Tuesday, 11 December 2018

NEW ME NEW ME NEW ME NEWME NEWM NEWM NEWM EEEE

Friday, 7 December 2018

Misanthropic Musicology on the Beenleigh Line Part 3

Image result for beenleigh line
An actual to scale map of hell.

Come Sunday. Come back Sunday. Whoever invented the Sunday session is a bastard. But this morning I couldn't be happier to be on the Beenleigh iron sleigh on course for the Unutterable once more because it's 36 degrees (that's celcius Americanos) out and it's just gone 7:30am. Nothing to see here folks. Oh look there's a lump of coal let's just burn it for fun! Our current Prime Minister Scott Morrison (ScoMo) even famously brought a lump of coal into parliament (as you do), but who was walking who? Well despite the ever encircling dystopic blazes around Brisbane I persevere with this completely pointless weekly rant. Come Sunday, come back Sunday, riding solo with Anthony Braxton solo live 1971 exploring the very depth of his sax and crawling into all sorts of strange and wonderful corners. Screeching here, yelping there, peeling off Parker licks and descending into fragments of blues and the cries of black folks, of all folks. That's right as promised I'll dig as much as I can into Anthony's huge and prolific catalogue of improvised and composed works. This train ride isn't long enough, but I'll get somewhere.



Deep retrograde blues. Ragtime ripples of broken lines that break up against the rocks. Duos of Anthony Braxton and Muhal Richard Abrams, truly stunning, blending tradition with future. Afro-futurism of the most sensitive and inward kind. Deep deep creeks of sound, brittle and full of love. A world away from this train running full industrial tilt toward Beeno, soon to pass coronation drive where an actual siege is underway, gun men, heat and violence combine. Studies have found correlation between extremely humid, hot climates, and heightened levels of violence. Will this be an expected bi-product of global warming? One thing's for sure, Tony Braxton is so cool he's taken my burning guts down a few degrees on this rustbucket ride at high speed from the Unutterable towards home.


Composition No. 95 on the way to the 9-5 on the rolling refrigerator in the heatwave hell. Two pianos colliding and intertwining, beginning as melodica wheeze, driving into hammered haze or dense urban constructions from some unknown civilization both ancient and post-temporal.
19 solo compositions 1988. 88. There I go stirring up crypto-fascist hysteria again. Beautiful alto lines running me free of the Unutterable. No time, closed eyes towards nothingness amongst the somethingness.


Wodensday, midweek hell, not even listening to Tony Braxton today due to my wife insisting I listen to this nutty podcast about Nauru, Australia's concentration camp island, a tax haven dodgy bank dump for the world's absolute cunts. Interesting but not relevant to Anthony B. Or is it? Has he been there? Does the Tricentric Foundation secretly wash it's money in one of Nauru's dodgy mid-range crimebanks? Probably not. But I'll take a break from writing, to listen and speculate.
 
Composition no. 100 on an album called Eugene is what currently fills my head in this capitalscene, surrounded by loud self-centred instant gratified products of the great neo-CON. Oh how I wish they'd shut the fuck up because they art in the quiet carriage. A place where signs clearly state shut the fuck up in polite terms. Gucci bag for Christmas she says. But aside from homicidal thoughts I am deeply enjoying the incredible work of Anthony Braxton on this woeful Woden's day. Nauru where it plunges into the abyss that skirts the island, 4kms deep all round and packed full of sharks. I imagine deep sea creatures may appreciate Anthony Braxton's compositions, discombobulating soulful cries parped from the dark and tumbled around deaf and blind, directionless but always moving forward in the current, or perhaps ahead of the current, and driving down down down with the pressure of deep deep blues. These idiots are ruining my already ruined day. May they be ruined and may Braxton get louder and louder to drown them, out.



Fuck! The only thing keeping my brain dome down is this intense beautiful (black)power full quartet performance from a Santa Cruz date put out by the always great Hat Hut. Thank you Anthony Braxton for being a genius. Many of the same old drone domes on this back carriage embarrassment en course for the Unutterable on tracks of rust and regret, blackbird blues and Irish airs still clinging to their molecules. Piano keys being hammered down like mallets on sleepers, coasting along the shunt of rhythmic push while this piece of shit toy loco lumbers lumberers wayward north. I used to love Thursdays, Thor's day, they're still pretty good, except Friday still yet to come cause Thursday I've got Friday on my mind. I'm the Apprentice, Tony Braxton, the Master. The song I'm thinking of, actually being by the Easybeats.



