Archives : all posts by Dan

Capricorn Vertical Slum - "Palatial Estates in Wallpaper"

A movie of a movie on in the background. An audience with mirror faces. Shooting the rehearsal. The DVD that plays to the silhouettes in the backseat of a passing minivan. A secret in a video game so hidden, so desperately obscure, that only the most dedicated, the most bored, stand any chance of finding it. And once found, has the quality of being found that makes it radiate and pulsate with value. I found a key today, now if I could only figure out what "R-1 bottom" means, I'd be able to unlock that. [Buy Various Portals and Sleazo Inputs Vol.1: Tourism from Moon Glyph]

Esther Wheaton - "Here Is How"

Ocean living is a numbers game. Thousands of offspring from a single set of parents, only a small few of those reaching maturity. Hundreds of fish in a swirling swarm, attacked by dozens of sharks, maybe three will survive. Humans prioritize life differently; reproduction is much more difficult, so much more care is put on each of the young. But in the realm of ideas, of knowledge, invention and cultural development, it seems to resemble ocean life. You do a thousand things in your life, and maybe at the end you're left with one. Or two.

[Not Legendary was recorded as a grad project for an Honours degree]

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Attention, Berliners!
I will be in Berlin all next week (the 1st to the 7th) and would like to meet you if you would like to be met. I will have literally all the time in the world, so send me an email (dan@saidthegramophone.com) and we'll meet up!

Standard Fare - "Philadelphia"

Emma Kupa tests a melon. A slight depression, with sweet smelling skin. Cuts clean and slices, drops of melon juice on the cutting board, the counter, the knife. Emma Kupa sings like a proud young bird, chews the rind and watches the traffic, the city is suddenly full of cars.

[Download for 6£]

(image via Michelle)

Speedometer - "Two Beat Beast"

Typin' on the typewriter. Typin' away. Typin' a story. 'Bout a New World Government. Ev'ryone has come to be little more existent than online personas. All geographical borders and property has been translated to the Internet, and all currency is exchanged and trade is done online. All production is virtual, all crises are virtual crises. Oh yeah. Right on. Feel it. The sympathies for disaster relief and the drive to fix the climate have become only visible through a vast network of eye screens that project government-approved news feeds and groupthink data onto elements in the physical world. The Matrix is a status update, essentially. The government garners mind-slaves through a wealth of pointless information, posing as real information, posturing as radical change, which is a substitute for reality, which is no change at all. Damn. Yeah. Bumpin'.

The Whitefield Brothers - "The Bastard"

The Whitefield brothers, Jan and Max, are a strange pair. Jan plays the flute and Max plays the drums, though it hasn't always been this way. Jan grew up playing the drums, and Max used to be quite adept at the flute. But when both brothers fell in love with the same young girl, Lena, everything changed. They fought ruthlessly, tirelessly, slam-dooringly all through their youth, and their music suffered. They were forced to continue playing music together by their parents. "It will straighten this whole business out," said their father, Nuth, "they will see what is really important." But it straightened nothing out. Instead, they found ways to sabotage their own performances, to make the other look bad. One time, Jan dipped Max's flute in a bucket of motor oil immediately before a show, and Max filled Jan's snare with cooked pancakes. It got so bad that Max suddenly issued a challenge, during practice, that they switch instruments. That Max would play the drums and Jan would play the flute. Their guitarist Heinrik, shook his head, he was tired of their antics. Jan agreed, feverishly, and they switched instruments. Both were certain that this would surely bring the band to its knees, that they would finally be free of this musical torture game. But instead, they discovered a natural talent, an inborn soaring skill for their new instruments. Like a plane nose-diving for the ground, that suddenly levels out, that sweeps soaring into the sky, they found new incredible heights. They soon forgot entirely about Lena, they wrote "The Bastard" with a smile and a grimace, with teeth bared.

[Buy Grazing in the Trash vol. 1]
[Buy Grazing in the Trash vol. 2]

(image from Truck Bearing Kibble a pbf-ish comic that's nice in its own right)

Born Ruffians - "The Ballad of Moose Bruce"

My downstairs neighbour is a gaunt old man. When I first moved in I called him "John Updike's skeleton" to myself and to whoever I saw that day. He's in that stage of life where retirement is a memory, and now the days are methodically stacked with routine and inaction, and immobility or vanity or poverty or whatever else is keeping him from leaving the house very much. I've seen young women come out of there late at night, who look both directions, and walk to the street and hail a cab. He maintains the small patch of grass in front of the apartment meticulously well. I sometimes wonder if he represents someone I will become. In the winter he shovels right down to the grass. And in his window there is a sign. It has removable letters, and in the winter it will say things like: "la neige qui tombe!" or something like that. I think recently it said "le printemps, c'est ca". You know, normal stuff. But today, I was unlocking my bike, and putting in my headphones (a bad habit, I know) and I looked at his window, where I could see him sitting in the dark, in the day, behind his sign. The sign read: "un accident peut m'arriver".

