So... I haven't really slept much this evening. I snoozed a little but, mostly, I spent the evening alternately writing and jerking off.
I think I've exhausted the seemingly inexhaustible supply of fetishes listed on TubeKitty - I mean, there's only so much more and more bizarre and, somehow enticing, your searches can become before the chance of a hit obviously, and unfortunately lessen.
I mean, searching "Midget Amputee Anal Watersports" is guaranteed to not get you a hit.
But all that is mostly besides the point.
I have a little rockenroll tale to weave before your eyes. I'll try to keep it brief and concise, but the chances of that are very slim as to be practically non-existent. I can only promise to not lie. I'll presume to myself that I only speak the truth in the following paragraphs - Like James Murphy, who only cuts like a knife. I'm just going to Lester BANG this shit out.. like a dribble.. just a fucken WRITE. Faces of Coltrane SHIT.
You see, the thing is, for the past year and a half so me and music have been fighting; I think we've been mostly avoiding eachother so that we don't hurt eachothers feelings. This makes alot of sense considering my recent penchant for the washed out, the overly reverby, the mostly non-comittal sounds that I have been absorbing - it started unconsciously but, at some point, I realised something was very very wrong.
Now, this may seem absurd to you. A rather overdramatic statement, perhaps. But, since you are reading a music blog, I can mayhaps assume you are as much of a music obsessive as I am: once you have noted this characteristic it doesn't seem like a silliness at all. We all know how effecting music can be. It can hurt. It can change and transform you. It is fucken magick, and powerful magick at that. And you are a wizard, of course. You know how to wield this power, and I don't have to say much more than that, do I?
No.
Fuck You, you fucken wizard.
You see, I didn't want to feel. I really didn't. There was some dire avoidance. And this rode over into other sectors of my life; bleeding into things with a slow insidious sickness - don't get me wrong. I love shoegaze. I love nu-gaze. I love SHOEHAZE. I love the non-committal: hazyness is fucken awesome.
But not ALL the TIME. It starts to do things. :O
BUT POINT.
Essentially this little tale comes to head this past weekend which, I can unequivocally state was one of the best I have EVER, EVER had. It really was. I still feel a warm transformative white fiery glow burst from my chest region. No lies.
I was tired. Tired of HAZE. Tired of BEATS. TIRED OF CARING ABOUT ALL OF YOU.
So, for my DJ set at Kitchener's this Saturday past I sat and meticulously crafted a rather torrid, confrontational, obnoxious noise-based set. I wanted to kill. I wanted to walk up to music and strangle it and shout:
"FUCK YOU, CUNT. LET'S JUST FUCKEN HURT EACHOTHER AGAIN, OK? OK."
I thought this set would be painful, in the wrong sense, for people. I thought, I really truly believed, it was just a mite bit too much: people would run in utter terror and fear back to the bar, at a slow walk, a small patronising shake of the head, murmuring: "what the fuck".
Now, of course, I need not mention the obvious ones, the ones from our personal Post-Secret Legendarium, the fucken heroes that decided they'd pop through. The ones with true magic bursting from the fingertips and pouring from the mouths like liquid gold: the ones for whom music truly HURTS. It PAINS them.
But good PAINS. PURE HEART.
I needn't mention them, but I think I very well shall. They are great, truly great human beings.
There is Rob Cass for whom music is a battle. We swear at eachother in sheer wonderment, cursing and gesticulating wildly, we look like we're fighting eachother when we do our little bursts.
There is Kyle Wallace. God. That boy. What a fucker, eh? And so fucken young [quote Losing My Edge under your breath why don't ya?]. How does he have such grand taste. Young little cocksucker.
There's Colleen Balchin.
*She is the most beautiful GURL in the whole of Joburg.*
She makes dresses seem like some bizarre transformative uniform of utter and disastrous power. And she can DANCE. FOR HOURS.
REALLY. REALLY REALLY, LIKE FOR REALZ. And SEX. AND MARRYING RIAAN.
There's Iain Cluett, that fucken faggot. And, yes, if you're in and about and out in the, dare I use the word, motherfucken "scene", your girlfriend has undoubtedly fallen in love with him. Who wouldn't?
There is the Jewish Vampire, Warren Cohen, 138 yrs old, give or take; we're not sure and neither is he. I suspect he was drunk as fuck when he was turned, had blacked out, and woke up undead. He hasn't expounded on how this felt. Frankly I couldn't care. His heroin chiclessness is striking and he kills people with his Anti-Folk guitar. AMPERSAND. LOOK IT UP, CUNT.
OR, HERE:
Dead.
And, last, but so not even close to least, if we were grading, is Riaan motherfucken Botha; He knows too much, Bonapartie. Too much. It's absurd. He'll make a link from something you like and rant off 5 acts you should, and MUST, be listening to. What a cunt. I don't understand how he fits it all up there?
All you others know just exactly who you are. But my fingers got tired.
*lights fag, sips mampoer*
Shit.
So... there was them, they came, they watched in awe [sick sic] and pure joyous enrapturation or something of that notionness as I got away with THESE:
LIARS and
EVANGELICALS and
COLD CAVE and
EAT SKULL and
JAPANTHER and
noise noise noise. FUCK OFF noise. FUCKEN <3 br="br" hz="hz" noiz.="noiz.">
I thought all the noise/lo-fi/garage kids had died out in the Electro-Jock massacre of 2k6.
No, they were waiting, apparently.
And, as I poured out my heart, played songs that I had KNOWN before just would KILL the FLOOR and make me ingloriously sad; and as I smoked and steamed and downed beers and thrashed and pained and raised my hands heavenly for THAT chorus, and pushed some buttons here and there which is, ask anyone, SO FUCKEN DIFFICULT, I, of course, felt validated. I was right. About it all. I had forgotten how to make Magick Spells. I had forgotten how to be effective. God, I even 'finished' with JPNDRDS' The Boys Are Leaving Town which, I thought, was a rather magnificent song to end with, of course. Haha. Hoho. Sly musical thingymadoodles.
I ended with an Addendum. A secret track by noise-pop-dancey as fucken hell Think About Life's secret track form their S/T which BEGS you to:
"CLOSE YOUR EYES." It's fucken SCREAMY AND SHOUTY AND FUCK OFF AND DIE AND DEAD DEATH AND... strangely, so full of fucken life I can't believe it.
I was happy, truly happy, in that moment. My joy washed ridiculously around after that as I spilt burnt ochres and swished around bitter oranges and fiery maroons and shit in my wake, in front of me, behind, above, on people's fucken faces: I musta looked like a beatific retard.
I would proclaim, when introducing one of my Wizard's, THIS GUY! GREAT! AMAZING! to anyone within hailing distance. And, I meant it. I did.
Music and me have reconciled, we can play again now.
DL THE SET BELOW.
*******THE PASSWORD is:
wizard
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