Sdtrk: ‘F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E’ by Pulp

So I’ve got Merzbow’s six-Cd boxset, Houjoue, right? Being a card-carrying fan(atic) of the music genre known as Noise/Power-electronics, I’d thought, ‘o lovely, you can’t go wrong with six disks of disparate dissonance!’ Well, perhaps you can. Believe me, I’m more disappointed than the rest of you.

My obsession with Masami Akita, aka Merzbow, can be traced back to 1993. I was in a band called Dole age (Smiths fans will get the reference), along with my best friend Sean, his future wife Sherilee, and Adam, a bloke we met at our local anime club. We were keen on alternative music, particularly Industrial and Shoegazer, so naturally we Frankensteined the two in order to make our own sound. As Throbbing gristle had disbanded in 1981 and weren’t making any more releases, and we were waiting on My bloody valentine’s followup to their epic Loveless*, Adam had a go into looking into other types of music, and the natural progression from Industrial was Noise. He picked up a disk entitled Great American Nude/Crash for hi-fi by someone called Merzbow, which we were pronouncing ‘murzboh’ until we discovered about a year later that it’s pronounced ‘mehrzbau’, after the series of related works by Dadaist Kurt Schwitters. I borrowed the Cd for *coughs* an indefinite period, and I fell in love, noisy love. This was my first true exposure to the whole Japanese Noise scene, and it was shredding my mind, and to some extent, my ears.

At this point, I should probably attempt to explain Noise to the uninitiated. Noise as a genre of music is funny, cos by nature, Noise isn’t music. It strips out, or alters, conventional signposts such as rhythm, melody, and vocals, and replaces them with whistling feedback, staticky white noise, and a large amount of dissonance. Also, whereas Noise distorts music using guitars, drums, turntables, or specially-built instruments, the sub-genre Power-electronics (as famously pioneered by the UK group whitehouse) is characterised by the use of overprocessed synthesisers, tone generators, and, well, electronic equipment. It’s definitely an acquired taste — busted speakers and a ringing in the ears is normal, don’t be alarmed — but it’s pretty ace cos 1) it’s very unique and unconventional, and 2) it’s a purer form of artistic expression. Wow, that sounded really pretentious. But basically, as I put it to someone recently, Noise is what you get into when you’re looking for something more harsh than Industrial…
Noise-rock, on the other hand, sucks. Too much rock, not enough Noise, in my opinion. I cannot endorse it.

One of Masami’s favourite musicians is Sun Ra, the avant-jazz ex-pat from Saturn, and one of the objectives of Merzbow is to produce at least 500 releases, much in the same fashion of Sun Ra’s (literally) hundreds of self-produced records. To date, he’s released around 300; this includes vinyl, cassettes, and compact disks. There’s Pornoise 1Kg, a 5-cassette boxset from his early period; there’s the infamous Merzbox, which is fifty Cds and a passel of other goodies, all for $500 USD; and there’s other ephemera for the more obsessive segment of collectors, such as the Merzcedes, which is a copy of his Noisembryo release, sealed forever inside the dashboard Cd player of an actual Mercedes 230 that would play on Repeat whenever the car was turned on. Rare item GET! Really, though, my only problem with Akita-san’s Grande Masterplan is that sometimes it’s a case of quantity over quality; which, if your goal is 500 releases, is practically unavoidable…
Example: back in the late Nineties, I’d bought Metalvelodrome, his first Cd boxset. Four disks of well-crafted dissonance compiled in 1993, that to this day, continue to level me each time I hear it. When I bought my copy from local area esoteric bookseller Book beat, I was chuffed. I remember playing it for a couple of weeks straight, especially disks one and two (‘Morbid Dick’ remains a personal fave), and loving every minute. The pieces were dynamic, which is the quality that brings Merzbow’s work above a lot of the Japanese noise artists. Don’t get me wrong; I loves me some Masonna, and some pieces by C.C.C.C., but the majority of Noise performers, Japanese or otherwise, can sound a wee bit samey-same, although it’s not for a lack of trying.