And this is true, an accident could befall any of us at any moment. And with each passing moment there are these horses, racing against each other, to the finish lines of our lives. The best time you made love, the best book you read, the most you ever felt like hitting someone with your fist. These records are silently galloping, unseen and unbroken, towards claiming the victory they feel they deserve, that is most, best, highest, and only. The best song you've ever heard. The best first time hearing a song. The biggest emotional wellspring, the biggest leap of your heart, the most you almost fell off your bike with awe, with a gasp. It's dangerous to claim something is the most, the highest, the best, because there is always the chance, the chance that something will beat it, and you'll look a fool. But the chances of it being beat are just as high as the chances that you'll die before it isn't. And it remains unbroken. Still the best. [Pre-Order]

(image titled "Moog & the Bull" from My Parents Were Awesome)

The Franks - "Health Sciences"

Me and my girl, we get along. We go to the supermarket and I go inside and get 5-minute pancake mix and she gets old produce out of the dumpster. We go driving and I read the map while she holds the solar panel. We play music and she plays the high notes and I play the low ones. We go dancing and she goes nuts and I sit on the stool in a pair of shitty sunglasses. We ride bikes and she scrapes a stick with one hand and I sing the anthem. We take a shower and she does all the hair and I do all the skin. We watch a movie and she does the lines while I strike the poses. Me and my girl, we get along.

The Franks - "Cough it Up"

My girl and me, we get along. She treats me right. She yells at me and calls me dumb and steals my money and uses my dishes and wears my clothes and loses my keys, but still I know she treats me right. 'Cause when she holds my hand, she does this thing. She slides her palm down the inside of my arm, and her fingers slide along the inside of my hand and calls my fingers to hers like magnets. Our fingers match up like a mirror, you know, or like on a window when someone's in prison, and then -click- they slide over one notch, you know? They click over and our fingers interlock and she wraps her fingers hard around my hand and squeezes our palms together and presses my hand against her jeans. It's like, her hand can't lie. You can't fake that interlocking thing.

[Buy the *marvelous* Duh]

(image from a very baffling and compelling site)

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also: M.I.A. has a new video, combining her consummate artistry with the startling talent of Romain-Gavras

T.D. Reisert - "Call This Honest"

Water gathers most where the tires used to be,
The ghosts of rubber seem to keep it from being absorbed into the pavement,

The motion-sensitive lights go off as I approach, it makes me feel invisible,
I look at the tall leaves lit from underneath by garage lights, it makes me feel small and old,

I pass a giant hole with its perimeter covered in an upright fence, my body makes two shadows,
An up-close shadow on the frost of the fence, formed as I walk by,
And a distant further shadow, of my whole figure, that is constant on the sides of the hole below,

I smell blossoms and feel the cool wind that comes with rain,
I have smelt and felt these things before,

Dark figures, silhouetted by the lights inside their houses, sit on their dark balconies, like smoking gargoyles or saints,
But at least powerful in their stillness, unseen staring,

I slow my pace, I don't want to get home too quickly,

I will not pull my hood over my head, I want to get as wet as possible,
It is only a light rain.

From behind, the houses sit like exhibits in a museum,
A museum with no context, left up to the patron to make their own meaning,
To learn their own lessons

So many people work so very hard,
And if not so very hard, they at least work,

Outside at night in the warm weather in a light rain is a very good time for smoking,
The smoker can feel justified for the first time in a year,
Yes, this is why I smoke, this silence, this perfect,

I stop in front of a kicked-in fence, and look through the hole,
I stop at the back entrance to a church, I consider checking if the door is open,
It is not,
I stop in front of a youth house, ages 12-17, and think about the lives inside,
I wonder, partly jealous, if they have any wonderful ideas in their heads,

The city, a beautiful city, a residential city, feels tonight like a rather idealess place.

[Buy]

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ALSO: I will be appearing on CBC's WireTap this weekend reading a very lovely story that I did not write.

Happy Birthday, Sarah.

Thee Oh Sees - "I Was Denied"

I was denied the title of King of Mud Beach. I was 14 and I was a bully. Mud Beach was a crappy septic lake off a campground where I spent my summers in the "care" of my great uncle Hugh and his caterpillar colonies. I used to wake up with caterpillars on me. One time with one on each eye, I thought I was dead. I used to sit on the banks of Mud Beach with a sign that said "Wrestle the King" and I would challenge kids. Nobody would wrestle me. Ever. Until I pushed a kid down face down in the muddy banks and he chipped his tooth on a rock. His big brother came and found me an hour later and punched me so hard in the butt cheek that I couldn't walk for 8 days and couldn't sit down properly for the rest of the summer. [Buy from Midheaven]

Meursault - "One Day This'll All Be Fields"

This tugs at a loose thread in me. I must be careful not to listen to this too many times, for I fear something will unravel. [Buy from Song, By Toad Records]

(image from Robin Barber's story)