Speeding backwards on the world's worst locomotive wonder listening to more recent Braxton, Composition No 372 to be precise, minimalist bagpipes screeching in polyrhythmic glee over clattering drums, scrummaging horns and angular seeking in left and right headphones, in disorienting delight. Rhythm rhythm rhythm. The rhythm of trains is buried in this, that movement and clatter that inspired some basic primal parts of the blues still sitting there deep in this somewhere as I roll backwards towards the bastard Unutterable on this balmy Friday, Freya's day, Goddess at the gateway to the 48 hours of freedom every worker yearns for. Fuck I love Anthony Braxton. I also love the Buzzcocks, sad to hear of Pete Shelley's passing to the beyond, he'll be tipping speed in his mead in Valhalla by now. South Bank, I have nothing to say about you. The glory of Composition No. 372 keeps the movement towards the inevitable more beautiful than it should be as the mud swallowing snake of brown, bruised and oily black in patches slides beneath in its own ancient rhythm.



Ancient filth caked to the floor boards so tired that's all I can stare at yearning for booze delicious booze. Braxton I'm done with you for this week, blasting Bizzcocks in honour of the deceased instead and what a ripe racket they raised. From Chicago to Manchester from Bowen Hills towards the bottom on an overpriced ticket to Friday night oblivion cause I was almost Late For The Train since the barber was closed and this babble is closed for this week.

Next week...Clara Schumann and more...


Friday, 30 November 2018

Misanthropic Musicology on the Beenleigh Line Part 2

Monday bloody Monday. Back in the ol' tin snake on my way towards the Unutterable. A dusty apocalyptic heatwave is crushing the air around Brisbane, making the aircon in this steel shitserpent somewhat appealing despite its ultimate destination. So as predicted this week's victim is Pauline Oliveros, starting with Deep Listening, truly one of the greats of minimalism. Pauline was truly one of the greats, and easily one of the most important composers of the late 20th Century. But of course being a woman meant that the deluded dicks (literally) in charge of the classical music history books have never written her in as a significant player. She's totally ignored in sausage fests like Nyman's book on the minimalists (Reich, Glass, Young, Riley), and while her deep listening research and concepts had a significant following, I've yet to see her get the credit she deserves. 


 I was lucky enough to exchange a few emails with Pauline after she examined my PhD thesis (her examination was favourable thank you very much), and despite being an incredibly busy person she took the time to write me a couple of references and offer me some career advice. Pretty great, though obviously I'm sitting on the train to the Unutterable so I needed a bit more career advice than that clearly. She will be sorely missed, and at least for me my minimalist pantheon will always be more like Oliveros, Flynt, Conrad, Hennix, Niblock. That's the real deal right there. Deep Listening is a beautiful album, recorded in an old cistern in the 80s, it has a cavernous warmth and a strange subterranean quality that's second to none. Speaking of subterranean, I'm sitting at Central station for a long time for no reason. Classic Queensland Rail. Will I ever reach the Unutterable?


Well, heading now to the safety of South, Pauline O in my earholes accordion droning her way through the wonderful work named St. George and the Dragon (there we go with potential crypto-fascism again, when you start looking for that stuff it's everywhere). Earlier on I was grabbing a snack on my drone break listening to Pauline's drones when I passed another drone with a tattoo reading "less is more". Too right it is. The album St George is on is entitled Pauline Oliveros & American Voices, or something. Whole thing is a stunning study that proves time and time again that less is more, less is more. Whenever that policy is applied you get great music, in my most humble opinion. Jaki Liebezeit playing monotonous because some acidfreak told him to. Gylve Fenris Nagell refusing to use snare or cymbals on Darkthrone's black metal masterpiss Under A Funeral Moon because the rest wasn't needed for the nihilistic statement they wanted to make. Best to say only what needs to be said in a sea of loud, inane, frightened voices.

