  He reached down and brushed the hair from her eyes.  Outside it began to pour.

Who was he?  What was wrong with him?  He didn’t know.  There was work to be done, and he resolved to do it in kindness.  He stepped out into the storm.  As he walked, lightning struck the ground all around him.  Trees ripped from the earth and went flying.  He was terrified.  He stopped and looked back at the house.  He was absolutely terrified.

zoloft

In the halcyon days of Napster and Limewire, a song labeled ‘Ween – Zoloft’ started getting passed around.  This in itself isn’t odd, but what is odd is that there was a song called ‘Zoloft’ on Ween’s album Quebec, and it was not this song.  For years and years that’s all we had to go on: Not Ween.  It was a mystery.

Recently a band called The Vintage Chimps in the UK started claiming the song, saying they labeled it Ween to grab publicity (the header above is the only shot I could find of them).  Unfortunately, it worked so well that Ween got all the publicity.  The real title is either ‘Western Skies’ or ‘Kim,’ depending on who you ask.  Frankly, I like ‘Zoloft.’

Regardless of its actual origin, it’s a great song, and its popularity is a testament to the fact that however much we may love a good story, the art is more important than the artist.  I listened to it looking down over the Pacific ocean, utterly alone, on my very first flight to Taiwan.  I was scared, and it soothed me.  In the end, that’s all that matters.  May it soothe you too.

“Kim… take us to your western skies…”

[ed: check the comments]

the bene gesserit litany against fear

“I must not fear.

Fear is the mind-killer.

Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.

I will face my fear.

I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.

Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.

Only I will remain.”

walking with jesus

Spacemen 3 did their damage in the 80s, carving out a sound I’ve best heard described as, “minimalist punk psychedelia.”  Big on drugs, singing here about heroin, their place in history will probably be as an unheralded part of a composite sound, an appropriation without credit in the music of others.  That’s some bullshit.  Here they are themselves: the much mimicked, never emulated,

Spacemen 3.

These guys were the tits.

gold

Deceptively simple, polished crystal vocals, and a deft touch on a very subtle drop.  It’s almost primitive how basic it is.  I’m sure I’ll get sick of it soon.  Not today though.

43. Poor little heart

____POOR little heart!
____Did they forget thee?
Then dinna care! Then dinna care!

____Proud little heart!
____Did they forsake thee?
Be debonair! Be debonair!

____Frail little heart!
____I would not break thee:
Could’st credit me? Could’st credit me?

____Gay little heart!
____Like morning glory
Thou’ll wilted be; though’ll wilted be!

Emily Dickinson

from mud, dandelions rise towards the sun

i once saw a little kid running
down the road with a saxophone
it was little, little kid sized
what a wonderful thing i thought
and i smoked as he ran on by
later i heard a little girl reading
a poem i wrote and it too
was little, little kid sized
what a wonderful thing i thought
and i drank as her little voice lilted
born pure up out of this world.

On Freedom: An Historical Manifesto

______The old order was feudalism, a political and economic system of hereditary aristocracy that derived power from the king and ruled absolutely.  The compact with the serfs held that for their fealty and taxes, the peasantry would be protected and could work their land, the king’s land, on high interest loan.  The reality was that they were property.  But little barons and dukes and princes were raised at the feet of tutors who spoke of a divine responsibility to govern justly those beneath them.  At least there was that.  The roles were set at birth, there was next to no social mobility outside of the church or a king’s blessing, and more often than not, the words of the tutors went unheeded and the lords of men were cruel and vicious people.  But there were a few, here and there, who listened, and who took seriously the responsibility they had to care for the lives entrusted to them.

______Today we have a new government and a new economic system.  We removed the hereditary aristocracy and landed bondage of the serfs, and replaced it with the dream of a free market and a society of free actors, each in control of their own destiny, with the power to trade rags for riches in a single generation.  We demolished the old system, and the beautiful ideas of the Enlightenment came to fruition for the first time with the founding of the American republic.  Thomas Jefferson saw a new country arising on a new continent with a startling lack of wealth disparity and an equality of opportunity un-imaginable in the dynastic monarchies of Europe.  The new continent was so vast and so full of wealth that the prospect of becoming a landed citizen existed for anyone willing to go west.  In his innocence he labored under the delusion that these conditions would hold; that the old tyranny would not evolve here.  Here where slavery reigned.

______We are now lurching drunkenly through the final, farcical act of that republic, the longest lasting constitutional democracy the world has ever known.  When the bonds of feudalism were smashed and finally, when King George III had to remove his boot from the backs of his American subjects, a new and novel victory was won.  An incredible document was forged, creating a government of checks and balances, of bi-cameral legislative houses, of federal and state bodies to represent local and national interests, an impartial judiciary to set down a new legal precedent, and a built-in capacity to change and evolve over time.  Acknowledging the human instinct to primacy, it was built to create a balance between the inevitable factions.  It was one of the most beautiful, audacious moments in human history.  Sovereignty now rested in the people.  And in the muck that was this new and still unsettled political order, the lords of capital flourished.

