I’m the one who’s “stressed out”

About the not so hidden messages in this song, amidst all the blather about “the same nose” – the message that comes through especially clearly in the song’s chorus

youtube.com/watch?v=Rf4euAs7LY8

Lyrics – or beliefs/sentiments – like this I find frightening.

Firstly, childhood nostalgia is dangerous. For why would anyne be nostalgic for unnatural, artificially-induced, utter vulnerability (which is what those who seek to tyrrranise call “innocence”)? For depersonalisation and disenfranchisement – being prevented from even acquiring the vocabulary you need to express yourself properly, and the knowledge (i.e mainly confirmation of what you will have intuited) that confers agency/humanity.
Every human spends their entire life trying to recover from the psychological terrorism – the confusion, inhibition, unnatural self-doubt – inflicted upon them by their parents* and especially by school. (Education is what you do to yourself, by nature, as part of the process of existing. Whereas schooling – regimented fomalised indoctrination – is psychological abuse).

Trying, and failing – some more conspicuously and catastrophically then others. Part of the reason most people fail is by, in their confusion. swallowing the lie that there is a natural drive to form romantic relationships, to reproduce and to form families. There isn’t – there is only the sex drive (which is like the urge to urinate).

Why, when you’re still reconstructing your true authentic self from the damage inflicted by your parents etc*, would you choose to have that authentic self battered and shaved away by a “partner” (or “husband” or “wife”) ?

Unless you were either:

(a) dangerous to other human beings simply by being so timid and so lacking in intutive self-knowledge as to be dangerous to other human beings, or

(b) so eager to acquire power/tyrrany over other human beings through the medium of the nuclear family* that you saw it as a price worth paying? The nuclear family is all about tyrrany, domination, psychological abuse of the young (who are more capable of achieving rational perception, sanity, clearsightedness, and thus a threat to their sires and others who practice and propagate governance)*.

In which case, the last sound you will ever hear will be one of the humans you are endangering, expressing their disgust in proper language – the kind that is expressive on an onomatopoeic level – e.g “what a vile putrid fwooffery nifniff you really are!”
[* I’m recalling those famous words spoken by Marlon Brando, and what his character was doing when he spoke them. Symbolism doesn’t come much simpler or more potent!]

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Morality lesson

This is turning from a music blog to a politics blog – that can’t be prevented.

 

This lesson is a response to youtube.com/watch?v=2xLuCn5WlsY

Six principles by which reality works.
These are facts. Not opinions. Facts which mentally competent people do not need to have explained to them.

(1) Censorship is a worse crime than mutilation, rape or murder. Because, firstly, to kill is not to attack a person’s right to a self – all is erased. Even if you physically disable a person and/or drive them out of their mind with PTSD, that does not represent “dehumanization”. Censorship does – because what makes one human different from another is their individual psyche, their self. Any attempt to impose any restrictions on how a person communicates is an attempt at dehumanization – which actually dehumanizes the censor. Which is why it should be (read: is) punishable by death. Anyone who supports the existence of laws against “hate speech” or “emotional abuse” or “obscenity”, or the laws which permit corporate censorship by upholding the myth of monetisable “intellectual property” (there’s no such thing) needs to be “executed”. As soon as they wield power over any person, they annul their status as humans: they may be viewed as plague carrying parasites.
(1.2) As of this date, Weinstein, Spacey, Allen, and indeed Martinez have not been found guilty on any sexual-violence charges. Even when/if they have been found guilty (this is where names like Polanski or even Gadd can be thrown in), it is IRRELEVANT to anything they have communicated as “art” aka “chatter” – because…(see [2])

(2) Separating the “art” from the “artist” is a basic function of a competent brain.
Any kind of “chatter” and / or “art”, however the “artist” or the “consumer” may interpret it, EXISTS APART from the artist.
If you do not believe the “art”/”chatter” of any of the people named above can be separated from any reprehensible actions they have committed in any other sphere of life, then you are a psychopath incapable of rational perception. ANd if you believe the “art”/”chatter” of such persons should be taken out of circulation/written out of history, then any other person on the planet is duty bound to kill you. That’s what happens when an insane delusional psycho attempts to exert power over even one other person: they annihilate themselves.