Botanikk is the latest thing to have featured Pauline by the looks of it, and it sounds like a great improvised set of sorts. Fantastic as usual to be expected etc. The untterable is drawing me towards it in this electric sardine can. Cruising past Dutton Park station, the closest port of call the Princess Alexandra Hospital, and notable theretofore as the station that sports a massive funeral home billboard, towering over you as you walk up to the hospital. Ah capitalism. According to Marx we were meant to reach peak Capitalism and then unite to take control of the means of production for the working class. Instead we watched TV, let Capitalism shift gears from peak to moribund, and now its morbidly obese body is exploding all over the place like the climax to that Akira movie.


Wow the perfectly normal, cleancut looking fellow next to me on the 7th locomotive wonder of the world stinks of booze. It's 7:32am. It is hot though, thirsty weather, and cornflakes do taste good soaked in whiskey. But back to Pauline. She was truly great. I mean, she was an accordionist for fuck's sake. Who does that? And it's always a perfect addition. Right now, as I ride the snake, she wheezes out dense combination tones over chirping electronics and ramming bass and then spills it over into abstract drone strokes like a slowmotion Burroughs shotgun painting. Then some electronic sounds like the busted receipt machine the ticket seller has at Bowen Hills station, halfway to the Unutterable, quarter of the way up Beelzebub's arse. Yes, arse. Now popping sounds, clicks and wheezes, interrupted by the clich├ęd accent of the automated train announcer declaring our arrival at central station like we've all achieved something special. We've achieved nothing of the sort my comrades.


Crawling through the Alien Bog with Pauline. Forgot she was an early pioneer of electronic music for a minute there. Weird synthesised racket that would make a nice soundtrack for that thing they've just landed on Mars that will just wind up as more human trash in the universal habitat. Alien Bog isn't trash though, but it's title translates well to my surrounds on this futuristic suburban rust rover. Why do people insist on wearing Metallica shirts? One of the great cosmic mysteries. Sun Ra probably knows out there on Saturn, and like on Saturn, the air is of a different quality on the Beenleigh line travelling further and further from the Unutterable toward home and onwards to guntown great south east. They should transmit Alien Bog through the PA on this locomotive lice laboratory, really enhance the commute, overlaid with wisdom for the workers from Sun Ra stock interviews while we glide at light (rail) speed over the glittering Brownsnake. Fuck it's brown today, silt, mud and sorrow.
Total fucking heatwave. Looks like Thor's gonna rip open the sky and throw a bolt right down the guts of the skyscraper inhabited by a certain insurance company I once worked for. You can live in hope anyway.


So on this Woden's Day I ride the snake, the ancient snake, to the lake where no blue bus is calling us. And to put the icing on the savage tropical cake, I'm not even listening to Pauline. Instead I've fallen to the temptation of listening to the excellent new release from Sahel Sounds, the soundtrack to their new Saharan psychedelic Western "Zerzura" which I also can't wait to watch. If it's anything like their tuareg version of Purple Rain (Rain Blue with a Little Red in It or whatever it is), then it's not to be missed. The soundtrack to Zerzura is absolutely fantastic. A dusty tuareg take on the Dead Man soundtrack, with a splash of Marisa Anderson to help out in the ambiance. Experimental solo tuareg guitar sountrack, yes please. It has a lonesome bedraggled quality, like someone slipped a little laudanum in their sweet green tea. Shit, last I lived in West Africa, I was in Senegal, where they put so much sugar in their cafe touba you start seeing colours you didn't know existed. I had to have a tooth extracted shortly after that trip. Damn you cafe touba, taking the tooth of toubab. Anyway back to Pauline later, if this hopeless hunk of engineer's regret ever gets me to work that is.


