Joanna Bean
Playing link tag through THE REFERENCE LIBRARY
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Four Hundred and Ninety Six
From the last 12 months of submissions to Tiny Vices. See the whole thing HERE. There's a lot, so you'll need a few minutes.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Sail By Night
Sail By Night - "Skin & Bones"
I want this song to go on forever, but the fact that it doesn't makes it even better.
Michael Murphy is a true gentleman. He's been sitting around the house writing and recording for the last couple of months, and finally has a a little mini-album put together. I bugged him for a copy, and last night he delivered one by hand. This is the first song from it, and a good indication of what is to come...
P.S. Up top: One is mine, one is not.
EDIT: Here's Michael's Myspace.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Mi Ami
Just to follow up from the earlier BLACK EYES post.... here's the debut full length from MI AMI:
WATERSPORTS.
EDIT: The link has been removed. Sorry dudes. Just buy that shit when it comes out. Or pester my quick on the uptake ass for a copy.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Simple Aspirations.
To me, to be successful, would mean a lot. And I mean successful like putting all my time and energy into something that I loved, that was mine/ours that sustained mine/our lifestyle. Not that I know, or am suggesting that the above does this for the people that it belongs to. It's the simple things that keep me going, that inspire, and motivate, and reward.
HOPE GALLERY, Echo Park, Los Angeles.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
BLACK EYES
So today is a music day. I suppose. Or more a crazy fucking drumming day. Which is fine with me, but rare for this place.
What's strange is that for some reason I've never really looked through YouTube before for anything much music related. Which is a little weird as there's some really great stuff hidden around.
Today was my day spent on YouTube. Watching live shows from bands I never got to see in the flesh.
Anyway, when BLACK EYES released their first self-titled album on Dischord I was totally blown away. It's really not for everybody, but at the time this was the perfect album for me. It was everything I wanted to listen to right then and there, and was on a pretty heavy rotation for the following 12 months.
2 Drummers, 2 Bass Players, 1 Guitarist, and a minimum of 2 vocalists at any one time. Loud. Really Loud.
Anyway, one follow-up album - the underrated COUGH- later and the band broke up. I never was able to catch them live (which is something that still haunts me to this day) but for the moment I'm relishing in the fact that three-fifths of the band are now playing as MI AMI who happen to be touring next month and playing a show here in New York, @ the Cake Shop with another great noisy band: THANK YOU.
Back to the YouTubing though: Below is a cool little behind the scenes video from the band recording their S/T debut at Inner Ear with Ian MacKaye and Don Zientara, and it's pretty rad if you're a fan boy of either the band, or the label:
How fucking sick is it they recorded all that shit live? No over-dubs, just quick instrument changeovers and chaos?
HERE is the finished version of the song they were working on recording: Yes, I Confess. Which is by no means the best song on the album. That honor almost certainly falls to: Deformative.
Which can be found HERE, along with the rest of the album.
Linking that is like spitting in the eye of Ian MacKaye. I'm going to hell.
Bulletin Board:
We need a gang of restless friends.
We need people to converse with; with humor, intelligence, respect and meaning.
We need to laugh at each other.
We need ideas.
We need somewhere to drink.
We need to sit around, in apartments and on terraces, the backs of taxis and the fronts of planes. Talking. Loudly.
We need to make everything.
We need to keep everything.
We need to throw everything away.
We need people who own credit cards that earn lots of air miles.
We need people to converse with; with humor, intelligence, respect and meaning.
We need to laugh at each other.
We need ideas.
We need somewhere to drink.
We need to sit around, in apartments and on terraces, the backs of taxis and the fronts of planes. Talking. Loudly.
We need to make everything.
We need to keep everything.
We need to throw everything away.
We need people who own credit cards that earn lots of air miles.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The Unabomber.
He sat on the bed- gloriously unmade- the cat between his crossed legs - its head resting against his chest- craning to look up at his face. The winter red beard, growing out slowly; a welcome distraction for the cat, which happily sat there in this unlikely position, while he rubbed behind it’s ears and lifted his glass back and forth from the table to his mouth. The cat stretched up: pawing at his beard, biting on it. He’d say suckling but he didn’t like the word.
She was naked in another room.
The cat continued its fascination with the brittle red hairs that pressed against the top of its head, and when it lent back- chin stretching; ears flat with the body it rested on- his nose. And the glass by the bed came back again and the cat could smell the ice cream in the glass, and lifted its nose. An empty bottle of Virgil’s left on the table. The cream clinging to the edges of the rim of his glass and to his beard every sip or two. The float tasted like coffee for some reason. The mix of the root beer and the vanilla ice cream left a strangely bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted a glass of water. And she was still in the other room, naked.
