Saturday, January 24, 2004
karang and jameson
Chapter One
I tried to ignore the kids shoving candy and fake cell phones in my face, imploring me to buy. As one of the last arrivals, I folded myself into the back left seat, legs jammed against the middle row, neck bent to fit my head under the cramped ceiling. I payed the coaxer my fare, demanded change, and we flew onto the road, ignoring signs, speed limits, and the directions of other cars.
The hot air blasted through the open windows and the sun beat against my face. Thies, Kaolak, stop after stop, then, hours later, the I.D. check at Karang, where I was supposed to meet Kurt. I had a tattered photocopy of my visa, but decided not to try my luck with the guard and snuck off in the opposite direction.
Kurt sat back up the road by a sandwitch stand. His eyes, marijuana bloodshot and slow, stared up from underneath his Crocodile Dundee hat as he leaned against his bike in the shade.
I bought a vermicelli and bean sandwitch and strapped my pack to Kurt's bike. We began walking the dry road. The sun pierced the atmosphere and our skin, needling and smothering us.
The green farm plains all around, the yello column of road rising and bending into the countryside, and the sun's heat made me feel free and light. I took in some hot, clean air and exhaled.
"It's alright, I'm pretty free to do whatever I want, the boss only comes out here once a year," Kurt answered me in brief shots of talk, so soon conversation died. We picked our way along the flat road in warm silence, and came upon a house.
A tall family with fence-toothed old men, strong, hunched wives and screaming, running youngsters welcomed us, hauling makeshift chairs and clattering in Sose with Kurt. I sat, accepting dubious water from one of the girls, and breathed easy for a second. But soon we were back on the road; we'd only stopped to pick up Katrina's bike to get home faster.
Walking down the wide, soft sand road had been nothing like tramping through African savannah. It was too slow, soft, and the road was too wide for the grass to reach me. On a bike, we could tramp. The sand was hardest on the edges of the road, so we had to tear down the path at high speed, getting wacked in the face by millet and rice. I watched the path bump and bounce, ledge and fall under my tires, careful not to get stuck, occasionally looking up to find myself at the constant bottom of a bowl of savannah, green rising up in every direction to swallow me and Kurt. The ancient, giant Baobabs, the pot-leaved mangoes, and the straight-edged cashews stood like sparse teeth on the gaping maw of the horizon.
Boys with machetes and sticks sat on shaded perches looking out for monkeys who would steal their watermelon, mango, or cashew. Others plodded the road, herding white, fierce-horned cows with sticks and "Aicha!" giddy-ups. But these kids were unintrusive and far-between, and along most of the bikeride I ghasped at the space dominated by grass and slight, shallow hills. No road but the dust we rode on, no phone poles, no lights, no sound, just a rushing undiscovered countryside laying lazy in the sun like a bumpy sea.
We crossed two riverbeds and several villages. We could've stopped, but it was hot and dry, and if we slowed, we might wind up fixed to the ground, sated by rice and blanketed by the setting sun.
So down more dusty road and occasionally stuck in some loose sand, we crashed down to Kurt's village, streaking past muscular women pounding millet and more braceleted, smiling pot-bellied kids, and into the compound.
Chapter One
I tried to ignore the kids shoving candy and fake cell phones in my face, imploring me to buy. As one of the last arrivals, I folded myself into the back left seat, legs jammed against the middle row, neck bent to fit my head under the cramped ceiling. I payed the coaxer my fare, demanded change, and we flew onto the road, ignoring signs, speed limits, and the directions of other cars.
The hot air blasted through the open windows and the sun beat against my face. Thies, Kaolak, stop after stop, then, hours later, the I.D. check at Karang, where I was supposed to meet Kurt. I had a tattered photocopy of my visa, but decided not to try my luck with the guard and snuck off in the opposite direction.
Kurt sat back up the road by a sandwitch stand. His eyes, marijuana bloodshot and slow, stared up from underneath his Crocodile Dundee hat as he leaned against his bike in the shade.
