some hip drum shit

there comes a time when you want to be older

there comes a time when you want to be bolder

I love you more when it's over

there comes a time when your helpful
there comes a time when your doubtful
I love you more when your spiteful 

there comes a time to wake up to whats happening
there comes a time to get out of whats happening
I love you more than whats happening

there comes a time when you are near me

there comes a time when you are near me 

a time that captures what we're after
a time: 
https://rapidshare.com/#!download|693p5|260283246|Ego.rar|100547|0|0

In The Absence of Christ

Friends, devoted followers, trash collectors, forgive me for not posting in so long. I have been in a dark place, I am still there. It is a place of text, quotes, indents and of ancient philosophies. It's kind of like the scene in Hackers where they get into that secret folder and E=MC2 is floating around, but more monocrhome and monotonous. Don't fear for me, though, I can see a light at the end of this bleak tunnel of intellectual purgatory. But for now, I barrel on. However, I felt I must share with you the music that both best reflects the interior of my mind at the moment and makes the best soundtrack for this taxing journey I am embarked on.

Very special thanks to Aesop over at the Hearse for dropping yet another forgotten classic quickly become personal fave on my miserable earholes. MonumentuM's In Absentia Christi is just what I've been craving, some good old fashione Italian occultitude. Not easily described using metal terminology (because it sounds like little other metal I've heard) I will attempt to give an experiential equivalent to what I feel listening to this album. Imagine you are at an Italian Catholic funeral in a huge church, everyone is dressed in black and sobbing as the incense burns and the sound of murmured prayer gets louder and louder. The procession starts and you shoulder through the crowd to the son of the deceased to voice your condolences. This sends his long, dark-haired, pale, lanky frame into convulsions of bellowed balling. His tears soon turn to morbid reflection and he begins expounding to you his every thought of dejected agony, in Rozz Williams-like oration, while the chorus of chants and bells behind you rises and falls. He becomes more and more animated as the unusually long walk to the graveyard grows longer and stranger. Daylight turns to unsettling twilight and shadowy cobblestone streets stretch on into infinity. You feel very odd. You realize that the libation someone gave you at the church seems to have had hallucinatory effects. You want this depressing journey to end and yet with his every word you become more sympathetic for your host's bleak revery. Suddenly, the buildings fall away and you look out in front of the crowd to see an expansive cemetery, tombstone upon tombstone, crypt upon crypt, restful and still in the soft hues of the setting sun.

fade to grey...

More Power to the People

Rounding out the scintilating trio of 1971 freak outs (see Headless Heroes of the Apocalypse & There's a Riot Goin' On) is this, Funkadelic's LSD-drenched manifesto. This masterpiece takes the shape of an entropic epic in retrograde motion and like those other two apocalyptic sonic documents of '71, Maggot Brain comes off as generally rapped up in post-60s disillusionment. Opening with George Clinton's prophesizing "Mother Earth is pregnant for the third time, for y'all have knocked her up. I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe, I was not offended for I knew I had to rise above it ALL, or drown in my own SHIT" we are swiftly swept into Eddie Hazel's sludgey six-string trascendence. Clinton's bold production choice to drop all accompanying instruments but guitar arpeggios and snare drum tell us from the start who is in the driver's seat for this experiential trip of an album as well as what a visionary he truly was. With an acoustic guitar riff we're chimed into the upbeat ode to capitalistic love, "Can You Get to That" only to headbang that lesson away to the promiscuous "Hit It and Quit It". Closing the first side is the nursery rhyme derived plea for the virtue of community amongst classes "You and Your Folks, Me and My Folks. "Super Stupid" provides a heavy-rocking reintroduction and a sound that Lenny Kravitz would make a career out of in the inverted 60s. Following is "Back In Our Minds", a deranged return to consciousness setting us up for the domestic degeneracy, street rioting and ultimate nuclear devastation of the thoroughly corporealizing "Wars of Armageddon". In just six numbers Funkadelic manages to take you on a journey from your cerebral cortex to your bowels and through every facet of humanity in between.