Over the years, like any decent artist pushing their own personal antelope, he’s gone through different periods of different styles. The late Eighties up to the first half of the mid-Nineties was his noise collage period, wherein he would combine overdriven sound loops with field recordings (tape recordings of ambient sounds, such as city streets); then followed his Junk electronics phase, which saw him run self-built instruments, like that metal box with the amplified springs played with a contact mic, through a shit-ton of effects processors; in the late Nineties, he bought a couple of analogue synthesisers and used them as instruments and processors. That was my least-favourite of his periods, as it veered dangerously close to prog-rock, and almost every Cd he made during that era, I sold shortly after purchase. In fact, I was pretty soured on Merzbow until about late 2001, which was the beginning of his laptop period, and with Amlux and Hard lovin’ man, my noisy prodigal son had returned with a noisy vengeance. Which brings us to now.
The original dynamism he had when he first began relying on his laptop is what swung me towards listening to him again: the tones vary in colour and texture, they’re always crisp and distinctive, and they move with speed. But then, you’ve got something like 24 hours – A day of seals, his four-disk boxset from 2002, and I… well, I can’t honestly say why I’m still keeping my copy, as it’s not doing a whole hell of a lot for me. I can’t say there’s a total lack of dynamism in most of the pieces, but it develops at such a tectonic rate that it’s just not holding my interest. Unfortunately, Houjoue is rather like that as well… in its own fashion, it’s almost like Masami’s take on Motorik, as the pieces go for several minutes. Granted, I enjoy a bit of the old soundtrack auf Autobahn now and again, but I believe Merzbow is best when it’s an out-of-control blast of sonic atavism. I mean, anyone can produce a drone, but creating a track that rockets along at 200 mph, slicing wildly as it goes… that takes talent.
Plus — and here’s a personal thing of mine — I’m not too keen on Noise pieces that go over the ten minute mark. Honestly, the trick is to make it so good and interesting that I don’t notice it’s gone over ten minutes (see any of the tracks on his Mort aux vaches – Lokomotive breath release, or the title track from Electric salad). But if there’s not a lot of changes, my finger’s gonna be creeping towards the Next Track button, which is a bad sign. It seems to me that Masami’s pieces are getting longer and less mercurial in sound — I can only hope that this is simply another phase he’s going through.

The end equation is that Merzbow will always remain one of my favourite artists, but even the best artists have lull periods — look at New order’s Republic™, for example. Just don’t listen to it, for god’s sake, as it’s no good for anyone. Besides, I’ve heard excerpts from Merzbear, and read reviews saying his Coma Berenices Cd is supposed to be quite ace. Don’t call it a comeback, he’s been here for years?

*We’re still waiting, by the way

Technorati tags: Noise music, Industrial music, Shoegazer, Motorik, Merzbow, Masami Akita, My bloody valentine, Throbbing gristle, Sun Ra, Masonna, Cosmic Coincidence Control Center, New order

Sdtrk: ‘Ashes to ashes’ by David Bowie

Apart from the heat and humidity, there’s one more really good reason why I despise August: the fucking Woodward Dream Cruise. Ugh.
Since it’s that time of year again, I will now trot out the post I wrote back in 2005, concerning this seasonal atrocity. As SafeTinspector says, if you haven’t read it before, it’s new to you.

Jeeves, fetch me my rocket launcher

The Woodward Dream cruise, if you’re lucky enough to not be familiar with it, is basically an excuse for all the gearheads and nostalgia freaks in the state (as well as a couple from neighbouring states) to cruise up and down Woodward, which is the main drag of the Tri-county area, as well as the dividing line between the west side and the east side. It’s ostensibly a sad reenactment of the ‘good ol’ days’ of the Fifties and Sixties, when Detroit had both a functioning auto industry and places worth visiting, and young people would drive aimlessly up and down Woodward in their oversized automobiles. Now, once a year for the past.. however many years.. all those individuals who grew up during those years that have reconditioned ‘classic’ cars spend an entire week-end, driving aimlessly up and down Woodward, slowing traffic down, and being a general nuisance.

Superior!