I bought a vermicelli and bean sandwitch and strapped my pack to Kurt's bike. We began walking the dry road. The sun pierced the atmosphere and our skin, needling and smothering us.
The green farm plains all around, the yello column of road rising and bending into the countryside, and the sun's heat made me feel free and light. I took in some hot, clean air and exhaled.
"It's alright, I'm pretty free to do whatever I want, the boss only comes out here once a year," Kurt answered me in brief shots of talk, so soon conversation died. We picked our way along the flat road in warm silence, and came upon a house.
A tall family with fence-toothed old men, strong, hunched wives and screaming, running youngsters welcomed us, hauling makeshift chairs and clattering in Sose with Kurt. I sat, accepting dubious water from one of the girls, and breathed easy for a second. But soon we were back on the road; we'd only stopped to pick up Katrina's bike to get home faster.
Walking down the wide, soft sand road had been nothing like tramping through African savannah. It was too slow, soft, and the road was too wide for the grass to reach me. On a bike, we could tramp. The sand was hardest on the edges of the road, so we had to tear down the path at high speed, getting wacked in the face by millet and rice. I watched the path bump and bounce, ledge and fall under my tires, careful not to get stuck, occasionally looking up to find myself at the constant bottom of a bowl of savannah, green rising up in every direction to swallow me and Kurt. The ancient, giant Baobabs, the pot-leaved mangoes, and the straight-edged cashews stood like sparse teeth on the gaping maw of the horizon.
Boys with machetes and sticks sat on shaded perches looking out for monkeys who would steal their watermelon, mango, or cashew. Others plodded the road, herding white, fierce-horned cows with sticks and "Aicha!" giddy-ups. But these kids were unintrusive and far-between, and along most of the bikeride I ghasped at the space dominated by grass and slight, shallow hills. No road but the dust we rode on, no phone poles, no lights, no sound, just a rushing undiscovered countryside laying lazy in the sun like a bumpy sea.
We crossed two riverbeds and several villages. We could've stopped, but it was hot and dry, and if we slowed, we might wind up fixed to the ground, sated by rice and blanketed by the setting sun.
So down more dusty road and occasionally stuck in some loose sand, we crashed down to Kurt's village, streaking past muscular women pounding millet and more braceleted, smiling pot-bellied kids, and into the compound.
Friday, January 23, 2004
with you all
this is a song on the "big titty and the bobbies" ep
which doesnt even exist!
fell asleep on the bus and when i woke up
everyone was still flicking ashes into their cups
and the wine was gone and ther was nothing left but talk
and smoke circles rising up whitened by the cold
i'll drive fast with you all
i'm silent with you all
i sneak beers with you all
i'll break hearts with you all
leon was there with a girl in his arms
smiling and laughing about nothing at all
leather jacket wrapped losse on her shoulders
smoky smiles from her lips rose into her curls
john was there with a frown on his mouth
drawing crosses on the eyes of the girl across the room
she smiled right back and just batted her lashes
he baptized her that night until two in the morning
we stumbled in the dark to feel each others sweet breath
pass into our mouths on unfulfilled tongues
we groped in the dark to bang our heads on the wall
the girls kissed us and laughed or else we didnt care
janey was there clutching a bottle of rum
strained to hoist it to her lips with those skinny arms
her eyes danced into space then back to her boredom with life
never stopped feeling bad about being so tired
this is a song on the "big titty and the bobbies" ep
which doesnt even exist!