I've linked for you here the reissue with the incredible bonus tracks "Whole Lot of BS" and "I Miss My Baby" as well as the unmixed version of the Maggot Brain jam, replete with acid fried backing track. Go on Hit It an' Quit!

AfroFuture

This needs no introduction nor petty bantering text soon to be lost in the vortex of the internet. What you need to know: Black History Month is here, it has been here. Black Americans are here, they have been here. They have changed things greatly and for so much the better. You need to appreciate them, my posts this month are going to give you some musical examples of why. You are now entering an outerspace.

Space is the Place

Serious Music

Too bad the main kind of attention this highly lauded tour de force seemed to get in Canada was that from fogies and upstarts alike who wanted to have "but is it jazz??" discussions. NO, IT ISN'T JAZZ, MORONS, ITS A GIANT SAXOPHONE HARKING JUDGEMENT DAY. There, I said it. If there is one thing other than blow minds this record did it was reaffirm the lack of ownership snobby wasps have over jazz as well as that which jazz has over the sax. This record works outside of any definable musical compartment to create a truly solitary feeling of an observed passage of time. While effective in linear flow, most of the pieces on this album manage to stop time for monolithic moments of reflection, the orations of Laurie Anderson creating diverging, polyphonic narratives throughout. Stetson's ability to create atmosphere and continuity through a kind of additive synthesis in his playing reflects beautifully the subject matter: the way in which history and war are composed through the collective memory, out of innumerable bits and pieces. The innovative and mesmerizing recording techniques employed for this H2T session give the heaviest moments of this work lumbering weight, while others (A Dream of Water) seem to float as clouds, shimmering timelessly. Arcade Fire said it themselves, this record deserved the Polaris more. It would seem we hardly deserved such a stunning accomplishment.  Thank you, Colin.

Judgement   

EMERGENCY AT 30: Rocktober appended!

Alright so I know what I wrote and I lied, this is the actual last post before my 2011 in review series (starting Dec. 15). It's just that I realized I had foolishly overlooked perhaps the two most monumental works of our nineteen-thousandth and eighty-first year. Perhaps this oversight could be compared to another I often have which-due to it's close proximity and sovereignty from predominating music trends of the rest of the States-is to intermittently grant Portland honourary Canadian residency in my mind. Having never been there, only through the famed records and tales of the legendary minstrels of the mythical, woodsy city, can I romanticize the darkly shadowed rock 'n' roll pasts which dwell within it and the hearts of its fabled tune-smiths. As is characteristic of  the nature of most great thriving punk scenes, there is a lineage to the creators of these two PDX punk masterpieces, found in the bucket bashing of Sam Henry. Henry had, in fact, exited Wipers by Youth of America but his memorably dynamic driving of the band's 3 minute masterpieces made him a sure fit for what tHe rAT$ went for with Intermittent Signals.

Defiance!

First we have the highly coveted second installment in the short-lived but brilliant punk brainchild of Fred and Toody Cole (later of Dead Moon fame). While their S/T debut established the band with bubblegum punk classics like Teenagers and an overall endearing ferocity and knowing naivete, Intermittent Signals rips through the sturdy punk facade to reveal a band in reflection, equally inspired and disillusioned by the arrival of the 'New Wave'. It's all just "the same shit playing on the radio" to these newly christened rock and roll vets. A string of both imposingly punchy and seductively catchy proto-pop-punk anthems, Signals burns a blazing trail through the cannon with such underground hymnals as Descending Shadows, Defiance and Nightmare. It is the silhouette of this artistically ingenious twosome and their undying contribution to their scene that thoroughly consumes my mental musical landscape of PDX. The originals for over 30 years!

Can this be?

Unlike tHe rAT$ sophomore, with its assaying of the airwaves, Wipers traverse more direct connections to your cerebral cosmos via a Sage's circulation of cyclic licks in cylindrical orbit to the grooves on your disk. Indeed one can hear echoes of Greg's mystical lead playing in the reverb drenched leads Cole plays on In The Graveyard and throughout much the rest of DM's catalogue. There is no question Youth of America is a fate-altering classic all the way from monolithic title track through to feedback infinity. If you are averse to doing acid you might as well drop this on your ears, it's the perhaps the only way your mind will be freed.