Sdtrk: ‘Cruel when complete’ by Dome

Heh. Everyone wants to be me, yet no-one wants to be me.
It seems I have a MySpace page! Apparently, I’ve not only taken leave of my senses and made one (it’s on public record that I despise everything about MySpace), but now Sidore-chan and I live in Australia. Also, I’ve changed my birthday, and am now a Cancer, too!

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but frankly, this is just stupid. At least they didn’t try to imitate my style of writing; they just wholesale copied and pasted my details and picture into that page. Fucking brilliant.
In summation, if you see a MySpace profile named ‘Davecat’ and the URL doesn’t read ‘www.myspace.com/artificialist’, it’s not me, it’s an impostor.

So my quandary is: do I make an actual MySpace profile, or do I just kick Tom Anderson in the bollocks over and over until he deletes that account? Or both? I’ll mull it over at work this eve

EDIT (1.57 am): 50% rectified. It’s a travesty that this sort of thing is even occurring.
I honestly don’t understand the mentality of people who create MySpace profiles for individuals who are either long dead, or without the permission of those that are still living. If I’m not mistaken, one of the musicians I like — either William Bennett or Boyd Rice — had to make a profile because some tosser already made claiming to be him. And I’m entirely sure Friedrich Nietzsche would use MySpace. You could totally be one of his Top Ten Friends, dude! I can completely picture the man who declared that God is dead leaving a message on someone’s MySpace page: ‘yo sup fag lol u goin 2 see the vans warped tour?’ Yeah, best fucking buds with Nietzsche. As I’m fond of saying, I really don’t understand people.

Anyway, like I said on the profile itself, you can request an add if you so desire, but it might take some time, as I’m sure you’ve sussed that maintaining that page isn’t going to be a high priority for me. I can promise you, however, that there won’t be a surplus of flashing .gifs, but there might just be an audio ambush. You’ve been warned!
Now to see about that errant Doppelgänger of mine… *loads Mauser*

EDIT (11.34 pm, 05 Aug): Now the Missus has an official one, too. We thought it would be a good idea to circumvent any further chicanery

EDIT (1.27 am, 07 Aug): Ohhh, so sad, too bad for the impostor. Let that be a lesson.
Remember kids; when enquiring about Davecat, be sure to ask for the genuine article

Sdtrk: ‘Chelsea’ by Hiem

Allow me to open with an anecdote: a couple of weeks ago, I saw a general practitioner for the first time in about four years. After seeing how tall I am (5’7″ — all these years you thought I was lying, Monti, but now I have proof) and weighing me (124 lbs), he chuckled and asked, ‘Have you always been skinny?’ ‘I think this would be the most I’ve ever weighed,’ I replied. True story!

If I had my way, my diet would be almost exactly like Andy Warhol’s: basically living on pills. On the other hand, I don’t want to die like Elvis: the autopsy found that his faeces was white (‘were white’?), due to the vast amount of prescription drugs he was gobbling. Alternatively, I’d subsist almost entirely on Japanese cuisine, as it’s both healthy and Magickally Delicious, but unfortunately, it’s also a bit pricey, and I can’t cook worth a damn. Eating is such a bloody hassle sometimes, but until the day when they develop entire meals in capsule form, it has to be done like everyone else…
Over the years, there have been a few remarkable items of food and drink that stand out due to their deliciousness. Unfortunately, we live in a society where uniqueness is undervalued. Come with me, then, as I show you my tribute to some of my favourite obsolete foods…

Dr pepper Red fusion

Anyone who knows me on any level past ‘acquaintance’ knows I’m almost never seen without a Dr pepper in one hand. The other hand’s usually grasping a Liston knife, but that’s irrelevant at the moment. When Dr pepper announced their ‘Red fusion’ variant back in 2002, I found it to not only be a satisfying beverage, but actually a couple of degrees better than regular Dr pepper. The main factor, I think, was that it wasn’t as ‘heavy’ as your bog-standard colas. Plus, I loved that name — ‘Red fusion’. It always puts me in mind of Red Impulse, that bloke from ‘Gatchaman’. No idea what exactly he did, as I didn’t watch the show (‘Battle of the Planets’ just barely counts) but I love that name. Perhaps he filed an ill-advised lawsuit over the name Red fusion and somehow won, which might explain why the drink no longer exists.