(3) No public figure IS EVER duty bound to be a role model – it is sinister and delusional to claim that they should be. It is also sinister and delusional to claim that young people need role models (because it implicitly denies them an individual self, and a free will). Young people who believe that any so-called “celebrity” should be a role model are dangerously under-developed for their age. Insane. Or to use a medical term “intellectually retarded”. And thus irrelevant, at best, to their competent peers.

(4) No-one is entitled to be paid for the privilege of viewing a YouTube channel.

(5) No-one is entitled to be paid for their verbal, visual or musical “creativity” – aka “chatter”. There is no such thing as a professional musician, or journalist, or actor, or filmmaker. “Art”/”chatter” is NOT WORK, because it is NOT PRODUCTIVE. If anything it is destructive because it is self-indulgence. Furthermore, there is no such thing as creativity because there is no such thing as original thought. If two people speak the same language, neither is capable of an original thought, because the sounds they make, the shapes they draw, their very way of viewing the world, has been shaped by someone else. Ergo: no “creativity”, no “intellectual property”. Mentally competent human beings understand this intuitively when they are preschoolers.
(5.1) Therefore, there is no such thing as a “publisher”. Neither YouTube, nor Google, nor any ink-and-paper “publisher” is entitled to refuse to distribute anything at any time. Because they are the equivalent of a ruled notebook, or a loudhailer, or the air itself. They are not responsible for “content” because they are services. They do not have an identity. They are not “private companies” – there is no such thing, laws which claim otherwise are null and void as they are founded on piss-lickingly obvious untruths.

(0.0 – subjunc. to 1 and 2) All sexual acts are assaultive. All sexual acts involve one person wielding power over the other. Sex is a bodily function, which has nothing to do with “love”. “Domination” and “assault” are how it works. People who were not dangerously under-developed mentally would have known that subconsciously long before puberty made them actively or passively involved in it. As a live human you have the choice to either grow up and deal with that reality, abandoning your impractical / biologically-confused notions of what constitutes “consent”, or run for your life to the nearest monastery or convent or similar vehicle for shutting oneself out of “the human race” and waiting to expire.

(6) The Big One. Reality (or, in religious language, “morality”), in a nutshell.
There is no such thing as private property. Because there is more than one person in the world. Each person is stealing from other persons just by being alive – that is why “ownership”, wasteful over-consumption, and the hoarding of matter, even in order to “provide a service”, are inherently destructive acts.

xxxtentacion and the new fascism

https://www.independent.co.uk/voices/xxxtentacion-death-domestic-violence-pregnant-girlfriend-beat-abuse-rapper-a8410156.html

 

The message of this article, obfuscated, but easy to read between the lines:

  1. The author, like all right-wing people, argues is not possible to separate the “art” from the “artist”  –  inspite of the fact – and it is a fact – that failure to do so is a mark of insanity, delusion, inability to distinguish truth from untruth).

And believes that “artists” who do not, in their personal lives, meet some sort of morality test should have their work destroyed in order that they may be written out of history.  Something we used to associate with the Nazis and the Soviets, but which has already happened in the UK – hasn’t it, Ovenden, Gadd etc!

  1. The author believes there are no such things as hyperbole (a terrifyingly widespread belief – compare reactions to the Donald Trump “parking-lot outtake”), or irony, or perhaps even fiction itself. (If I believed the author was mentally competent, capable of rational perception, I would ask – never heard of writing-in-character? Or do you believe that all people besides yourself must be presumed to be incapable of interpretation…especially if they’re teenagers, whom you evidently perceive as being on the mental level of toddlers
  2. The author supports the perverse but ever-expanding legal position (the basis for laws against so-called “hate speech”) that any “offended” person’s interpretation of either “art” or of communication of any kind, supercedes and annuls that of the “speaker”, who is the originator of the thought.  Or indeed, that of the other ten billion people on the planet. Inspite of the fact – and it is a simple fact – that, whether they are “the addressee” or not, any person’s interpretation, of anything they see or hear, at any time, is ultimately irrelevant, or of only passing relevance at best, Because they are not the transmitter of the thought – they are not qualified to form an opinion. It’s that shit-lickingly simple!
  3. “The Independent” itself endorses these dangerous perverse beliefs – bearing in mind that like all paper-or-electronic “news media”, it is in fact a political campaigning organisation. And an obstacle to freedom of expression (because it pretends to have a “brand”, and to deal in “Intellectual property”: two things which do not exist even on a logical-conceptual level).