______The free market is the finest method we have ever devised for efficiently allocating goods and services.  It is a system that looks unflinching into the eye of humanity and is built around our most predominant core trait, the manner in which we are most predictable:  Selfishness.  When the tyranny of the monarchy was removed, when men became suddenly free to govern themselves, a new tyranny arose to fit this new freedom.  People pushed and shoved against the as yet undiscovered boundaries of this new order, seeking a manner in which to claw themselves upwards, as ever, over the cries of those they shoved down.  The surest vehicle to power in this void was the market.  Those among us with the willingness to kill and enslave, those who saw opportunity in others’ misery and misfortune, those who made a cold profit at any cost, were rewarded with the role of barons in this new world.  The most effective cut-throats of humanity, rewarded by greed as the engine of growth, were raised to prominence over us all.

______And they ensconced themselves there.  The market is no longer free.  A government regulating monopolies, preventing collusion and keeping competition alive is required for a free market, and there’s no profit in that.  The dream of rags to riches is a fallacy afforded the masses as an opiate to supplement the old religions.  They bought out the legislature and they created a new hereditary aristocracy to pass it down to their progeny, who never had even the tiny check of tutors telling them they were born to rule, and as such had a responsibility to those they ruled.  This new breed of self-congratulatory, back-patting barons told themselves success is due to merit and gumption and naught else.  There is no compassion in any of it, no tutor to whisper as he tucks in his young charge, “rule well, little one, be a wise and gentle king.”  Ruling is simply the by-product of power; the means to more power.

______There is nothing good, nothing positive, nothing to believe in, in the people who have come to rule us.  They rule for themselves, the children of our codified system of selfish incentives.  They who devoured their siblings, they who rose  to top the market then colluded to force out competition, they who used their monopolistic positions to infiltrate the halls of power, to influence the laws, to slide members of their caste into the judiciary, they who have now have declared money as speech.

______If money is freedom to speak, then a tiny handful of us have drastically louder voices than the rest.  No longer do local elections revolve around local issues.  No longer do representatives from your  area represent your interests in congress.  They get their money to run their campaigns and thus their mandate to action from other sources.  As much lip service as they pay, as many babies as they kiss, the faucet of their funds, the means to their power, is very much in the hands of a global commercial interest.  That is not representative democracy, that is oligarchy; that is a cabal of corporations running a country.  And corporations have their own morality, a morality that has nothing to do with the morals of man: profit is good, loss is evil.  That’s it.  Growth must be maintained.  And that morality now governs our country, with all the might and flex of the American military straining its leash to be used.  And what can be done?

______Revolution is out.  We have modernized and militarized our nation to such an extreme that a public uprising would be laughable, if anyone survived the bloodbath long enough to laugh.  The efficiency with which the revolution would be put down, a revolution Jefferson encouraged, would be bone-chilling.  Those who seize power for the sake of power do not give it up, ever, without resorting to the violence at their disposal.  And the violent capacity of the modern American military is unmatched in the history of humanity.  So that leaves a military coup as the only possible uprising that could unseat the government.  And thus would end the republic.  The Caesar to our Cato.  And how often has the leader of a coup had even the minor graces of a Caesar?  I have no hope for another Washington to arise, seize the government, then voluntarily step down to show he is merely a citizen among equals.  That was a unique moment in human history.  So what can be done?

______We live under the protection of the bill of rights, the fruits of the enlightenment; we are the children of the constitution, the souls who have been deemed self-evidently equal.  Some things have changed, yes, and for the better.  We can speak, though it be a whisper.  We can aim for a slow and gradual change, the only option open to us, each aching, dragging step a struggle.  We can live lives of beauty, and honesty, and kindness in the meantime.  We can redefine success and we can refuse to accept a system re-written by the worst of us to further their own carnal, short-sighted, commercial dreams.  I admit it is not much.  The history of humanity is one of overwhelming cruelty, bondage, and violence, where the tyrannical instinct to dominate is so fierce as to rise to the top of any system we set before it.  At this stage in our evolution, utopia is a pipe dream — it’s simply not in the human animal.

______And yet, here we are.  However hijacked it is, we live in a republican democracy, the finest dream of checks and balances, popular sovereignty, and personal freedom to ever grace this earth.  The crafters of this dream got so much right, so much that is worth salvaging.  What they missed was the explosion of global capitalism, the incredible extent to which that wealth would be concentrated, and the political nature of the power that brought.  Make no mistake: We are not represented, we are ruled.  We pulled down the kings and the merchants took their thrones.  So what can be done?