Mr Green

Modern tea merchants SoBe came up with a soft drink infused with guarana, ginseng, and some other pseudo-exotic crap, called Mr Green. True to form, the label sported an extreme lizard astride a bike doing a lip trick off a giant human skull into a burning vagina. Ahh, marketing. Despite its 18 – 25 year old kerb squirrel demographic, it was a fine beverage. It was kind of a tarnished copper colour, which appeared darker in its bottle of dark green plastic, and it had kind of a spicy taste to it. Very unique, which is of course the precise reason why it didn’t last too long…

Cappio

Before Frappucinos walked the earth, there was a bottled iced cappucino drink — which was unheard of in the States way back in the heady days of the late Nineties — called Cappio. The adverts featured a lean beatnik lass on a scooter, animated in a rather Fiftiesy style; plus, the beverage was like 60% cream, 60% sugar, and 20% coffee, all poured into a slim and sexy bottle, so of course I was hooked.
Oddly enough, I don’t drink Frappucinos… I just never got round to it. To be honest, I’m more inclined to knock back a stout can of UCC Canned coffee. Lovely stuff. Granted, unlike Frappuccino, it’s not sold everywhere, but at least I know where I stand with UCC…

Pepsi free

I have fond memories of drinking this back in the early Eighties. Well, I have memories. But I do recall really enjoying Pepsi free, for some bizarre reason. The thing that’s especially ironic about this, though, is that I loathe regular Pepsi — I would rather drink fermented tramp’s piss than have a Pepsi*. Honestly, I can’t imagine buying it these days, as the ‘Free’ meant it was caffeine free. That’s like drinking non-alcoholic beer; what’s the bloody point?

Frosted Rice chex Juniors

Monti and I were addicted to these during their brief run in the mid-Nineties. Picture, if you will, squares of Rice chex, half the size of regular Chex, that were literally encrusted with sugary frosting. We’d eat them dry right out of the box, and we’d temporarily aquire the ability of seeing through Time itself. We witnessed the Lincoln assassination! It was pretty wild.
I’m inclined to believe that parents and guardians probably lobbied to get that cereal pulled off the shelves, after seeing so many of their children covering their walls one postage stamp at a time, or running up the length of a twelve-storey building, or listening to rave music, or simply vibrating and frothing at the mouth. It had a brief run, but a good run.

Mountain dew MDX

Yes, another extreme soda; I’m sure you’ve sussed that the ‘X’ stands for ‘extreme’. Despite that silliness, MDX was rather ace for two reasons:
1) it was in my favourite shade of green. To be honest, it looked radioactive, and
2) it was an energy drink that didn’t taste like dog’s milk. Apart from MDX, I’ve never been able to find an energy drink that didn’t make me wish I was dead two sips in.
My brief affair with MDX came to a rapid halt, as just after I began drinking it, I came down with a serious bout of acid reflux, and I blamed the drink’s strange and curious ingredients. By the time my illness subsided, I decided to give the soda one more go to see if it really was to blame, but by that time, it was no longer being sold. C’est la vie…

Mint 3 Musketeers

Might as well add them to the list, as I’m fairly certain they’ll be yanked unceremoniously off the market in six months’ time. Imagine, if you will, a 3 Musketeers bar scientifically crossbred with a York Peppermint Patty. Instead of one slab-of-nougat-coated-in-milk-chocolate, you get two half-sized bars in a slightly smaller wrapper, with each bar covered in dark chocolate and filled with mint… nougat? I’ve no idea what it is, but it’s truly dericious. I really should see about bulk prices, so I can stock up now before the Mint 3 Muskepocalypse inevitably occurs…

So there you have it! I think I missed a couple — I was racking my brains trying to think of this one brand of potato chip that I used to love, and came up trumps — but you get the idea.
It’s shameful, though. We live in a world where Mr Green is off the market, but you can find that atrocity known as the Mallo cup everywhere? It makes no sense