In which context, the author is not exercising her own “freedom of expression”. She is exerting tyrrany (something she is able to do because of the laws on our books which effectively equate fiction with fact – laws concerning “hate speech”, “emotional abuse”, “intimidation” and “conspiracy”, plus such reknowned affronts to reality and rational perception as the “cartoon porn laws” included in the Coroners and Justice and Public Order Acts)

By publishing this article, and thereby endorsing the cause of CENSORSHIP:-

The Independent is colloquially sh1tting on the graves of, amongst others, Galileo, Thomas More, Martin Luther (both bearers of this name), Radclyffe Hall, DH Lawrence, John Cleland, Howard Brenton, Oz, Kathy Acker and many others.

Endorsing their persecutors.

To Whom It May Concern – NOW BUGGERING READ THIS AND LEARN

Fact: Censorship is a worse offence against humanity than murder, rape or mutilation.

Because – You can kill a person, you can disable them, you can make them incapable of functioning in society due to enduring trauma, but none of these things represent actual attempted dehumanization.  Censorship – anyone attempting to impose any limitations on freedom of expressions (including copyright law) – does.

Because – What makes a human a human?  The thing that separates one from another – their self, their psyche.  Which, if it isn’t able to express itself authentically, subject to no prescriptions whatsoever, may as well not exist.

If a person is prevented from expressing themselves absolutely authentically, they are in effect being denied the right to a self..

And a message is being sent out that a self, a personality, is some sort of privilege to be earned.

That is attempted dehumanization. Physical violence is not.

“Attempted” because the only person being dehumanized is the censor.

A practitioner (active or passive) or censorship is presenting as an intractable threat to every other human.  Which means they have signed their own death warrant.

Breath Of Life – Under The Falling Stars

Important points

New wrinkles – the most dancefloor-oriented number (“Hide”) not only has slight touches of chicken-scratch rhythm-guitar but, momentarily, a ska backbeat! It’s not as “commercial” as “Until the Day” which, in every detail, sounds like it could have come from Bel Canto circa 1994-8.

Long time no hear – three songs sort-of have trip-hop beats. “The Magic of Dreams” in particular could be left over from “Silver Drops” – not only musically, it even reprises the “catch catch” motif!

Reconnecting with strengths – some well-placed feedback eruptions, and some dissonance (actually just jazzy chromaticism)

Lyrics – they’re still dealing in images of transcendence and transformation, but where the last two albums were full of characters who seemed to be withdrawing from physical existence (whether painfully or painlessly) – and doing so in places-of-worship, as often as not – here they’ve returned to the more benign transcendental imagery of the “Silver Drops” era. (More underwater imagery, and so much “dreaming” you might mistake them for Baptist ministers or German philosophers!).  Of course it’s foolish to pay too much attention to B.o.L lyrics- when the usual problems of broken English and “unfortunate turns of phrase” remain intact. (Again refer to “Stolen Dreams”).

Try this

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJkigDUh2KQ

And this

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ea3ZVKtVrTE

And then this

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Eb4IgoMB-A

And to put it in context, here’s one of their old “hits”, for an encore

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o_rL7NSuv9Y

Claire Lemmon – Cleaner

At last it’s on YouTube – one of the greatest albums of all time (I’m not kidding – just listen.)

To those who heard it back in ’99, it was the “Plastic Ono Band” or “On My Way To Where” of its time.