Man what a day and the air is hot, dry windy and scorching temperatures in this morbid capitalist utopia Trump and his mates are building for us by ignoring the obvious. But it's nice and cool in the bowels of the Beenleigh. Abattoiresque even. The incredible Pauline Oliveros Hat-hut release with the cool bridge river cover, Roots of the Moment or something, droning wheezing beatifically lazy accordion drones that somehow enhance the dusty dry surrounds outside this palladium python. I love this recording very much, an inspiration to all who give it a real listen I dare say. The best kind of minimalism, intuitive, deep and born of listening not of declaration, born of introspection, not gesture, broad and beautiful brushstrokes on sand that slowly blows away formless and forgotten in wind and rain, only to spark again in a new corner of imagination. Always alive, present, letting time and vibration do its own thing.


The Wanderer. That's what accompanies me in this moment crammed in the back carriage with the rest of the future carrion, lugging their carry-on to the inevitable, on course for the Unutterable. The Wanderer is magnificent, staying true to Pauline this morning I listen to this glorious record deep within firestorm heatwave firenado-driving deathwind week. I've skipped a few electronic options, not out of disinterest but because the name The Wanderer took me and the cover of someone riding an elephant which is well and truly less shit than riding this 7th locomotive wonder of the world. Anyway, otherworldly sounds made by very worldly instruments are considerably more interesting than the synthetic kind. On The Wanderer we once again hear Pauline take the accordion into the outer reaches, creating deep listening space, evoking the depth of time, drawn from accordion slinging hicks in dusty fields to moogs on martian planes. Why would someone take a Moog into space? Surely a laptop would suffice.


Cicada Dream Band in my head. Free improv and twitters of horns with chirping night invertebrates as tamboura. More fantastic Pauline to top off a day of utter bullshit.

Accordion and Voice and the horse sings from the cloud. Pauline once again breaking the bullshit down into manageable spheres of enlightened sound on this fine scorching Kali Yuga Friday. Beenleigh back carriage poorly air conned at 4 dollars a ticket. The most ethereally pale young woman opposite me, looking like she'd melt along with the Arctic that her ancestors surely once lived in. Pauline O, despite short visits to Zerzura I've stayed on course all week because I don't want to miss a note of this drone genius' work. Nice and quiet on the loco locomotive this morning, deep listening easy to reach despite glistening sweat in eyes. Best to close them and stop writing.


Next week: Anthony Braxton....probably.

Tuesday, 27 November 2018

Friday, 23 November 2018

Misanthropic Musicology on the Beenleigh Line Part 1


Image result for the Beenleigh line
Look at that marvelous specimen.

I've of late taken it upon myself to listen to as much of a single composer in one week as I can. Further to this I've decided that the composers could be both your typical dead white guy and the vast, incredible history of marginalised and women composers, who much like many of the fiddlers I've researched here, are widely overlooked in the so-called syllabi of music institutions. Having said that, these ramblings probably won't offer you much when it comes to historical info except for whatever I can remember/make up about the composer I'm hereby listening to.
Last week it started, early in the morning on the train to my braindead drone job along with the other drones - and the odd sweaty meth head - on the sometimes sweltering, oftentimes refrigerator-like Beenleigh line. This steel snake slowly scrawls it's path from Beenleigh - an economically depressed town between Brisbane and the shit hole referred to as the Gold Coast - to the city centre and beyond north to a destination I try to avoid as much as Beenleigh whose name shall go unuttered. The train passes Fairfield where I currently reside,  a suburb which boasts the centre of the Brisbane avant -garde, a whirlpool of inspiration and fresh produce, Fairfield Gardens shopping centre. Monday last week I embarked on a listening mission through the expressionist jungle of Alban Berg's work, slowly enveloping my psyche with operatic horror in the guise of Wozzeck and Lulu while struggling through an existential crisis of my own triggered by the site of yet another loud phone conversation in the quiet carriage, and only deepended by yet another me generation debtslave taking his road bike on a crowded 3 car train at rush hour. 

The greatest accompaniment though to the worsening doom as I approached my place of work, is Alban Berg's highly unique violin concerto, written in the grips of so much grief he couldn't even be fucked with a third movement, and better for it too.
To polish off the week I entranced myself to queer nirvana with the recently unleashed genius recordings of Julius Eastman.