*N.B. an exaggeration. Please do not offer me a pint jar of tramp’s piss

Sdtrk: ‘Great destroyers’ by NON

Little sociological experiment: What you’re reading now was written Friday evening whilst at work. I wrote this to distract myself from the nigh-biblical amount of pain situated in the right side of my mouth. You see, *cue flashback dissolve* this past Wednesday, I had root canals done on two of my front teeth. The process itself, I have to say, was remarkably swift: at first, I wasn’t sure if I wanted both done at once, as I really didn’t relish the idea of being sat in the dentist’s chair for an interminable period of time, whilst they got to work with their rusty saws and blood-caked chisels, but after he painlessly finished one in under ten minutes, I relented, and he did the other just as quickly. Apparently, the nerves in both teeth were dead. Which is alright, really, as we weren’t all that close. So after scheduling to get the core fills for both teeth done next week, and despite the localised anaesthetic making me sound like Sean Connery, I jauntily walked out of there to attend to the rest of the day’s errands.
Two hours later, however, was a different story, as the blessing of the anaesthetic wore off, and I was feeling like someone had popped me in the mouth with a claw hammer. I ended my errand run early, drove home, and immediately tumbled headlong into bed, not waking up until my friend Tsukihime phoned me three hours later.

Now, here’s the funny (ha ha ow) bit: as I’d mentioned, during the drilling itself, I didn’t feel anything averse. In fact, I gave several enthusiastic thumbs-up whenever he asked me how I was. Then, while out and about a few hours later, my body suddenly realised that hey, someone had just been excavating in your feckin’ mouth, and the appropriate reaction was one of a heady and persistent ache. But! My pain level the day of the actual visit wasn’t nearly as bad as it was like two days later, which brings us to this eve. *flashback dissolve*

So! During the final leg of my wonderful amazing fantastical 5.30 – midnight Friday eve shift — yes, I’m aware it’s nonsensical and sucks cock, don’t remind me — that throbbing feeling above the teeth that had been worked on came back with a roaring vengeance, and I’d taken my last ibuprofen about four hours ago. I actually had to stand up and ask one of the managers if the office had a secret cache of IB I could possibly dip into, but alas, no. Hardly a surprise, cos they’re barely equipped with what they’re supposed to be stocked with half the time, at any rate. Luckily, a coworker had some 600mg prescription IB, which just managed to do the business. Lesson learned: Please pass the horse tranquilisers!

It’s been several days since my adventures in modern (pronounced ‘modren’) dentistry, and I have to say that my mouth still hurts. If I’m not careful when I eat or speak, I’ll nick the tip of one of those teeth with one of my lower ones, and everything goes red for a blinding moment, and every other word is preceded by an expletive for a minute or so. I mean, moreso than usual. For a couple of dead nerves, they certainly still hurt like blazing fuck. Knowing my luck, they’re probably undead. We weren’t all that close, y’know.

Originally, I think I had a point when I started writing this, but it’s long since fled; the pain undoubtedly drove it away.
Wow. I think this is the reason I don’t write too often about my personal experiences. Seven shades of uninteresting

Sdtrk: ‘Albion Festival report’ by The focus group

I have absolutely nothing polite to say about this. Nothing whatsoever.

Mobile texts harm written language?
Reuters | Wed Apr 25, 2007 9:28 AM ET

DUBLIN (Reuters) – The rising popularity of text messaging on mobile phones poses a threat to writing standards among Irish schoolchildren, an education commission says.

The frequency of errors in grammar and punctuation has become a serious concern, the State Examination Commission said in a report after reviewing last year’s exam performance by 15-year-olds.

“The emergence of the mobile phone and the rise of text messaging as a popular means of communication would appear to have impacted on standards of writing as evidenced in the responses of candidates,” the report said, according to Wednesday’s Irish Times.

“Text messaging, with its use of phonetic spelling and little or no punctuation, seems to pose a threat to traditional conventions in writing.”

The report laments that, in many cases, candidates seemed “unduly reliant on short sentences, simple tenses and a limited vocabulary.”

In 2003, Irish 15-year-olds were among the top 10 performers in an international league table of literacy standards compiled by the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development.

Call me old-fashioned, or call me anal-retentive, but honestly, I think people in this day and age not having proper writing skills is embarrassing and shameful. Yes, I realise that language evolves through time for ‘better’ usage — arguably what comprises contemporary English is much less brain-destroying than say, Middle English — but these days I’m inclined to think that ‘better’ in the context of 21st Century society really means ‘lazier’.