Newcomers – prepare to have your guts wrenched (“Post”), to be tickled (“Swoon”), to worry for the singer’s mental health (“Welcome Hawaii”, “Stripy Assistant”), and for grade-A earworms (“Scary”, “Stupid” )

Zappa/Mothers “Go Ape”

The latest in the current series of Beat The Boots-type releases (above-ground bootlegs) on the Smokin/Eat To The Beat labels – this came as a bit of a surprise.

Unlike the others, all of which have some claim to “usefulness” (yes, even the audio of Barcelona 1988), this show has already been released as part of the original Frank-Zappa-endorsed Beat The Boots series (on Rhino/Castle), where it was copied from a bootleg album called Tis The Season To Be Jelly (the concert was around the start of the Christmas shopping season). Packaging fans ought to seek out the vinyl of the Season… edition, for the bizarre short-story on the back cover (a post-nuclear-apocalypse thing).

But for anyone who happens by the Go Ape edition…

One of the earliest substantive Zappa live recordings, sourced from a radio broadcast, this is (probably) the second half of the Mothers’ show in Stockholm in November 1967, this is as near as we get to an authentic glimpse of their highly-theatrical 1967-season shows at the Garrick Theater or the Albert Hall (there are definitely no Garrick Theater audio recordings, whatever you may have read!)

Divided into distinct segments – starting with twelve minutes of goofing around with ’50s/early ’60s pop tunes and FZ’s imitations of same. Vocal harmonies are as inexact here as they were on Absolutely Free, and we’re reminded that – whether he saw it that way or not – Ray Collins’ performance is as much about vocal caricature as singing. (In folkloric terms, the best bit is “No Matter What You Do”, a song-fragment which basically repurposes Frank’s unloved “All Night Long” collaboration with The Animals. Comparable to the similarly-obscure “Bust His Head” – both may in fact be Zappa/Collins co-writes).

Naturally the second segment is “jazz-rock-fusion / free-improv + performance-art mode for twenty-five minutes”. The bulk of it is comprised of one of the best versions of “King Kong” you’re ever likely to hear. Played as a jazz-waltz (like on the Uncle Meat album) instead of 12-8 (like every other pre-1981 rendition), it has excellent solos from Bunk Gardner and Don Preston but is dominated by a long and anguished-sounding solo from Ian Underwood: comparable to his Copenhagen outpouring on the Uncle Meat album, or, in a certain mood, I might say, better.

Eventually Frank takes up his baton and the chaos begins. We get a short, hasty, rendition of “It Can’t Happen Here”, but it’s only the mustard in this particular burnt-weeny sandwich. There are ingredients you’ll hear in every conducted-improv – i.e: the 5-4 beat – and there are ingredients which Zappa collectors have heard somewhere before – Don’s synthesizer screams and Floydian Farfisa-organ soloing, and the Freak Out-style routine where various Mothers recite monologs simultaneously (including some Spanish and some sheer incoherent gibbering). But here they combine into something unique – something which listeners may find genuinely unsettling: the sound of encroaching insanity, an audio hallucination in digital audio. Maybe it’s the moment of radio-scanning a la John Cage that makes the vital difference, or maybe it’s Ray, who seems to be babbling into one of those voice-changing toy-microphones.

It’s easy to miss the fact that Frank never plays a guitar solo on this disc (a wise decision, during this era, if you ask me!). A couple of familiar embellishing-licks behind Bunk’s solo is the nearest we get to an FZ solo. This is probably not an artistic decision but a sign of illness. It’s likely that this is indeed the show described in Michael Gray’s biog, where he spent a lot of time offstage vomiting – in which case, it’s possible (though I doubt it), that Ian Underwood played some of the rhythm-guitar parts. Later that night Suzy Creamcheese would be nursing him through gastro-enteritis and listening to him recant his plan to run for the presidency, cursing his political timidity.

Eric Dolphy – Nightmare Fuel

This should be a TV Tropes entry, but the keepers of the TV Tropes website have stubbornly and abusively refused to provide me with an account – I don’t whether they’re discriminating against me or just my e-mail company.