______We can publicly fund our campaigns.  All of them.

By stripping private money and paid lobbyists from politics we can re-introduce the concept of civil servants.  When private money appears, we can condemn it for the bribery that it is.  This raises immediate questions of course, such as how much money is to be allotted each candidate?  How many candidates can run? What, if any, are the qualifications?  These are complicated, but not impossible questions.  Answering them will be the first step towards prying corporate morality off the head of our democracy before it devours its host.

______You shake your head, you say that even were such laws written to our satisfaction, the only people who could enact them are the very people they are designed to disenfranchise.  I agree.  It’s an impossible task.  But as my mother once told me, when faced with an impossible task, there is only one thing to do:

Begin.

dream a sweet dream

living is a dream state dying
is waking in one awesome gasp
to that old endless place
of nothing and nothingness
forever but fuck it forget that
just remember that once
you knew it keep it hidden keep it
secret somewhere safe let it live
somewhere in you as the truth
we believe is the foundation
we tie ourselves to as we toss
in the stormclouds the line
that stretches back way back
all the way back to the truth
we believe in the bedrock
and up there freedom is slack
in the line and trouble is when
it goes taut but know that it snaps
if you’re not careful with the truth
we believe the foundation let it live
inside you for without it we’re lost
to reality lost in the end to the storm
to ourselves to what matters but hush
now forget it forget it i’m sorry go back
to sleep go to sleep go to sleep
and dream a sweet dream.

buckingham green

So I was meeting my friend Patrick at Revolver (formerly The Source, failed gay bar and best decrepit, empty, four-story watering hole in Taipei) for some drinks.  Things had changed, and when I got there he shouted over the din of popped-collared, rugby-bro yelling that there was some Queen cover band upstairs.  Meh, I thought.  We sat drinking for a while, until I caught a few strands of guitar through the floor.  “Man,” I yelled to him, “that’s balls trying to pull off Freddie Mercury.”

“No, not Queen,” he shouted back, “Ween.

WHAT?!”

I raced upstairs, just in time for Buckingham Green:

Man, the incongruity of a Ween cover band anywhere, much less Taipei, tickles me so much. They are a pair of weirdos, Gene and Dean Ween, sometimes silly, sometimes serious, sometimes both.  They drank, did drugs, and wrote and performed prolifically together for almost 30 years — their oeuvre is immense.  I recommend starting with The Mollusk.

B-Side: Birthday Boy

this is the day

Waking up to sickly sunlight in a hotel with hourly rates.  A phone call from the front desk in a foreign language.  The headache, the nausea, the raw throat, the check-out time.  She speaks the thought I always shushed.  The tapping of the little bag on the table.  A tremor in the hand that lights a cigarette.  A slug of cane liquor from the bottle.  Our skin is smooth, we are still young.  One of these days will be the day.

“You were watching the whites of your eyes turn red…”

The Sun, Wind, Waves and Sand

big and fat with a floppy hat
obscuring squinty eyes
and a bulbous nose but not
the giant ears the sun is shining

unnoticed in big smears running
down his moley back un-rubbed
sunscreen the wind
is light and refreshing

ambling duck-footed
down the beach kneeling to inspect
something in the sand the sound
of waves is soothing

the belly folding many times
as he kneels the flabby chest
on display the sand
is soft and warming

and he came to this beach alone
and he laid out his towel alone
and now he is standing alone with
a spiral shell in his hand looking
out over the sparkling ocean

and God almighty,

what a Beautiful smile.

i think i need a new heart / i don’t want to get over you

Most of The Magnetic Fields’ 69 Love Songs work simultaneously on two levels: Driving, laughing, with the windows down, and wallowing under covers in self-pity.  So I’ll make this one a double feature.  First, for the first:

Then a very young Stephen Merrit, performing live on Later… with Jools Holland.  In general he is a master of the incongruously snappy, love-lorn underworld.  Here he drops the snappy.

“Somebody not too bright, but sweet and kind…”

you know when you wake

you know when you wake
with that aimless drunk
you did something bad
guilt and your nose
hurts and you wonder
did i do drugs?
did i get hit?
did i hit myself
on something again?
there’s blood in my snot
in the shower though i think
this time it wasn’t drugs
i’m pretty sure i shamed
myself squinting i get hazy
memories of making out
with a married girl-woman
on the floor by her passed
out boy-husband hugging
a tub of wine i’m a mess
without you my nose hurts
and i don’t know why
my self-esteem ebbs and pulses
and swells and flutters
like a shaky heartbeat.

waking on the shore of some distant place

it’s all very simple to begin
you realize you’re floating
in blue sky and so be it but this
soon devolves into drifting
without tether or mooring which
is all well and good until a rumbling
begins behind you and you know
this cannot be good all this rumbling
behind you is growing and gathering
strength and collecting the light
from a sky growing dark as a panic
flame flares in your brain as that
rumble now roars and of a sudden
you’re swept up inside and beset
by great winds you can’t see
the world in chaos just watching
your little feet churn at the air

mad girl’s love song

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”

-Sylvia Plath

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