Now for week 2, and I'm embracing the work of Hildegard Von Bingen, 13th century nun mystic composer goddess seeress extraordinaire. Beautiful, peaceful music that's depth even makes the MacDonalds-ravaged corpus opposite me appear beatific. Mystick with a capital fucking M I dare say. Spotify is sodden with von Bingen and this week will be spent offering you very little infortmation at all.
Ah Tuesday, Tyr's day, started with a healthy breakfast of coffee and Von Bingen performed beautifully by the Tiburtina Ensemble.

Carriage is remarkably ordinary on my old mate the Beenleigh line though the guy opposite me is wearing a distressingly heavy jacket for a sub-tropical spring morning. Should I call the hotline? Does he have an axe under there? There was a guy at park rd station the other day with an axe. Nobody seemed to mind. Anyway back to Von Bingen. Were we taught about this genius of the voice at university? Her glorious mystical voicings gliding over droning ancient vielles and other medievals noise makers? No we were taught only that fat tonsured brown mumu wearing men chanting in cellars full of homebrew invented and innovated it all. Clearly this is wrong on some level. The nuns clearly had a card or 2 in the game and what a wonderful hand it was. Hildegard naturally came up against resistance in her time, copping the usual man-splain about a woman's place even in the clergy. But as often is the case - and very contrary to the excellent Mercyful Fate classic "Nuns Have No Fun" which pioneered the repeated use of the word "cunt" in song - nuns seem to be pretty serious motherfuckers compared to their male counterparts.


While the blokes are usually busy paying off yet another victim of their vulgarity, the nuns are getting kicked out of the Philippines for organising farmer's unions (see recent story about said Australian nun) or throwing sweet boozey Christmas parties at RSLs like the Josephine nuns who used to book me to play at their Christmas party each year til my playing got too weird for them. Nuns seem pretty fun to me despite their religion and I imagine Von Bingen was a bit of a ledg (after considerable debate over gallons of Doom Bar earlier this year, my wife and some friends of ours decided this is the most appropriate abbreviation of "legend" as used in the Australian vernacular alright). One element of her work that seems too scarce is the instrumental writing though. Beautiful, ancient-sounding works that, while clearly being antecedents to Western classical music are also clearly of a time and palette alien to ours.


And now I reach Fortitude Valley, Brisbane's den of sin, a harmonious Hildegard harpathon saving my mind from collapse after once again seeing the pathetic attempt at a cultural reference used by the local council in the guys of mosaic tiles reading "The Go-Betweens".

The Von Bingenathon continues on yet another ride on one of the 7 locomotive wonders of the world, the Beenleigh line. Now knee deep in a recording by Vox Animae of Hildegard's Ordo Virtutum. Still beautiful, still mystical in a Christiany kind of way. Being more of a Pagan/Heathen type myself (look forward to Antifa fire bombing my next gig after that admission) I find the churchiness of it all a bit much but it has a cleansing quality while a large man in a fedora stairs sadly out the train window. Perhaps he can see his reflection in the perspex. Now that's hardly Christian of me. It's clear that Hildegard's work in its pre-contrapuntal droneyness is well worth a listen on any train line.


Oh the humanity. Tonnes of it on the Beeno this morning. Can't even get a fucking seat and there are school children, spoilt, self entitled progeny of Generation Xstacy who don't get off priority seating for adults because their "parents" haven't taught them real manners. Just like noone will teach them to have an understanding of the profundity and power of music and its vast history because a tinny beat and a buck is all that matters. Well while their poor education keeps me standing on this wonderous locomotive, bouncing about while occasionally making sunglass contact with the other sad drone opposite me who appears to have as much of an aversion to irons as I do. Good for him. I applaud you comrade. He has no idea I'm writing about him.

Anyway once again my listening is interrupted by a diseased nose expression but this morn I take a break from Hildegard  (hail Mary full of grace) for a no less pious piece of Irish fiddling by Martin Hayes accompanied by Dennis Cahill, Live in Seattle, as hipped to me by the ever knowledgeable Kahl Monticone (of Brisbane hitmakers Jive Canyon and The Quartet For The End Of Time which also feature me, yes, me).


Gorgeous soulful playing and a mix of airs and dances which is a little unusual from my Irish fiddle listening experience. Speaking of Airs listen to all of Loren Connors' or I'll come after you.


