Stuck outside of a gallery
Walk into the gallery
You’re stuck in a gallery
There’s two sculptures
Left and Right
Describe them
Say Hello to the goblin in the office
You will damage the sculpture
You will find a wonderful city
Get lost in the city
Really get lost in its cracks
And visit your Grandma
In her apartment in the West
“The walk down to the beach in Umbria was longer than usual. You had to park at the top of a hill, under some trees, instead of the bottom lot. Then, they made me grab my things and hike down to sea level, about a ten minute walk.
On one side of the beach, a middle-aged Italian man sold hard-boiled eggs, prosecco, water, and french fries. He claimed to only take cash and not speak a lot of English. The locals said in dialect that his hard boiled eggs are very good when paired with the Adriatic seawater.
With not many people around, I decided to get in the water before tanning. I took my shirt off to expose a few random tattoos, and threw it in the pile of my things: an Eve Babitz book, sunscreen, headphones, a towel, and a big bottle of water. I made the short walk to the sea, the sea, the sea sea sea. I had convinced myself that salt water healed my ailments in life.
I began to understand why hard boiled eggs were being sold on the beach: the water was extremely salty. So salty that it burnt my eyes, even when they were closed. I tried to keep my head underwater for as long as I could until my eyes started burning so bad that I had no choice but to get some air. I lasted about 15 seconds, and then rubbed my eyes hard enough to make them blur and glow with fireflies. I laid flat against the surface of the water, using the saltiness to help me float and breathe in the ocean air with fireflies around my retinas. I liked when the calm waves of the early Italian morning made me bob up and down like a piece of seaweed.
Feeling cooled down and refreshed, I walked out of the water and back to my spot in the pebbles. I contemplated getting two hard boiled eggs, but decided to wait until I was more hungry in about an hour or so. I lay out my towel, half under the shade of my pitched umbrella, and half in the west coast sun, and I thought about what the rocks tasted like.
I fell asleep thinking about the acidity of pebbles. I woke up to a sunburn on my lower half, and a repetitive bass line in my ear. Thurston Moore was saying to me, “We’re gonna kill the California girls.” Now, that would be a shame to me.
I rubbed my eyes to get the salty air out of them and look around more effectively. I would say there were at least three times as many people on the beach then. Right next to me, a group of boys had set up a few chairs and umbrellas and were circled attentively around one of their friends. They listened to him very closely. He was speaking in dialect, so I struggled to pick up on exactly what he was saying. I knew a few dialect words, so I took out my headphones and tried to chime in to their conversation.
I continued to struggle to understand. They were huddled in a way that made most of their words disappear into the ocean air, while a few decided to come my way. I got up and walked by with the hope of hearing something interesting. Walking behind the boy in the middle, I began to hear him describe how he thought his car got broken into last night, but wasn’t sure because nothing was taken. Instead, he felt as if the car was running differently that day. He was asking his friends if they thought the same when they all drove to the beach together. Some of them said yes, some of them said no. I continued to walk down the beach, hearing a few different versions of these conversations as I strolled. A couple argued over whose turn it is to fill their car with gas after they leave the beach, as one of them will have had to in order to make it back home. A mother and her daughter talked passionately about when she could begin taking driving classes. The mom seemed apprehensive to let her daughter behind the wheel. Another man, who came to the beach by himself, fed his dog slices of store bought ham while he enjoyed an early afternoon sandwich.
By this point, I was at the other rock formation, the other side of the beach. This is where the man was selling his hard boiled eggs, amongst other random things. Before walking, I put my wallet in my pocket to avoid it getting stolen, and then, I thought, I might as well get some hard boiled eggs. The sign says they are one euro each. I approach the guy and tell him I want three. He put all three into the palm of my left hand, I handed him three dollars, and I made my way back to my spot, waving the eggs in the air before eating them so I could get some salt onto the outside. They were delicious.”
“And Francesco? Did he ever show up to give you the package?”
“No, no actually, he didn’t.”
4/25
I’ve been playing Pancho & Lefty on my guitar ever since you left town a few weeks ago. Everyday, I finger pick and sing my way through the Townes Van Zandt ballad, and everyday my voice cracks when I say “mother’s only son,” or “federales,” or “needs your prayers.” My girlfriend told me to try and play it a half step lower, maybe then I’ll have an easier go at it.
I agreed with her advice, and told her to sit on my bed with Cecelia while I played the first 8 measures of Better Be Quiet Now. Weird jazz chords in one part, and classic cowboy chords in the other, coming together to form another quiet and strong ballad. Maybe those are the songs that I’m drawn to.