fell asleep on the bus and when i woke up
everyone was still flicking ashes into their cups
and the wine was gone and ther was nothing left but talk
and smoke circles rising up whitened by the cold
i'll drive fast with you all
i'm silent with you all
i sneak beers with you all
i'll break hearts with you all
leon was there with a girl in his arms
smiling and laughing about nothing at all
leather jacket wrapped losse on her shoulders
smoky smiles from her lips rose into her curls
john was there with a frown on his mouth
drawing crosses on the eyes of the girl across the room
she smiled right back and just batted her lashes
he baptized her that night until two in the morning
we stumbled in the dark to feel each others sweet breath
pass into our mouths on unfulfilled tongues
we groped in the dark to bang our heads on the wall
the girls kissed us and laughed or else we didnt care
janey was there clutching a bottle of rum
strained to hoist it to her lips with those skinny arms
her eyes danced into space then back to her boredom with life
never stopped feeling bad about being so tired
Whats With the Strokes and All These Haircut Bands
The Strokes aren't rocks anti-heroes for nothing; they can't be rock's heroes. I hear that one of them is a fashion designer and hand picks all their outfits and hairdos. A band as calculated that would have, in happier times, only hoped to take a second stage to the greats, or, failing that, pawn themselves off as a joke, like the Monkees.
But things as they are nowadays, music is dismal and we can only hope for something a bit less staggeringly mediocre than Creed and Nickelback to ever appear on MTV2. The Strokes and whoever else SPIN magazine says is really really cool are only cool by comparison to these drecky, pretentious twelve-watts.
The Strokes seem to know this and are apparently uncomfortable with the hype that surrounds them. If the state of music weren't so dire right now, a group like them would be relegated to the annual Who's Next section of Rolling Stone.
But rock sucks right now, so here we all are, blaring the groovy percussive background noise out our stereos, straining to hear rock gospel in the blasé nightlife testimonials of Julian Casablancas or guitar demonics in the carefully-mapped simplicity of the curly-haired one. It feels a lot like masturbating again after losing your virginity: straining to recall all the details of what was great for an easy way to get off.
Still, the Strokes aren't really bad, and could probably compete for record sales and rock glory in a stiffer market, so it's not that I begrudge their being rock stars. I'm just sad that they're the litmus test for the state of rock and roll, and that they're about as bitingly acidic as a cup of Dannon yogurt. Yeah, it's real exciting compared to water, but it's not dangerous like battery acid or bleach.
And, yeah, even I like a cup of yogurt every once in a while. But the problem is that this formulaic, rock-as-a-brand-name stuff, so clearly mass-marketed and crass, passes for great. The Strokes have spawned a movement of imitators as rabid in their pursuit and precise in their reproduction as many more influential bands have done in the past. Maybe because it's so easy:
(four chords x (eighth notes + 1.5 catchy riff / song + 2.3 "new instruments" / new album + hand claps)) / (Velvet Underground) = ROCK AND ROLL
This formula, like all formulas, makes the world a safer place, one more defined, and one where we can more easily, even mathematically, separate the "legitimate" rock and roll from Creed.
But, like any formula, when this is used to the exclusion of all but the most minimal creative input, it gets boring fast. At a recent CBGB amatuer night, from the second band to the seventh, I saw the Strokes play a full six times! Not bad for a ten dollar ticket, but I'm bothered by the reception the first band got.
One Day Left is the most exciting rap-metal band (and the most authentic) I've seen since Rage Against the Machine. The rhythm section was pounding, not "tight" like the Strokes (they even played quarter, half, and whole notes!), and the two rappers, hardcore kids from "Brick City," spewed convincing and structured rhymes with more personal bravery than the preadolescent whines of Linkin Park or Papa Roach. They kept the instrumental connection to hip hop and r and b not with a superfluous turntable drowned out by the crunching guitars, but with deft, funky keyboarding. By far the most innovative of the seven bands that night, One Day Left played to an attendance of their manager, their five friends, and a couple bored high school girls who were just waiting for the Haircuts to show up.
The formula actually hurts bands who break it, bands who could be making important contributions in years to come. Because they weren't a math equation, One Day Left had a lot of kinks to work out, but with attendance of their shows fading in favor of Strokes clones, they may never get a chance.
Listen to the Strokes' second album without paying that strained, dying-for-a-hero attention, and see if it grabs you by the balls. If it does, you've found your band. The rest of us will just have to keep on looking.