The cat was restless now: the beard no longer sufficient to keep it calm and irregularly placed on his lap. It turned itself, rolling to its side and stepping from his crossed legs to the pile of sheets beside them both. He pushed at the cat gently, an affectionate shove of disproval for the cats removal from their father-son embrace. The word embrace made him uneasy, and he pushed at the cat again. Falling sideways the cat rolled over to its back, digging its head into the mattress, pawing at its face. He could hear her turning the taps. There wasn’t much left of the Float. He could hear her pulling at the plastic liner, at the curtain. The space heater was clicking in the distance. He could hear the water in the drain and the silence of the steam filled room.
He knew without question how she would look: her hair wet and pulled back, her shoulders sticky with soapsuds. Her feet leaving damp size nine prints on the bathmat, the way she would scratch at her knee as she dried herself with the towel that hung from the hook beside the tub.
And now he heard sink taps running. She was brushing her teeth, winking into the mirror, finding pieces of towel dander on her face. The cat was curled on its side now: yawning. Outside the rain fell, icing the tops of the roads that had been covered in snow for the last few days. He swung his legs over the bed, stretching out his toes before pulling socks over his bare feet. Walking over to the door, he pushed lightly on the handle, closing the door to its frame, releasing the handle just as gently so as not to make a sound. Resting his head against the wood, he pressed his ear against the grain; wondering if he would still be able to hear her brushing her teeth. He waited, eyes closed, listening through the plywood and paint for a sign of life.
He, She, They.
Outside a Jay stirred in the tree and flew to the cold ground in the hopes of finding a stray worm, or a fallen pistachio nut from the fire escape where they fed the squirrels.
Counting to ten.
He moved his head from the door, stepped across to the window and cracked the top. Pushing his fingers through the inch he felt the rain against his nails, he felt his blood stiffening with cold. A fools lament. He looked back to the closed door, opening it in a hurry and stepping into the next room. He stood there, naked for the very same reason as she, and waited for the bathroom door to open; for the steam and lavender and expensive shampoo to billow out, to fill his room with what had been contained only in hers. To watch as she padded softly toward him; miniature puddles forming beneath her. To give her good reason. To wait for her to come back to him, irritated by the open window and laughing at the red socks on his feet.
She was naked in another room.
The cat continued its fascination with the brittle red hairs that pressed against the top of its head, and when it lent back- chin stretching; ears flat with the body it rested on- his nose. And the glass by the bed came back again and the cat could smell the ice cream in the glass, and lifted its nose. An empty bottle of Virgil’s left on the table. The cream clinging to the edges of the rim of his glass and to his beard every sip or two. The float tasted like coffee for some reason. The mix of the root beer and the vanilla ice cream left a strangely bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted a glass of water. And she was still in the other room, naked.
The cat was restless now: the beard no longer sufficient to keep it calm and irregularly placed on his lap. It turned itself, rolling to its side and stepping from his crossed legs to the pile of sheets beside them both. He pushed at the cat gently, an affectionate shove of disproval for the cats removal from their father-son embrace. The word embrace made him uneasy, and he pushed at the cat again. Falling sideways the cat rolled over to its back, digging its head into the mattress, pawing at its face. He could hear her turning the taps. There wasn’t much left of the Float. He could hear her pulling at the plastic liner, at the curtain. The space heater was clicking in the distance. He could hear the water in the drain and the silence of the steam filled room.
He knew without question how she would look: her hair wet and pulled back, her shoulders sticky with soapsuds. Her feet leaving damp size nine prints on the bathmat, the way she would scratch at her knee as she dried herself with the towel that hung from the hook beside the tub.
And now he heard sink taps running. She was brushing her teeth, winking into the mirror, finding pieces of towel dander on her face. The cat was curled on its side now: yawning. Outside the rain fell, icing the tops of the roads that had been covered in snow for the last few days. He swung his legs over the bed, stretching out his toes before pulling socks over his bare feet. Walking over to the door, he pushed lightly on the handle, closing the door to its frame, releasing the handle just as gently so as not to make a sound. Resting his head against the wood, he pressed his ear against the grain; wondering if he would still be able to hear her brushing her teeth. He waited, eyes closed, listening through the plywood and paint for a sign of life.
He, She, They.
Outside a Jay stirred in the tree and flew to the cold ground in the hopes of finding a stray worm, or a fallen pistachio nut from the fire escape where they fed the squirrels.
Counting to ten.
He moved his head from the door, stepped across to the window and cracked the top. Pushing his fingers through the inch he felt the rain against his nails, he felt his blood stiffening with cold. A fools lament. He looked back to the closed door, opening it in a hurry and stepping into the next room. He stood there, naked for the very same reason as she, and waited for the bathroom door to open; for the steam and lavender and expensive shampoo to billow out, to fill his room with what had been contained only in hers. To watch as she padded softly toward him; miniature puddles forming beneath her. To give her good reason. To wait for her to come back to him, irritated by the open window and laughing at the red socks on his feet.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Books & Records
As an avid collector/hoarder of things (and often- after a time- giver, donator, destroyer) I'm always attracted to these kinds of photos.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
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