But I digress, despite my own listening lack of disciplining this is a week in honour of that Hildegard of Bingen, the original sister of mercy, master of harmonies on ancient drones. She probably had views people would be pretty upset with now. Maybe the quietus could write about her in their Nazi infiltration expose. Don't get me wrong I don't like Nazis, but I think this word is bandied about a bit too much. Being a Nazi properly requires a lot of discipline and I don't remember any of these alt-right twats appearing to be about anything other than money and Judeo-Christian conservation, whatever that is. I mean the marriage of Jesus and coin is as old as Constantine, but I imagine a woman like Hildegard who took the veil at a time where it would be the only way for a woman to do anything other than punch out (this is Australian vernacular for "creating in large quantities" not KOing) babies and clean muck and cook, would've been proper disciplined.
Anyway Hildegard's biggest fans have made this exquisite little record named Kiss of Peace boasting some stunningly moving vielle droning and pitch perfect near vibratoless female voices of the most suitably ethereal kind. Think this is the best so far.



Ah Roma street station, rose of the Brisbane city central train circuit, gateway to The Saints' old stomping ground of Petrie Terrace. Hildegard would've liked the Saints if she were a 1970s stones ginger wine sucking suburban punk instead of a medieval nun. Suppose she would've hammered back her fair share of Jesus' blood in her time.


Really sweltering on this locomotive liturgical music gateway today, a Brisbane summer storm brewing that hopefully brings some sort of revelations style outcomes for the shit hole I work in 40 hours a week, amen. I'm jonesing for a full album of Hildegard instrumentals. The album I'm currently sponging up while sweating under my knees boasts an "improvisation". Hopefully it does what it says on the tin.


The death of improvisation in Western classical music is one of the saddest things ever committed to the history books. What colossal fuckwit decided this was no longer appropriate I have no idea. Don't suppose there was a committee but it obviously fell out of fashion, and unlike fluro or lengthy well-kept beards it's never come back, not really anyway. Obviously you might say free improvisation is that coming back with a vengeance but I know most free improvisers would rather not have their practice associated with this  (not me included, controversial). When will this train ride ever end? I frequently improvise inappropriately when playing classical music. In fact it's like my calling card. I highly recommend it. The composers are dead and two world wars traumatically decimated the world order their works were born in. This doesn't make the work worthless, but it makes preserving it, conserving it, thoroughly pointless. 
When searching recordings of Hildegard's works a curious little comp by the Aldi of classical records Naxos called "Music From the Time of the Templars" comes up.


I'm listening to it now, deep in bowels of the 7th locomotive wonder of the world opposite a young man with the kind of moustache you just wish was written into the criminal code somewhere and a shirt with a lobster embroidered on it which I'm pretty sure is some crypto-fascist symbol that'd trigger Antifa into needing some antacid. Speaking of crypto-fascist, Nazis loved the Knights Templar. Wewelsburg castle was designed to resemble elements of a Templar, well, temple and in his not terribly thrilling book (which resulted in this more interesting though more than slightly concerning German documentary) "The Occult Roots of Nazism" Nicholas Goodrick-Clarke gets all worked up about obscure trash occult racists in pre-Nazi Germanic territories including one pre-Hitler who started some secret order dedicated to reviving this era. Maybe that order is behind this recording. I don't really care. The recording itself is actually quite interesting, full of varied Medieval madness both haunting and irritatingly jaunty. As a historical document I suppose this has value, and no doubt Hildegard's bits are beautiful, and hell I love a bit of Medieval, I even threw a Medieval dress up party for my 30th Birthday back when I lived in Accra, disturbing our neighbours with cardboard knights and trans-human jousting tournaments.

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Back to the Templars though whose main purpose really was guarding a so-called holy grail noone has ever seen and killing as many Muslims as they can. So this compilation is basically an NSBM record for polite upper class people I guess. I don't know if Hildegard would've been too keen on that. Her music seems too inward, too spiritual to have been a person concerned with crusades, but she worked for the guys carrying them out. I work for an electricity company, does that mean I caused global warming? The existential crises in the quiet carriage. I quite like stories of secret societies, and dig the way underground bands and artists historically have formed their own (and no not the Nazi ones The Quietus, though that Order of the Nine whatevers you went on about sounds pretty interesting). Maybe if Hildegard had been an industrial goth in early 80s England she'd have been in Thee Temple of Thee Psychick Youth instead Thee Temple of Whatever. Being a nun is pretty kvlt.