I drove around with my windows down, with you in the passenger seat, listening to the new Lorde single that sounds like a 2016 house remix of an older, less palatable song. It is finally spring in the city, when everything comes to life.
I see rats crossing the street at night, bunnies in the morning, and old men jay-walking at 6pm. The three worry me in different ways; I hope the rats don’t make it into my house, I hope the bunnies don’t get hit by a car, and I hope the old men make it home in time for dinner. Red lights are everywhere in the springtime, too. They add an extra few on every street, because when the weather is moderate, it is harder to be frustrated, but easier to hit animals, since you are so busy admiring the sun and the flowers. The extra stoplights save the lives of the bunnies that cross the street. It is now commonplace for the spring to signify absurdly heavy traffic.
As a result, many people have taken to walking around the city. I like to sit on my private porch and watch these people, who I otherwise wouldn’t get a good look at in their cars, or when I’m driving on the same road as them. I sit, with my headphones in, listening to The White Album, and pretend to squish all the people that are walking with my index and thumb fingers. They can’t see me, so it is all fun and games. Besides, if they did, it would just look like I’m playing with the sunlight.
I was about to pretend-squish someone when I’m So Tired came on, and I had to close my eyes. It’s a ritual of mine, to close my eyes when I’m So Tired starts to play. I feel most connected to the music that way, and it's a bit of a practical joke as well. When the song finished, I realized I was bored with watching people walk on my street, so I went inside to play guitar.
My girlfriend was sitting on the couch. She told me that I forgot to show up for our date that we planned. I told her that the date already happened, and she knows that this is my outside patio time, so I would never double book myself. She was upset and did not believe me.
I poured myself a glass of orange juice to calm down. In the corner of my kitchen, a pile of sneakers with a few rat-sized bites. I had to wipe the orange juice from the corner of my lips and rub my eyes to get another look. The only explanation for this - there are rats in my house.
"Drunk Elk LP"
Repress - April 8, 2017 - Goaty Tapes / House Rules
Originally recorded in 2007 in Tasmania
Psych rock, no wave, lo-fi, synth rock
“Drunk Elk LP” is the first full length release from the Australian Trio, “Drunk Elk.” It was originally released in 2007 as a self-titled cassette on Inverted Crux, a label run by Australian artist Sean Bailey. Drunk Elk consists of four members, altogether making a band of bass, keyboards, guitar, and vocals.
I picked up this record at Analog Underground in Providence from the psych section. At the time, I was buying records based the covers, and if they looked cool or not. I also didn’t have that much money and “Drunk Elk LP” was only 12 dollars. It would be the first record I played on my record player after fixing the counter weight issues I had for a few months.
The record opens up with “Quintessence,” a song that sounds like an underground Joy Division cover. There’s a simple bass riff, and Dave Elk sings lusty lyrics for someone. He says:
Play that strange tune again,
That off key melody
The production on this opening track carries throughout the rest of the record. Every song has a constant drone of keyboard that sounds like an organ MIDI, and it all feels as if it's been run through a four track twice. Put some fuzzy vocals on top of this with the mention of a girl’s name, and I guess you could describe it as psych rock.
To me, it is more like desperate no-wave, in the best way possible. The layering of everyone’s contribution to the project is very bare bones, and makes Drunk Elk seem like a grasp for something that is missed, but wherever it lands instead is just as good, if not better.
FFO: Dead C, Warsaw, Joy Division, Soft Cell, Talk Talk
I’m walking on the intersection of St. John’s Place and Schenectady Avenue, heading towards Utica Avenue, where there is a 3 subway that eventually goes into Manhattan. I have two jackets on and a scarf, with my phone in the pocket of the outer jacket so that the wire of my friend’s headphones that I’m borrowing doesn’t become tangled and suddenly stop working. Entering my third supermarket in the last hour, I just want some tomatoes and salmon that look good. I’m feeling extra irritable tonight.
Everytime I listen to Codeine, I picture myself as the guitarist, singing slow, earnest, and cold lyrics over distorted, reverb-turned-all-the-way-up noise. How cool would that be, to be in a band that makes loud noises. I send out a PSA: “I’m in New York City right now, but when I get back, does anyone want to start a loud band?” I get a few replies from people that make interesting music themselves, but I hesitate to get back to them too quickly. Now, my worlds are colliding. What would a slowcore shoegaze guitar music NYC hipster concert look like in a supermarket?