My friend Wolfgang of vulne pro studios once argued that if the person who receives your message can parse what you’re essentially saying, despite any misspellings or grammar explosions, then that’s really the most important thing. Sure, I’ll grant him that, but I firmly believe that proper spelling should be encouraged. There are many people out there, myself included, who will almost entirely disregard an article, a blog entry, a post, or what have you if it’s typed ham-handedly. There may be an important message cleverly hidden within, but it’s as if the reader is being given a diamond ring cleverly hidden within a handful of shit. Frankly, if a person can’t be arsed to take the time to spell properly, why should anyone take the time to read it?
For a lot of people (and note, that’s ‘a lot’ — ‘alot’ isn’t a word), it’s a case of they’re typing so fast, that they don’t go over what they’ve written for errors before they submit it or hit the Send button; that’s how the Interbutt standards ‘zOMG’ and ‘teh’ began, for instance. There’s absolutely no sane reason why a person can’t give what they’ve said a quick check. And ‘that takes too long’ is hardly an excuse — if your spelling and grammar is up to snuff, it won’t take more than a couple of seconds, at any rate.

And as far as limited vocabulary, that rankles me just as much, if not more. Could you imagine if writers such as Wilde, or Burgess, or Machen, or Plath, didn’t have the benefit of an expansive vocabulary? Could you picture how incredibly dull their writing would be, or any writing, speech, or dialogue, for that matter? Language should be more than just a vehicle for basic communication; at its best, it should also paint pictures. Obviously, not everything that comes out of everyone’s mouth should sound like something by Edward Bulwer-Lytton (‘Yes, my good maiden; I would desire to place an order for a burger of ham, bedecked with intertwining spirals of tomato catsup and yellowed mustard, denuded of pickles, and accompanying that I wouldst like a singular order of French fries — crisp, golden-brown shards of deeply-fried potato — in the largest size a man can request. To quench my thirst which threatens even now to vanquish me, I will also require a chilled Coca’d-Cola, in a size that lay betwixt Diminutive and Titanic’) but a larger vocabulary is, at the very least, a sign that you’re trying to elevate yourself above the grunts and snorts that pass for common language.

In summation? Read more books, I suppose

Sdtrk: ‘Alice in Boogie Wonderland’ by Noise/Girl

Recently, I’ve discovered something about myself: unlike 90% of cellphone owners, I don’t really like being on my phone when out in public. Errm, correction: I don’t like being on my cellphone when out in public around people.

Every single one of us has come across some self-important gobshite on their cell, loudly speaking about nothing at all, at great length. It’s almost as bad as being at someplace such as the optometrists, or an auto repair place, where a television is constantly blaring crap that you can’t really get away from. There’s a solution for that, if you’re so inclined, but unfortunately, you can’t do the same thing to Loud Cellphone Fuckwit. And believe me, I’ve tried! But unfortunately, it seems you can’t bring a hammer with you everywhere you go, which is really a shame.

My thing is, I get self-conscious — well, moreso than usual — when engaged in telephonic conversation, and it’s due to two reasons: one, like pretty much everyone else, I really can’t perceive how loud I sound to the surrounding area, so even if I’m not intentionally being loud, in my mind, I’m bellowing like Brian Blessed; two, whether I’m genuinely being loud or speaking at a normal volume, there’s always gonna be someone eavesdropping nearby — it’s unavoidable. People don’t need to be listening to my feckin’ business. Although there have been a few times when Penda and I were enjoying our semi-monthly dinner, and being perfectly aware of our conversation being within another diner’s earshot, we’d deliberately say things to take the piss — usually centred round babies, and the proper way to prepare one for dinner. But that’s talking shite deliberately, as opposed to an actual conversation.

If I’m out and about, it’s not unusual at all for me to be on my phone — I should probably mention at this point that I always use my headset, so I have use of both hands, plus I don’t get facial schmutz on my screen that way — but usually I’ll end the call before I get out of my car. I suppose I’m simply not a typical cellphone user, as I like to keep my private conversations exactly that — private