I know from decades of trying to infect people with Dolphyism that, even for people well-travelled enough to know where he’s coming from harmonically, his exclamatory solo style can be annoying and even alarming to certain people.  And this after more than half a century, and the more abrasive screechy-atonal saxophones of the Ayler/Sanders/Brotzmann generation. Yes it’s 54 years at the time of writing. since he left this vale of tears in mysterious circumstances (diabetes, or brain haemorrhage – or medical neglect, or murder…?).

BTW – He was in fact buried, not cremated – so there aren’t any jokes to be made about a certain Zappa tune title!

 

The account of his last days in the film “Last Date”- which overturned the established consensus that it was simply an “undetected riot of sugar in the blood” that finished him off – could be Nightmare Fuel for some.

But musically, is there a genuinely scary moment in the extended Dolphy catalogue?

If so, then I would venture to argue that it’s not any of those shouting/howling climactic high notes in his solos. And it’s not “Jim Crow”

youtube.com/watch?v=UMNM23YlcH0

and it’s not any of those “musical argument” routines with Mingus [note 1].

 

The nightmare-moment is actually the classic Out To Lunch version of the ballad “Something Sweet Something Tender”.

youtube.com/watch?v=ZZ7xBggveyY

There are obvious precedents for both the title and the actual tune, as we initially hear it on the album (first a fluid, rubato statement over arco bass, and then the trumpet-led slow-tempo statement, with Eric adding an embellishment or two while Richard Davis fills in the gaps with busy soloistic bass).  It could have been called “something Duke, something Strayhorn”.

And the title suggests romance, closeness…oh, no more nonsense, it suggests sex.

But don’t be fooled by the “sexy” title.  Or Eric’s one-chorus solo in which he can’t help getting a little lowdown ‘n dirty. I would argue that the real “meaning” of the tune becomes apparent with that potentially shocking musical twist-ending, after the third theme-statement, the one which ends with Eric’s little cadenza.

Maybe one doesn’t realise the “meaning” of the tune the first dozen times one hears the album track, but one may realise – with horror – when it suddenly springs to mind, when one is waking from sleep, in the early hours of the morning.

It’s a “song” about death. Not “petit mort”. The real thing.

Focus on that last section starting at approx 4.38 – when the arco bass and bass-clarinet restate the theme, so close in unison as to be one voice. Unaccompanied, save for the faint suggestion of two or three tones struck on gongs, or bells, very low in the mix [note 2].

That whole section of music is suggestive of the dying/dead person’s very last moments of consciousness, when the whole body has shut down.

In which that last shred of life, of personhood, within the brain (that which religious people think is “the soul”), perceives, sensory input already receded to near-nothing, utterly hopeless isolation and powerlessness. perceives being at an unimaginably vast distance from the world of the living.

And the final musical flourish – Eric’s little run up the scale over the final chord, over distant drum/cymbal beats and twittering high-register arco bass?

That’s the moment of annihilation. The electricity within the brain actually sputtering out.

Et puis l’eternite. Silencio.

If only it were the last track on the album, or the last track on side one, we could be sure of the veracity of this interpretation.

(1 = the studio version of “What Love” is just the most famous of several examples of the “musical-argument routine” in the Mingus catalogue.

youtube.com/watch?v=mbuA2qCWEoQ

Any idiot can spot Mingus’s string-bending “moth-er-fucker” phrases in these routines, but no-one ever draws attention to Dolphy, in the “What Love” iteration,  almost literally making his bass-clarinet say “what? what!” and “fuck you! fuck you!” (the latter in both angry-snarling and, at the very end of the track, arrogant-staccato tones)

(2 = this may be just vibrating bass strings deceiving the ear, but what if there really are bells or gongs buried in the mix? Not played by Williams or Hutcherson, but an echo of whatever was on the source tape before it was [improperly] erased and re-used? It’s not impossible – as soon as tape recording was introduced, and with it the concept of overdubbing, that gimmick followed.  The notion that jazz recording should only be about documenting spontaneous creativity was overturned first by £llington, then by Mingus, and (more famously) Miles Davis/Teo Macero. Van Gelder would be aware of all this).

 

Epilogue – This post should be filed under “anything Chris Knowles can do, I can do…differently!”