The Strokes aren't rocks anti-heroes for nothing; they can't be rock's heroes. I hear that one of them is a fashion designer and hand picks all their outfits and hairdos. A band as calculated that would have, in happier times, only hoped to take a second stage to the greats, or, failing that, pawn themselves off as a joke, like the Monkees.
But things as they are nowadays, music is dismal and we can only hope for something a bit less staggeringly mediocre than Creed and Nickelback to ever appear on MTV2. The Strokes and whoever else SPIN magazine says is really really cool are only cool by comparison to these drecky, pretentious twelve-watts.
The Strokes seem to know this and are apparently uncomfortable with the hype that surrounds them. If the state of music weren't so dire right now, a group like them would be relegated to the annual Who's Next section of Rolling Stone.
But rock sucks right now, so here we all are, blaring the groovy percussive background noise out our stereos, straining to hear rock gospel in the blasé nightlife testimonials of Julian Casablancas or guitar demonics in the carefully-mapped simplicity of the curly-haired one. It feels a lot like masturbating again after losing your virginity: straining to recall all the details of what was great for an easy way to get off.
Still, the Strokes aren't really bad, and could probably compete for record sales and rock glory in a stiffer market, so it's not that I begrudge their being rock stars. I'm just sad that they're the litmus test for the state of rock and roll, and that they're about as bitingly acidic as a cup of Dannon yogurt. Yeah, it's real exciting compared to water, but it's not dangerous like battery acid or bleach.
And, yeah, even I like a cup of yogurt every once in a while. But the problem is that this formulaic, rock-as-a-brand-name stuff, so clearly mass-marketed and crass, passes for great. The Strokes have spawned a movement of imitators as rabid in their pursuit and precise in their reproduction as many more influential bands have done in the past. Maybe because it's so easy:
(four chords x (eighth notes + 1.5 catchy riff / song + 2.3 "new instruments" / new album + hand claps)) / (Velvet Underground) = ROCK AND ROLL
This formula, like all formulas, makes the world a safer place, one more defined, and one where we can more easily, even mathematically, separate the "legitimate" rock and roll from Creed.
But, like any formula, when this is used to the exclusion of all but the most minimal creative input, it gets boring fast. At a recent CBGB amatuer night, from the second band to the seventh, I saw the Strokes play a full six times! Not bad for a ten dollar ticket, but I'm bothered by the reception the first band got.
One Day Left is the most exciting rap-metal band (and the most authentic) I've seen since Rage Against the Machine. The rhythm section was pounding, not "tight" like the Strokes (they even played quarter, half, and whole notes!), and the two rappers, hardcore kids from "Brick City," spewed convincing and structured rhymes with more personal bravery than the preadolescent whines of Linkin Park or Papa Roach. They kept the instrumental connection to hip hop and r and b not with a superfluous turntable drowned out by the crunching guitars, but with deft, funky keyboarding. By far the most innovative of the seven bands that night, One Day Left played to an attendance of their manager, their five friends, and a couple bored high school girls who were just waiting for the Haircuts to show up.
The formula actually hurts bands who break it, bands who could be making important contributions in years to come. Because they weren't a math equation, One Day Left had a lot of kinks to work out, but with attendance of their shows fading in favor of Strokes clones, they may never get a chance.
Listen to the Strokes' second album without paying that strained, dying-for-a-hero attention, and see if it grabs you by the balls. If it does, you've found your band. The rest of us will just have to keep on looking.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
lactaid
a messy man walking
an ugly bird down to the pet store
more feed and less quick to fly now.
the quiet girl behind the desk
grabs the bird,
feeds it with her breasts.
the messy man sighs,
fries the bird, and
the quiet girl dines that night.
a messy man walking
an ugly bird down to the pet store
more feed and less quick to fly now.
the quiet girl behind the desk
grabs the bird,
feeds it with her breasts.
the messy man sighs,
fries the bird, and
the quiet girl dines that night.
