Archive for December, 2013

Things this year pt. 3

Posted in Uncategorized on December 21, 2013 by Tanner

Imagine for a moment a place you do not exist. 

Her hand flitted against his cheek like a bird’s wing; he could hear the rain tapping against the window.

He awoke to bells. The sound ringing across the square, down the street– its sticky stones– up into his window, where underneath swallows built mud and straw roosts like small wicker igloos. His sheets were damp and his scars ached along the curve of his calf, across the bridge of his nose, down the length of his forearm.

“You were awake last night,” he said to her, fishing a cigarette out of his trousers that lay bunched in a pile on the slate floor. There was grit between his toes.

“I was telling you a story,” she said, shifting slightly, looking at him.

“What was it about?”

“It was about a place far, far away.”

He grunted, lighting the cigarette with a match he scratched on the plaster wall, leaving another line in a increasingly complex sketch; a farmer, a field of wheat. 

“I’m sure it was beautiful,” he said lying back against sweat and sheets, running his hand down her back, down against her naked buttocks, hesitating a moment, and then beginning the slow crawl up her skin. 

“It was, it was very beautiful. But sad.”

He ran two fingers up her spine, his head propped in his hand.

“Tell it to me again.” 

“If I tell it to you again it will lose its meaning.”

“When I’m asleep?”

“When you’re asleep.”




Pisaro. Beuger. this place/is love Erstwhile


Things this year pt. 2

Posted in Uncategorized on December 17, 2013 by Tanner

The pathetic declinations of those scrambling to be part of something they weren’t– when all you hear after the fact is paltry summations, indirect observational histories and poor sports. I grew up in the lineage of hardcore punk rock. I claim no ownership other than an unhappy knowledge: I’m part of the club, the tribe, the conditioned membership of getting older and moving on. But like anything of any worth it can get slowly misdirected towards an alien mission, a smelly end unforeseen. Iron Lung refuses all that. They refuse. And they make albums that sound like you throwing your membership card to the blender, to the open maw of infinite culture. They side step power-violence becoming a meaningless summary mission — the entry password to a scene not so unlike the T. Cruiser bumbling through Kubrick’s orgy, where ultimately there’s nothing but fucking, boredom, and loveless advancement. Nope, this is bash and control. This is heartsick and no cash. This is a rose in the lapel and dried curry on the sleeve. This is movement at the expense of regret. I’m along for the whole duration, and I’m laughing at all the jokes. No tunes to hum, no songs to sing. And there’s nothing left to give.



Too many times I’ve fallen on some sort of inner cultural relativism to explain my love for a song. To hear something so perversely itself makes one wonder what the whole criteria should be. I have no explanation. I breathe and I listen. My friend dances, while I sit. She asks for the album. I give it. Because it is joy.



Things this year pt. 1

Posted in music on December 4, 2013 by Tanner

Let’s take turns throwing composition’s rotting head around: it’s getting a bit smelly, a bit squishy in the handling, but it still holds shape nicely in the air. It still can bite once and a while on the landing. Lambkin and Lescalleet. Lambkin and Lescalleet. I might signal my inclinations too often, too readily, but I’m prepared to get obscure here, where no one’s watching but the vultures. Because they speak a language I think I can understand, but only obliquely, as if seeing it from the side, bounced from a mirror and reading backwards– I understand the language, but I can’t understand the syntax. As much as Photographs establishes itself as a dialogue between two musicians, it strikes me more immediately as a dialogue between two friends, two comrades in arms against nothing in particular. They brandish weapons made of their daily lives; obsessions; observations; misunderstandings; dull jokes in the back of a car; music they heard years ago somewhere, someplace. To describe music as personal — and I write personal with a caveat that all music is obviously personal if not as outwardly inward in construction–or direct, while alternately obscure is to sink into a writerly purposelessness. You can hear it all at a click of a button. There is no freedom in description of event. There is no pleasure here for me to write it.

lambkin lescalleet photographs

Pisaro’s Closed Categories in Cartesian Worlds succeeds almost in despite of its title. I’m not against meaning, or provocation, or research. I’m just bored with titles. Let’s not digress (I am bored with meaning). There’s nothing boring about this thing he and Greg Stuart have coaxed out…this anfractuous thing, nuanced in slippery collisions, but on closer inspection pocked with innumerable scars. I find myself shuffling in the inside of a jar, alone in a suffocating glare. Let’s not forget: Crotales and sine tones– so dull sounding on paper, as lifeless as a scorpion in a paper weight and just as triumphantly despicable. It kinda makes words sound as silly as they appear, when you hear music that defies them so, and makes mockery of just what, if anything, you can say about sound.

closed categories

I try to keep in mind my limitations when I listen to music; personal baggage makes things far more interesting. Metal confirms these limitations, and badgers my inner atavism, my dependence on fear and loathing. Nihilism writ large on a canvas of oily skin. This is not reality. It just is what I choose it to be. Grave Upheaval latches on to this program: as listless, hopeless, and revolted as a 13 year mustache in ill-fitting clothes. It trudges along in its murky furrow, borrowing against itself, waiting to collapse into muck and heaps of stones. I find nothing funny about it. It is within itself, and as full of truth as one can find in a culture of sure nothingness. A slow death, hunched against great weight. This does not howl at the moon. It does not scream romantic odes to starry wisdom. It does not bleed under moonlight. It is fucking death metal. Decrepit. Scared. Unbelieving. There is no future. There is no light. There is just this. It’s scabrous. And it’s full of mutiny.