the prisoner of zen

Sheesh. I just received another guest list invitation for an event at the Bowery Poetry Club between Bleecker and Houston Street, NYC. Sadly frustrating when the primary consideration is not whether I can afford the subway ticket but whether they might grant me a visa. My passport, even, has long expired.It is my cross to

happy monday

A madchester swan song. Sewn out of a pig’s ear. Produced by Chris Frantz and Tina Weymouth.▼ HAPPY MONDAYS: STINKIN’ THINKIN’ from “Yes, Please!” LP (Factory) 1992 (UK)

albert with an ‘e’

Albert Speer ; before and after an ‘e‘.photographs by david lees, 1970. ec•sta•sy |ˌɛkstəsi|noun ( pl. -sies)1 an overwhelming feeling of great happiness or joyful excitement : there was a look of ecstasy on his face | they went into ecstasies over the view. See note at rapture .2 chiefly archaic an emotional or religious

"if you can see I’m not advertising…"

now that’s what i call product placement!, vol. ix Like Cricketclaps, I can’t seem to shake the cold. I managed to briefly rid myself of one horrible viral infection at the very beginning of the year, only to succumb to yet another mutation. This Co-Codamol shit seems to help. The Codeine in it is clearly

no, not root damage

Recorded sometime between January 13th-20th, 1991 in Stockton, California. Steve Malkmus: guitar, vocals; Scott Kannberg: guitar, vocals; Gary Young: drums; Bob Nastanovich: percussion; Mark Ibold: bass. Produced by Pavement. The dishevelled Gary Young was renowned for making gifts of cabbage and other assorted vegetables to fans in a state of profound inebriation. When I was

sand

photograph by ken heyman. A huge vote of thanks to Wim for responding to my plea regarding any info on Dutch group, Alabama Kids, a band whose sonic narratives I was fleetingly exposed to while living in Holland in 1992/3. I should remember more, but – sadly – I don’t.“Schemer operated out of Schagen and

ghosts: hi-tungsten filament

a ghost in the field of nephallim ? no. it’s a charcoal berner. Begg and MacDonald. Chancers. Soap-dodgers. Ghosts of the Rolling Stones ? Or gibbering in the drool of Jack Daniels and pulling on a neck of Wild Turkey. Dust. ▼ THE GHOSTS: HI-TUNGSTEN FILAMENT from “Hitler’s Watercolours: 56 Gower Street (1989-1993)” Teac Demos

a drunk embrace

detail from “a drunk embrace“.illustration by ib, 1992. It struck me a good while back – I can’t remember precisely when – that I’ve yet to feature anything by Tom Waits. That in itself could be deemed unforgivable. I intend to remedy that right fucking here and now. Especially in light of those references to

steven jesse bernstein: this clouded heart

▼ JACOB MILLS PRESENTS STEVEN JESSE BERNSTEIN 1950 – 1991 A video first on SibLINGSHOT ON THE BLEACHERS. Created byJacob Mills. From the album “Prison”, 1992 on Sub Pop Records. Caution: viewer discretion advised.

steven jesse bernstein: postcard from the edge

a los angeles flop-house during the Great Depression, 1938. photographer uncredited. looks fine to me. More from long-term Seattle resident and ‘underground’ writer, L.A. born, Steven Jesse Bernstein. I must confess, I am constantly saddened by his suicide and the ferocity of it whenever I play this album. His self-contempt seems so utterly groundless. From

stop press: radiohead

astronomer extraordinaire, sir patrick moore. Tonight is a minor cause for celebration for many Glaswegian citizens, namely Radiohead’s “Gig On The Green“. Even my son’s mother is hosting a special party in honor of the festivities, given that her new flat’s location overlooks the very park hosting this wonderful live event. There is only one

teenage fanclub

school’s out. It’s Friday. The weekend looms large. And here in Scotland, school’s out for the summer holidays. Hooray ! So here’s two from Glasgow‘s finest. Listen out for the twisted Big Staresque guitar solo that closes “The Concept”, with echoes too of The Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love”. Beautiful. This is for Art

steven "jesse" bernstein

THERE’S GONNA BE A BORSTAL BREAKOUT… Steven “Jesse” Bernstein: December 4, 1950 – October 22, 1991. L.A. born homeboy and Seattle resident, Steven Jesse Bernstein, was a poet who literally put his skin on the line and turned an anglepoise torch on his eviscerated soul. There was nothing heroic in his demise, but a good