Last night, I played tender music with my friend Angie in her ex-boyfriend’s apartment in Ridgewood, Queens. We practiced a few times and did a sound check when we arrived. Twelve circles of socializing, all with about 5 to 6 people in them, had me running around most of the night. Smiles and adrenaline. We sat down to play our nine songs to eighty people and everyone was sitting down with smiles on their faces. After the first song, the nerves started to wear off, and I decided to take my eyes off of the ground to meet the eyes of everyone else for a split second. Everyone looked at me with love and care, but for some reason, in the back of the room, there was a 6 foot tall lizard. He was staring right at me with a Modelo in his right hand, an Elliott Smith “I love metal” shirt on the upper half of his body, and nothing covering his legs and lower torso.
I turned to Angie before starting the second song. “What the fuck is that lizard doing here?” I whispered into her ear. She just chuckled and closed her eyes for a few seconds, and continued tuning her guitar to D. I looked up again and the lizard was clumsily stepping around the rest of the crowd. He was making his way towards the door to the apartment. I had to know who he was, and why he was at our show. I threw my guitar on the ground, and hopped after him. Now, everyone was watching.
“Hey! What are you doing here? Who are you?”
He didn’t hear me at all. He kept slowly moving towards the exit. I yelled again, this time trying to put my body in front of his in order to stop him from leaving. Before I jumped into his path, he looked me dead in my eyes. His gaze traveled all the way down to my toes, and made me take a step back, killing all of my desire to interrogate him. His heavy head turned back towards the door, he reached for the doorknob, slithered out on his back feet, and grudgingly walked down the stairs to the main floor of the apartment. We finished the rest of the show without any other interruptions.
That was a crazy night, I think to myself, having now returned from the supermarket. The rest of my friends are sitting on the couch watching television and drinking beer, and I’m cooking dinner for them as a thank you for letting me sleep over. None of them have brought up the lizard incident.
45 minutes later, dinner was ready, and we squeezed on the couch to enjoy a satisfying meal together. I’ll be leaving in two days, back to a quiet life.
Tomorrow I turn 23 and I’ve been listening to unreleased Salem songs since I was 19. I started on soulseek, downloading all of the tracks uploaded by NadiaKay. This consisted of $KVr1 and 2, and a few oddballs and one-off remixes (i.e.: Radiohead Reckoner remix). I made a playlist called “Salem Treasure Cove” and became fairly obsessed with songs of theirs that you couldn’t easily find on YouTube or Spotify. It was a fun secret.
Every few months, I would cycle back to this music, and become engulfed in it once again. I would listen to Trapdoor for the first time in a while and remember why I liked it so much in the first place. Or, a deep cut would appear in my liked songs while driving and lead me into the same hole I opened a few years ago.
Today, alone in my boss’ studio in New Bedford, I plugged my computer into his speakers and, since I didn’t have wifi, played the Local Files that I had uploaded to Spotify. Withoutu came on, a track from $KVr1 where Heather mumbles through a yearning speech about someone who must have recently left her (at the time). At high volume, while I drank black coffee from the Portuguese soup store, the song was realistic and cathartic.
I shuffled through this album and a few YouTube mixes of theirs a few times, some with Heather and some without. I ended up back in Cranston a few hours later doing computer work and suddenly remembered Heather’s solo project, Golden Carriage. The documentation of this project is a YouTube video uploaded by Fooly Cooly of 9 songs of Heather doing vocals and probably synthesizer work, and her partner and artist Paul Kopkau accompanying her in various ways. The specifics of their collaboration on this project is pretty ambiguous, but his voice appears a few times, and apparently he also left a comment a few months ago on the video that either he or YouTube deleted.
The Golden Carriage songs are arguably better than any Salem project, even though they are pretty different in genre and approach. Holistically, they are tighter and more emotional, not relying on a prefabricated aesthetic to make meaning. Heather is also an amazing vocalist and her lyrics are great, too.
I am a poet of the salons of my apartment.
*
I eat smoke and dream and occasionally call you
*
I watch the city lights get thrown into focus
*
Are you quiet when you sleep, or do you stay up jacking off to the thought of me? ‘Cause it's a Renaissance we live in, so it's okay to be a pervert ‘cause you’d be just like me.
I ran into Heather in Venice Beach this past July while I was visiting my now ex-girlfriend. She was sitting with Paul at an upscale cafe called Giusta and it took me a few minutes to realize why she looked so familiar to me. I didn’t approach her, but it was cool to see her in the flesh. Then, I got dropped off at LAX and went back to Providence for the summer, still religiously listening to undermixed, overproduced Salem songs.