Momentarily on the disgusting Gold Coast line listening to a slightly avant-garde take on Hildegard for some ECM release. Finding it largely annoying as I'm not much of a voice-only type anyway, let alone choirs of dissonant, slurring voices. Guess they're going for some improvised take on the Vitutum thingy from earlier in this exciting locomotive listening adventure. Think I'm almost Hildegarded out, thank God tomorrow is Friday.


Light blasted back carriage. For once a school kid got up and let a tired worker sit down. He should be given a medal. Anyway there's something uncomfortable about mentioning children while listening to liturgical mystical chants by Hildegard. A new Hildegard album came out today. I almost trip over in dog shit at the sight of it on my way to board the 7th locomotive wonder of the world. Unfortunately it's just Ordo Virtutum again. I imagine if I wasn't so lazy and actually looked Hildy up again I'd find she has a fairly limited surviving oeuvre, but since I'm a raging Rallizes Denudes fan I don't mind if I hear the same song over and over and over again.


Ah the shitty city skyline, steel phallus temples rising from the gritty brownsnake (Brisbane river) like 1000 plastic cup middens in the guts of a dying whale. Back in ear country the ethereal sounds of Sequentia again and an album with a title that should be recycled by an NSBM band "Celestial Hierarchy".


Fuck off with your hierarchy Hildegard. But the music is beautiful as usual. Lilting simple polyphony, voice and flute, harmonious voices a capella or against organ or vielle drone, ritualistic and at times dark in shade and tone but always of course looking to the light. Voices soar ever up, and fall once more in that human yearning for something higher in conversation with the Gods, always with the beast nipping at your heels. Unless you're Iron Maiden, then you ride the beast into battle or space or some pyramids or some shit. I guess this week has shown me that Hildegard is kind of like the Iron Maiden of medieval polyphony, consistent,  unchanging, but ever reliable in quality. This train ride is interminable but the termination is undesirable, Bowen Hills Station. The crackiest station in central Brisbane, often full of police, sometimes empty, with limited shade but plenty of shadiness.
Beenleigh line you silver rusted graffiti bedecked piece of shit, deliver me home for it is Friday and the weekend is jampacked with Scrapes gigs and shenanigans galore. Being a warm Friday arvo I've decided Hildy ain't gonna cut it so I've decided the brilliant new Makaya McKraven is a better accompaniment while this locomotive lumberjack cleaves another wound into the tracks like the overpriced inordinately slow cunt it is. It really is a fantastic kaleidoscope of grooves and textures this record, and featuring warm cello scrapes at times from Tomeika Reid no less. Horn parps and screams interject and afro-grooves tear all and sundry a new one when it isn't sitting back in boombap. Minimal hiphop infused instrumentals. If only I can beam this into everyone's head on the train, easing their brain while a literal dust storm blows in off what remains of the outback. I'll keep this colossal grooveathon rolling while I acquire liquor and head home and I'll stop writing now because I can no longer be bothered.


Next week on Misanthropic Musicology on The Beenleigh Line: Pauline Oliveros I reckon.
Until then.

Wednesday, 14 November 2018

SCRAAAAAPESSSSSS

Several upcoming Scrapes performances in Brisbane ONLY.

afternoons
24
25
NOVEMBER

AT - Australia Pacific Triennial 9
opening weekend

GOMA

Brisbane's South Bank.

FREE

Performing with a sound installation by YOUKO MOHRI

24 NOVEMBER EVENING

@ DEAD AIR: Rusted Satellites 10 year anniversary concert

EAST BRISBANE

SCRAPES SCRAPES SCRAPES SCRAPES SCRAPES SCRAPES SCRAPES THE ONE TRUE
                                                       SCRAPES 

We don't play so often anymore....so don't miss it.

More info soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooon.